Origins and setting
“The Water of Life” is a classic German wonder tale best known from the nineteenth-century oral traditions gathered in central Europe. Its dramatis personae are spare and emblematic: a dying king, three sons (two proud, one modest), a crabbed dwarf who can open or close the way, an enchanted castle with perilous rules, and a princess who must be claimed in due season. The tale’s structure proceeds in lucid stations: the father’s illness, the quest, the test of courtesy, the theft of honours, the exile and proving of the true hero, and the final recognition where both a kingdom and a promise are restored.
The tale
There was once a king who fell grievously ill. Physicians bled and brewed, whispered and shook their heads; none could help him. At last a grey pilgrim came to the palace and said:
“There is a Water of Life. A single draught will make the king as sound as ever.”
The eldest prince struck his breast. “I will fetch it.” He had fine horses saddled and rode out in shining mail. He had not gone far into the hills when the road pinched between two black rocks and a little dwarf stepped into his path.
“Whither away so fast?” cried the dwarf.
“What is that to you, you crab-apple?” said the prince, reining high. “Stand aside.”
“Since your heart is so high, your road shall be narrow,” said the dwarf, and struck the rock with his iron rod. The cliff-sides slid together like doors. The prince found himself squeezed in a cleft where neither horse nor rider could turn.
When the eldest did not return, the second prince cried, “Then I shall go,” and set out with a clatter of spears. At the same pinch of road the same dwarf called, “Whither away so fast?”
“To find the Water of Life—out of my way!”
“Since you look down on the little, you shall not pass the great,” said the dwarf, and the mountain shut on him as well.
When the second did not come back, the youngest stood before his father. “Father,” he said, “let me go and seek the Water of Life.”
“You are my only comfort,” said the king. “I could not bear to lose you.”
“I shall be careful,” answered the youth, and kissed his father’s hand.
He, too, came to the black rocks, and the same little man stepped out, beard like frost, eyes bright as flint.
“Whither away so fast?”
“Good little man, to find the Water of Life for my father,” said the youngest, and he slid from his horse and bowed. “I have bread and wine; will you share?”
The dwarf’s face thawed. He ate, he drank, and he nodded. “Your heart does not ride on stilts. I will show you the way. Listen: before the Water stands an enchanted castle. At its gate lie two lions with jaws wide open; cast each a loaf and they will be still. Take this iron wand: strike with it upon the great door—once, twice, thrice—and it will open. Within you must hasten. There is a spring in a little chamber. Fill your cup and be gone before the clock strikes twelve; if you tarry, you will be shut in for ever. In a hall you will see a sword and a loaf upon a table: bring them, for you will need them. And—mind this—do not eat or drink of aught offered you there, for that food is binding. Lastly, if I free your brothers, guard yourself: their hearts are against you.”
The prince thanked him, gave him his hand, and rode on. Late, by moonrise, he saw the castle standing like frostwork against the sky. The two lions couched by the gate, each with his red mouth gaped, but when he cast them the loaves, they shut their jaws and let him pass. He struck the door once, twice, thrice—it swung of itself. Inside, in a hall of silver light, he saw the sword and the loaf and slung them at his side. He passed through empty chambers where candles burned and no breath stirred them. In one, upon a couch, lay a maiden bright as day.
When he stepped near, her eyes opened as if she had been waiting for that sound alone. She rose and took his hand.
“Are you he who has come to break our spell?”
“I seek the Water of Life,” he answered simply.
She smiled and drew a ring from her finger. “Then you are he. Take this, and when a year is gone by, come again and set the wedding day.”
“I will,” he said, and set the ring safe. Then he found the little chamber with the spring leaping clear as glass, filled his cup until it shone, and turned to go. At that moment a clock far off began to beat the hour. One—two—three—he ran; nine—ten—eleven—the lions stirred; twelve—he sprang through the door as it clapped to behind him like thunder.
At the rocks he met the dwarf again. “You have done well,” said the little man, “and for your sake I will open the mountain and let your brothers out—but beware of them.”
The clefts yawned; out stumbled the two elder princes, pale, dirty, angry with shame. When they heard that the youngest had the Water, their hearts burned. They smiled with their mouths and bit with their thoughts.
“Brother,” they said sweetly, “you have succeeded where we failed—let us ride together. The road is dangerous; we will keep watch in turn.”
They made a fire by the roadside and took it in turns to sleep. When it was the youngest’s watch, the others whispered and lay still; when it was theirs, they rose, unstoppered his cup and poured out the Water of Life, filling it again with brine from a marsh. In the morning they rode fast for home and were at the king’s bedside first.
“See, father,” cried the eldest, holding up his vessel, “we have brought the Water of Life!”
