Once upon a time—when time itself was young, when camels cried the news in the streets and fleas ran barber shops, when I rocked my mother’s cradle creak-creak—there lived a humble carpenter, a master of wood, who worked with his hands and kept to his craft.
He and his wife had been married for many long years, yet fate had denied them a child. This longing burned so fiercely in the carpenter’s heart that one day he could bear it no more. He went into his workshop, chose the finest piece of wood he could find, and for days and nights he carved. When he was done, he had made a life-sized wooden girl.
He smoothed her face, shaped her hands, dressed her in fine cloth, and fixed threads upon her head like flowing hair. When she was finished, he placed her by the window. From that day on, he loved her as if she were his own flesh and blood—he spoke to her, confided in her, shared his joys and sorrows. His wife, at first uneasy, slowly grew used to this strange comfort.
One day, as the prince rode past that very street, his eyes fell upon the girl sitting by the window. Her face shone like moonlight, her hair gleamed like spun gold. Believing her to be real, the prince fell in love at once. He returned to the palace in a daze and went straight to his mother.
“Mother,” he said, “I have seen a girl, and my heart belongs to her. Please, send word and ask for her hand.”
The queen mother sent envoys to the carpenter’s house. When they asked for the girl, the carpenter and his wife froze in terror. If they spoke the truth, they would shame the prince; if they lied, they feared the consequences. At last they said, “Give us one day to think. We will answer tomorrow.”
They did not sleep that night. At dawn, having agreed on a desperate plan, they told the envoys, “We will give our daughter to the prince on one condition: until she enters the bridal chamber, no one may see her.”
The condition was carried to the palace, and the prince—blinded by love—agreed. After forty days and forty nights of celebration, the bridal carriage came to the carpenter’s door.
The carpenter’s wife was a clever woman. After much thought, she believed she had found a way out.
“I will tie a heavy stone to the wooden girl,” she thought. “When we cross the river, I will throw her in. Wood sinks. Even if they search, they will find nothing.”
The wooden girl was dressed like a bride and placed in the carriage unseen. When the procession reached the middle of the river, the woman tied the stone and hurled the bride into the water. Then she screamed, “Help! The bride has fallen in!”
Chaos broke out. Divers plunged into the river. Soon one of them felt something like hair in his hands. They pulled—and out of the water came not a wooden doll, but a living, breathing girl, radiant and real. Everyone stood in stunned silence. The carpenter’s wife was struck with both wonder and joy. They dressed the girl anew, and the procession continued on its way.
At the palace, the carpenter’s wife herself escorted the bride to her chamber, sat with her a while, then left. The moment the woman stepped out, the girl locked the door from within.
That evening the prince came. No answer. He knocked, pleaded, begged—but the door remained silent. Angered and confused, he left. In the morning he went to his mother.
“Mother,” he said, “this girl carries some sorrow. Send someone her age, someone who might draw her out. Perhaps she will speak.”
First, the vizier’s daughter was sent. As she reached the door, it opened by itself. Inside, after some conversation, the bride said, “Tray, come here.”
The tray rattled across the floor. The girl dipped her fingers into it, and from each finger a grape fell. The vizier’s daughter ate in amazement and left. The door locked itself again.
Next, the queen mother went. The door opened for her too. Inside, the bride sat like a fairy, pulling golden thread from her own hair and weaving on a loom. After a while she said, “Cauldron, come to me.”
The cauldron rolled over. She plunged her arm inside, stirred, and out came fragrant tarhana soup. They ate together. The queen mother, burning with envy, returned to her room, fetched a large cauldron, and tried the same. Nothing happened. In her rage, she climbed into the cauldron herself—and could not get out. The cauldron rolled and rolled, carrying her out of the palace and away.
Now the prince was deeply suspicious. One evening, as he walked lost in thought, an old man appeared before him. After listening to his troubles, the old man gave him advice.
“Tonight,” he said, “go to the door and ask for food. Then listen carefully.”
The prince did as he was told. The girl prepared a meal, but at the table there was no salt or pepper.
“Salt, pepper, come here,” she called.
The salt and pepper began to argue on the shelf. The girl grew angry and cried out, “By my father the Moon and my mother the Sun, come at once!”
The salt and pepper rushed to her side. Hearing this, the prince understood.
“She is no human,” he whispered. “She is a fairy.”
He called out, “By your father the Moon and your mother the Sun, open the door!”
The door opened. The girl spoke calmly:
“You are the son of a king, and I am the daughter of a king. Was it fitting for you to call me a carpenter’s child?”
The prince bowed his head and begged forgiveness. She forgave him. And once more, there were forty days and forty nights of wedding celebrations.
And from the sky, three apples fell:
One for those who reached their desire,
One for those who listened and learned,
And one for those who keep such tales alive.
Parental Note
This tale has clear educational value, exploring patience, identity, honesty, and the results of pride through a magical narrative. After reading, parents might ask: Why did the fairy hide who she was? or What can happen when we judge others too quickly? These questions can gently encourage empathy and deeper thinking beyond the story’s magic.