Once there was a peddler who lived in a cottage near the edge of a little town called Rumsais, beneath a mighty cherry tree. Each Spring the tree would bloom with flowers as thick and white as snow, but each Summer blackbirds would come and eat of the fruit until there was only enough left to fill a few bowls. The neighbors would see this and shake their heads. “Peddler, you’re a poor, foolish man to let those wild animals thieve from you like that!”
But he would only smile. “Haven’t you listened to those birds? Don’t they sing sweeter here than anywhere else in all Rumsais?”
When there was a market, or a wedding, or a fair he would take his pack and spread his blanket in the town square. Then the children would come in search of some special treasure, perhaps a knife or a pretty ribbon. “Peddler, how much for this?”
“That’s 3 Crowns and 6” or “2 Crowns and 9”, he’d answer, and they’d sigh and slowly put it back. But then, like as not, the peddler would fold it into the little hands, or pin it up to the yellow curls. “Ahh, it’ll rest far easier there than ever it would in my pack. Keep it, and good luck go with you.” And they would smile a smile like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and trip on home. Sometimes, indeed, he would go home with barely a few pennies to show for an entire day’s work, but on those days his heart would be full and his step would be light.
The neighbors would see this and shake their heads. “Peddler, you’re a poor foolish man. You’ll never be setting aside a penny for your old age.”
And then there were the dogs. There wasn’t a stray in town that didn’t know him by sight, wouldn’t follow him around for half the day, sure of a share of the noonday bread and cheese.
Well, time went by, the peddler grew older, and his pack grew lighter. The neighbors would shake their heads. “Mark my words. Come winter he’ll be begging at our back door like those dogs of his.” And eventually it happened, just as the neighbors foresaw. The peddler awoke and found that his pack was empty and his cupboard bare, and that night he went to bed hungry.
Now hungry men are likely to dream, and than night the peddler had strange dreams indeed. He dreamed that he saw Saint Martin, standing there in his door. “Peddler – Peddler of Rumsais. Take thou the road to golden Prague and find the bridge of King Charles. There you will hear what you need to hear.” But when he awoke his stomach was hollow and his knees were weak. “Those are the worst companions a traveling man could have. I’ll bide at home for the day.”
That night, though, he dreamed again. There was Saint Martin, standing in his door. “Peddler – Peddler of Rumsais. Take thou the road to golden Prague and find the bridge of King Charles. There you will hear what you need to hear.” But when he awoke his stomach was even emptier and his legs even weaker, so again he decided to bide at home. But after the third night, and the third dream, and the third coming of Saint Martin, when the peddler awoke he took his pack and set off down the road for golden Prague.
Now how he made it all that way I couldn’t begin to tell you. But on the third day of the journey he saw the sun as it rose in the morning and smiled on the bridge of King Charles. Now you must see that bridge as the peddler did, with thirty great statues of heroes and kings and saints, looking down and protecting all who passed beneath. That day they watched as the peddler gazed in the eyes of all the great tide that passed to the east, and all the great tide that passed to the west, and received not a single word.
At the end of the day, when the last man had come and the last one gone, the peddler gave himself a little shake. “I should have known. Best I go off and find some alley, lay me down to die like the old dog I suppose I am.”
But he’d no sooner come to the end of the bridge when a man came running up from the inn at its foot. “Peddler!” he called, “hold up a second. I’ve been watching you all day, man, standing on that bridge like an old bird with a broken wing. And of all the great tide that passed you to the east, and all that went by to the west, not a single one had a single thing to say. And now . . . well, I simply have to know. What was it you were waiting to see?” But then he saw the hunger pinching at the peddler’s cheeks and he held up a hand. “No, I think that tale will go better for a good meal beneath your belt.”
And so he took the man inside and sat him down with a bowl of soup, and bread, and cheese, and for the first time in a very long time the peddler ate and drank his fill. When he was finally done the innkeeper dropped alongside. “Now, about that tale . . .”
“Well, I suppose it began with a dream . . .”
“Say no more!” said the innkeeper. “I might have known that you were a man to follow a dream. Standing all day with an empty pack, and not a penny, I’d bet, in your pocket.”
The peddler thanked the man for his generosity and made ready to leave. As he neared the door though, the innkeeper called out again. “Peddler,” he said, “don’t take it wrong. All men have dreams. Why I myself had the same dream for three nights running, just the other week. I dreamed I saw Saint Martin, standing there in the door right where you are now. ‘Innkeeper,’ he said. ‘Innkeeper of the Bridge Inn of Prague. Take thou the road to Rumsais. There, by the town, you will find a little cottage, and outside the cottage a wee bit of a garden, and at the center of the garden a great cherry tree. Dig thou down beneath that tree and there you will find gold; much gold.’ Now I ask you: Rumsais? Who ever heard of a place called Rumsais? And gold? Well, a good night’s custom is all I need if I want to dream of that.” Here he paused and jingled his heavy purse. “But fare you well peddler.”
Well, the peddler went home and found a pick, and dug beneath the tree. Down and down, until at last he struck an ancient iron box. He drew it out and opened it up, and found it filled with curious coins of ancient shape and description.
Now of all the ten thousand ways that peddler turned the gold to good I could only begin to say. This only I can tell. He turned that house to a little inn, where travelers might stay and be sure of a warm meal and a comfortable bed for the night. And when he died the neighbors raised him a statue, there by the road, which you can go see as I have done: The peddler, his pack on his back and his eye on the road, with a vagabond dog at his heel.
