That night, having freed himself of Simon the Warrior, the first little
Devilkin set out to seek Ivan’s Devilkin, to help him plague the Fool as
they had agreed. He came to the fields, looked all round for his mate,
but he was nowhere to be seen; he only found a hole. “I see some
misfortune has happened to my mate; I must take his place. The ploughing
is all finished; I must upset the Fool at the mowing.”
And the Devilkin went to the meadow and flooded it and trampled the hay
in the mud.
Ivan awoke at daybreak, put his scythe in order and set out to the
meadow to mow the hay. Ivan swung the scythe once, he swung it twice,
but the scythe grew blunt and would not cut; he had to sharpen it. Ivan
struggled and struggled and struggled.
“This won’t do,” he said; “I must go home and bring a whetstone and a
hunk of bread. If it takes me a week I’ll not give up until I’ve mowed
it every bit.”
And the Devilkin grew pensive when he heard these words.
“The Fool has a temper,” he said; “I can’t catch him this way; I must
think of something else.”
Ivan returned, sharpened his scythe and began to mow. The Devilkin crept
into the grass, caught hold of the scythe by the heel and pushed the
point into the ground. It was hard for Ivan, but he mowed all the grass,
except a little piece in the swamp.
The Devilkin crept into the swamp, thinking, “Even if I have to cut my
hands I won’t let him mow that!”
Ivan came to the swamp. The grass was not thick, but the scythe could
not cut through it. Ivan grew angry and began to mow with all his might.
The Devilkin began to lose hold, seeing that he was in a bad plight,
but he had no time to get away and took refuge in a bush. Ivan swung the
scythe near the bush and cut off half the Devilkin’s tail. He finished
mowing the grass, told the old maid to rake it up and went away to mow
the rye.
He came to the field with his sickle, but the Devilkin with the clipped
tail was there before him. He had entangled the rye, so that the sickle
could not take it. Ivan went back for his reaping-hook and reaped the
whole field of rye. “Now,” he said, “I must tackle the oats.”
At these words the Devilkin with the clipped tail thought, “I did not
trip him up with the rye, but I’ll do so with the oats. If only the
morrow would come!”
In the morning the Devilkin hurried off to the field of oats, but the
oats were all harvested. Ivan had reaped them overnight so that less of
the grain should be wasted. The Devilkin lost his temper at that.
“He has mutilated and exhausted me, the fool! I’ve never had such
trouble on the battlefield even. The wretch doesn’t sleep and you can’t
get ahead of him. I’ll creep into the stacks of sheaves and rot the
grain.”
And the Devilkin crept into a stack of sheaves, and began to rot them.
He heated them, grew warm himself and fell asleep.
Ivan harnessed the mare and set out with his sister to gather in the
sheaves. He stopped by the stack and began to throw the sheaves into the
cart. He had thrown up two sheaves and was going to take up a third,
when the fork dug into the Devilkin’s back. He looked at the prongs and
saw a live Devilkin with his tail clipped, wriggling and writhing and
trying to get away.
“You horrid little wretch! You here again!”
“I’m not the same one,” the Devilkin pleaded. “The other was my brother.
I belong to your brother Simon.”
“Whoever you are you shall share the same fate.”
Ivan was about to dash it against the cart, when the Devilkin cried out,
“Spare me! I’ll not worry you again, and I’ll do whatever you want me
to.”
“What can you do?”
“I can make soldiers out of anything you choose.”
“What good are they?”
“You can make them do anything you like. Soldiers can do everything.”
“Can they play songs?”
“They can.”
“Very well; make some, then.”
And the Devilkin said, “Take a sheaf of rye and bump it upright on the
ground, saying,--
My slave bids you be a sheaf no more.
Every straw contained in you,
Must turn into a soldier true.”
Ivan took the sheaf and banged it on the ground and repeated the
Devilkin’s words. And the sheaf burst asunder and every straw turned
into a soldier and at their head the drummer and bugler were playing.
Ivan laughed aloud.
“That was clever of you,” he said. “It will amuse Malania.”
“Let me go now,” the Devilkin begged.
“Not yet,” Ivan said. “I shall want to make the soldiers out of chaff so
as not to waste the grain. Show me first how to turn the soldiers into a
sheaf again, so that I can thrash it.”