The king drank, and strength ran through him like spring; colour came back to his cheeks. He lifted his sons’ hands. “You have saved me, my boys.” He ordered rich rewards and spoke openly of the succession. When at last the youngest arrived, road-weary and glad, he ran to the bed and said, “Father, I, too, have brought—” but before he could finish, his brothers were there with smooth faces.
“He came later,” said they, “and would not share. He would let you die.”
The king, hurt in his love, took the cup the youngest offered, drank, and coughed and shuddered; the brine bit like knives. His brow darkened. “Away with this deceiver!”
Yet he could not bring himself to kill him outright. He called the huntsman. “Lead him into the forest and—do what is needful. Bring me his heart and tongue as proof.”
The huntsman led the prince into the green aisles where the sun was a gold coin rolling between the leaves. He unstrung his bow; his hands shook.
“My friend,” said the prince, seeing, “do not stain your hands for a lie. Take my cloak; I will go away and never come back.”
The huntsman wept. “Prince, I cannot kill innocence.” He slew a deer, took its heart and tongue for proof, and let the youth go. “God guard you,” he whispered.
Alone in the wide world, the youngest buckled on the sword from the enchanted hall and went as his feet guided him. Before long he came to a city hung with black. He asked why.
“A three-headed dragon comes every year,” the people said, “to take our princess to devour. To-day is the day.”
He climbed the hill where the princess stood white and resolute. “Go,” he said, “and wait. I will see what my sword can do.” The dragon came snorting flame. The prince struck once—one head fell; twice—the second; thrice—the third tumbled down the rocks. He cut out the tongues and wrapped them in a cloth. Weariness sat on him. He laid his head in the princess’s lap, and as he slept a captain of the guard, who had slunk to spy, crept forth. He hewed off the dragon’s heads, carried them down, and claimed the deed.
“The king shall know I saved you,” he crowed.
The princess said nothing; she had seen who swung the sword. When the prince woke, she gave him a token—her kerchief knotted about his ring—and he went on his way.
At the court, the false captain clamoured for the reward. The king named the wedding day, and the trumpets were made ready. But the princess spoke:
“He who delivered me carries the ring on which my kerchief is knotted, and in his pouch the tongues of the dragon.”
They sent through the city; they found no such man. Meanwhile, in another land, two kings were at war. The prince came between them with the sword that conquers armies and the loaf that never lessens. He cleft one host like flax; he fed the other till their anger cooled. Both kings swore friendship and said, “If ever you are in straits, come; we will stand by you.”
A year to the day from the hour he had found the maiden in the silver chamber, the prince turned back to the enchanted castle to keep his pledge. It stood open now, free of spell. The princess, laughing, ran to meet him. “Welcome, my deliverer!” they cried to one another. But at the gate were riders in haste:
“Your father is beset by the captains who claim your brothers’ right,” they said. “The realm is in confusion; the king is sick at heart.”
The prince took his bride and rode. In his father’s hall the two elder sat honoured, and the false captain strutted in cloth-of-gold beside the grieving princess from the dragon-city. The youngest came in travel-worn, yet straight as a spear. He bowed to his father and turned to the bride in black.
“My lady, do you know me?”
She lifted her hand, and the white kerchief stirred upon his ring. “This is he,” she said, and opened his pouch to show the tongues that fitted the three dead heads like keys in locks.
Then the two kings whom he had set at peace arrived with banners and told plainly who had carried the sword and broken their battle. And last of all the huntsman stood forth and told how he had been sent to slay an innocent prince and had spared him. The old king listened, face working. At last he rose and took his youngest by both shoulders.
“My son, I wronged you.”
“Father, you were deceived,” said the youth, and he set the true Water of Life to his father’s lips—for he had gone again to the rock-road to find the dwarf and refill his cup. The draught shone like dawn in the old man’s eyes; the years fell from him as dust falls when a carpet is shaken.
As for the guilty, judgement was given: the false captain was cast out in disgrace, and the treacherous brothers were sent forth with only the cloaks on their backs, to learn on the roads what courtesy means. The youngest was made heir, and on the selfsame day he wedded the princess of the silver chamber. They held a high feast at which the huntsman sat at the king’s right hand, and the dwarf—so people say—peeped in at a window, chuckled at the measure kept, and went away satisfied.
Iconic lines remembered in the telling
- “There is a Water of Life. A single draught will make the king as sound as ever.”
- “Whither away so fast?”
- “Good little man, to find the Water of Life for my father.”
- “Strike once, twice, thrice—and be gone before the clock strikes twelve.”
- “When a year is gone by, come again and set the wedding day.”
- “Do not stain your hands for a lie.”
- “He who delivered me carries the ring … and the tongues of the dragon.”
- “My son, I wronged you.”
- “Drink, and live.”
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