A Foolish Merchant's Tragedy

The caravan lumbered slowly over the uneven terrain while bandits lay waiting in the forest. Inside the main cabin sat the rich merchant. Lazily, he lay back in his seat, watching the trees slip by slowly. For a moment, he thought he saw something strange in the bushes, a bit of movement from something larger than an animal; and he strained his neck as he pushed his head sideways against the window, trying to look back and see what it was. But they were traveling steadily, and he was unable to look behind.

And then, they struck.

Arrows flew through the air, striking the merchant's horses; with barely a sound escaping their bridled lips, they fell down dead, and they threw their riders from their backs. Those who did not die in the fall got up and ran—they were servants, not warriors—and soon, the merchant was alone with the dead. It happened too quickly: One moment, he was comfortable inside the coach, and the next, he stood surrounded by the dead. He stared in disbelief.

The bandits came armed with knives and machetes, and quickly they loaded up the merchant's wealth and were gone on their own horses. The merchant was alone—terribly alone.

With neither horses to ride nor men to guide him, he walked through the forest, stunned, and by nightfall he felt thirst, and then hunger; and when his throat burned from dryness, he crawled like an animal in the darkness. That was when he spied the men sitting around a campfire, and beside them was a cesspool; they were the bandits who robbed him, only in his delirium, he didn't recognize them.

As thirsty as he was, he crawled into their midst, and all the men went quiet when they realized this was the man they robbed. “Please,” begged the merchant, “I was robbed by bandits, and I have been lost in the forest for hours.” The men laughed when they realized he didn't recognize them. “Please, help me drink from this pool.”

“You want to drink from this?” asked one of the men, staring at the fetid waters. It was so foul it smelled sulfuric, like rotten eggs, but to the merchant, it seemed the sweetest of waters.

“Yes. Please. Help me.” He lay on the ground, reaching futilely for the pool, and one of the bandits, feigning kindness, dipped a gourd into it. He looked away with disgust as he held it to the merchant's lips, and everyone's mouth dropped in disbelief as he drank and begged for more.

The bandit was happy to oblige. Several gourds later, they loaded up their horses and galloped away into the night. “Please, don't leave me here to die!” the merchant screamed. But they were gone.

For just a bit, the man felt refreshed, and although he was exhausted, he was able to walk. By morning, the fetid water began working its evil; he felt his stomach roiling, and his head throbbing, and he leaned over a fallen tree to vomit. “I'm not well,” he said to no one as fever boiled inside him. And then he screamed into the forest, “Somebody help me!” There was only an echo.

In delirium, he stumbled through the woods, sometimes walking, sometimes running, always falling after a dozen or so steps. When he came to the gentle river, he fell down on its banks and tried to drink, tried to soothe the nagging thirst, but every gulp of water came back up with a violent wave of nausea. “This is it,” he said. “This is how I am to die. I will never see my love, Cosita, again.” He thought of his fiancée whom he was to wed in a few short weeks, and he cried.

“Why do you cry?” asked a wispy voice. The merchant looked up, and with blurred eyes saw the spirits who lived in the river; they were hovering above its water, and they looked at him with a gentle concern that felt like love.

“I'm dying,” he said. “And I will never see my fiancée, Cosita, again.” The morning sunlight broke through the forest's canopy in rays; and each spirit hovered in its own ray of light. Their countenance was celestial. “If I am to die,” he thought, “I could do no worse than die in their arms.”

“Yes, you are dying,” said one of the spirits. “But we know all the herbs that grow on the riverbanks, and we can save you. But you must give us something in return.”

“I will give you something if you help me,” cried the man, fighting the violent waves of nausea that were now just dry heaves. “I will give you something . . . anything you want . . . if you will just help me!”

“You will give us something?” the spirits asked; their voices merged as one otherworldly, ethereal sound. It resonated through the forest, and made the gentle river ripple with its strength.

“Yes, I will give you something. Just help me.”

Quickly, the river spirits set about gathering herbs from the riverbank and they pounded them on a river rock until the juices flowed from their leaves. Their fingers and hands were covered in juice, and they offered these to the merchant; he sucked and licked them dry, and when the nausea subsided, bit by bit they gave him the pulp to chew and swallow. It soothed his stomach, quenched his thirst, and sated his hunger; and when he was comfortable again, he lay down to rest.

He slept deeply. His dreams were sweet—they were filled with visions of his love, Cosita.

When he awoke, it was night, and the river spirits encircled him. They smiled. You are better now?”

The merchant stood up. He was better, but thirsty, and he went to the river's edge to drink. When he was finished, he said, “Yes, I am better.”

One of the spirits stood in front of the rest. She put her hand on his shoulder, and said, “Good. Now you must do as you promised, and bring us Cosita. She will be very happy living as one of us.”

The merchant froze. “Give you Cosita? I never said such a thing.”

“Oh, but you did,” insisted another spirit. “Before we healed you, you promised us something. And is not your true love's name Cosita?”

“Yes, but . . .” he stammered.

“And does not Cosita mean ‘something'?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Then you have a choice. Give us Cosita to live here among us, or give us your life back. You cannot have it both ways. You promised.”

There, in despair, the merchant realized what he had done; and with love in his heart, and despair in his soul, he threw himself into the river; he drowned.

And that is how the foolish merchant met his end.