Once upon a time, a king was sitting on his throne, listening to his people’s complaints. The king was about to rise and go into his gardens, when a sudden stir was heard outside, and the lord high chamberlain entered, and inquired if his majesty would graciously receive the envoy of a powerful emperor who lived in the east, and was greatly feared by the neighbouring sovereigns. The king, who stood as much in dread of him as the rest, gave orders that the envoy should be admitted at once, and that a banquet should be prepared in his honour. Then he settled himself again on his throne, wondering what the envoy had to say.
The envoy said nothing. He advanced to the king’s throne, stooped down, and then used his rod to trace a black circle around the throne. Then he sat down on a nearby seat and took no further notice of anyone.
The king and his courtiers were mystified and enraged at this strange behaviour, but the envoy sat as calm and still as an image, and it soon became plain that they would get no explanation from him. The ministers were hastily summoned to a council, but not one of them could throw any light on the envoy’s riddle. This made the king more angry than ever, and he told them that unless they found someone who could interpret the action before sunset, he would hang them all.
The king was, as the ministers knew, a man of his word; and they quickly mapped out the city into districts, so that they might visit house by house, and question the occupants as to whether they could fathom the action of the envoy. Most of the ministers received no reply except a puzzled stare; but, luckily, one of them was more observant than the rest and noticed a cottage with wooden poles and a scarecrow that moved without any wind. Feeling scared, but curious, the minister descended the stairs and found himself in a large workshop in which was seated a weaver at his loom. But all the weaver did was guide his threads, for the machines that he had invented to set in motion the wooden poles made the loom work.
Knowing a weaver was behind the moving poles put the minister at ease. He thought that this person might be able to solve the riddle, or at least put the ministers on the right track. So without further ado, the minister told the story of the circle. Upon finishing he said ‘Come with me at once. The sun is low in the heavens, and there is no time to lose.’
The weaver stood thinking for a moment and then walked across to a window, outside of which was a hen-coop with two knuckle-bones lying beside it. These he picked up, and taking the hen from the coop, he tucked it under his arm.
‘I am ready,’ he answered, turning to the minister.
In the hall, the king was still seated on his throne, and the envoy on his seat. Signing to the minister to remain where he was, the weaver advanced to the envoy, and placed the knuckle-bones on the floor beside him. For answer, the envoy took a handful of millet seed out of his pocket and scattered it round; upon which the weaver set down the hen, who ate it up in a moment. At that the envoy rose without a word, and took his departure.
As soon as he had left the hall, the king beckoned to the weaver.
‘You alone seem to have guessed the riddle,’ said he, ‘and great shall be your reward. But please tell me, what it all means?’
‘The meaning, O king,’ replied the weaver, ‘is this: The circle drawn by the envoy round your throne is the message of the emperor, and signifies, “If I send an army and surround your capital, will you lay down your arms?” The knuckle-bones which I placed before him told him, “You are but children in comparison with us. Toys like these are the only playthings you are fit for.” The millet that he scattered was an emblem of the number of soldiers that his master can bring into the field; but by the hen which ate up the seed he understood that one of our men could destroy a host of theirs.’
‘I do not think,’ he added, ‘that the emperor will declare war.’
‘You have saved me and my honour,’ cried the king, ‘and wealth and glory shall be heaped upon you. Name your reward, and you shall have it, even if it’s half of my kingdom.’
‘A small farm outside the city gates, for my daughter, is all I ask,’ answered the weaver, and it was all he would accept. ‘Is there nothing else?’ enquired the king. ‘Only, O king,’ he said as he departed, ‘that I would beg of you to remember that weavers are also of value to a state, and that they are sometimes cleverer even than ministers!’
An Armenian Tale. From ‘Contes arméniens’ by ‘Frédéric Macler’ (1905), via ‘The Olive Fairy Book’ compiled by Andrew Lang (1907), with minor simplifications.