Fairy Tale of the Month: February 2024 The Donkey – Part One

February 28, 2024cjkiernan 1 Comment

The Donkey

I had decided that I would not sulk around the house this year when my daughter, as is traditional, would whisk my Thalia away from me in February (school be damned) to visit her late husband’s relatives in Glasgow. Well, it has been three years, given the circumstances, since this visit was made. I did have a reprieve.

But now, Thalia is gone, and I rang up Duckworth to see if he was available for lunch. He, too, has been abandoned by his wife and children for a visit to her relatives, whom he cannot stand. He and I are compatriots.

We are sitting in Rock and Sole Plaice waiting for our meal. True, every pub in London has fish and chips on its menu. But here, there are nearly a dozen variations. Duckworth, adventurous soul that he is, ordered the calamari and chips. I stuck to the plaice, although tempted by the Proper King Prawns.

“Tell me,” says Duckworth as we wait. “What bizarre fairy tale have you stumbled across recently?”

“Well you should ask,” I say. “With Thalia gone, I contented myself last night by plunging into Grimm. I chanced upon a tale I had read before but taken little notice of. This time, it caught my curiosity.”

“I’m all ears,” Duckworth grins.

“Perhaps you should be,” I say. “Its about a donkey. In fact, it is called The Donkey.

A king and queen at long last have a child, but it is a donkey. The queen wants to drown it, but the king says if this is God’s will, it will inherit the throne.

The donkey grows up with all the benefits of a prince. Being attracted to music, he learns to play the lute as well as his teacher, despite his hooves.

At length, he ventures into the world after seeing his reflection in still water and truly realizes he is, by all appearances, a donkey.

He travels to a distant kingdom, and there he asks for entrance into the castle as a guest. Being a donkey, his request is denied by the guard. The donkey sits down by the gate and plays his lute. The guard, amazed, reports this to the king. The king, entertained by the idea of a lute-playing donkey, invites the donkey into the castle.

The donkey refuses to eat with the servants or even the knights. Being of royal birth, he insists upon eating at the king’s table. The king, amused, agrees. The donkey’s manners are impeccable, and he is seated by the king’s lovely daughter.

As time goes on, the king becomes exceptionally fond of his “little donkey.” However, the donkey realizes the futility of his presence at this king’s court and asks leave to return to his home.

The king offers him gold and half his kingdom if he will stay, but this is not what the donkey wants. The king then offers his daughter in marriage. At that, the donkey agrees to stay.

That night, the wedding is held, but the king immediately has second thoughts and arranges that a servant hide himself in the bedchamber to assure that the donkey conducts himself properly.

When the donkey believes all is secure, he throws off his donkey skin and reveals his true, handsome self to his bride, who is delighted. In the morning, he returns to his donkey skin.

The servant reports to the king, who is amazed and wishes to see all this for himself. The servant advises that the king take the donkey skin and burn it, which the king does.

In the morning, the handsome prince cannot find his skin and tries to flee. The king waylays him and offers, again, half his kingdom if the prince stays. The prince relents.

Eventually, he inherits all of the kingdom, plus his own father’s kingdom, and lives out his life in splendor.

“Oh, really?” says Duckworth, shaking his head. “Way too easy.”

Fairy Tale of the Month: February 2024 The Donkey – Part Two

Donkey’s Skin

The meals arrive, and conversation halts as we sample our choices.

“‘Way too easy’ you say?” I comment after I decide I made the right menu choice.

“Well.” Duckworth sets down his fork. “As I understand story structure, be it literary or oral, there must be a crisis, a high point of tension, at the climax of the story.

“In our case, the prince cannot find his familiar donkey skin, tries to flee, and is stopped by the king, who offers him half the kingdom if he stays. The prince says, ‘What the hell. Why not?’

“This is not a crisis. There is nothing to lose but the curse of a donkey skin in return for half a kingdom! The stakes are not high.”

“I do agree,” I confess. “The end of the story falls flat. I feel the same way as you, but the earlier part of the story holds promise.”

“Such as?” Duckworth picks up his fork again to attack his meal.

“Well,” I contemplate, setting my fork down, “I am encouraged by the donkey’s father refusing to drown the poor thing, but rather giving him all the benefits of royal birth. The donkey takes to music and learns to play the lute, which should be impossible. This shows the reader or listener that there is more to this creature than being just a donkey.

“Perhaps my favorite part is when he sees his reflection in still water and sees himself as the rest of the world sees him. This is the point—in Hero’s Journey terms—when he crosses the threshold and ventures into the greater world to try, I suppose, to find himself. What he knows is inside him, and what he sees in the still water are two different things he needs to reconcile.”

“I’ll buy that,” says Duckworth, dipping a chip into the sauce. “Go on.”

“He passes two tests: getting into the castle by a show of his musical talent, and then getting to the king’s table by insisting on his rank. The king appears more amused by the donkey’s claim than convinced, but nonetheless, seats the donkey beside his daughter.

“However, in time, the donkey, despite his achievements, could see no way forward, especially concerning the princess. When he asks leave to return home, the king, to the donkey’s delight, offers him his daughter in marriage to tempt the donkey to stay.”

Duckworth raises his fork. “Isn’t that, ah . . .”

“Sexist?” I supply. “Well yes, but women were property back then, and back then was not so long ago, and don’t get me started on that or I will lose my point.”

Duckworth lowers his fork and applies it to his calamari.

“Where was I?” I continue. “Oh yes. In the bridal chamber he finally reveals his true identity to the princess and, I will suggest, to himself. But then, in the morning, he retreats back into his lesser, familiar form. It is only when the king destroys the donkey skin is he forced to accept himself in his true nature.”

“That does put the story in a new light for me.” Duckworth salutes me with his last chip before popping it into his mouth.

“What fascinates me,” I continue, “is the fairy-tale trope of the hero feeling he has to disguise himself for no apparent purpose. That bit I have never figured out.”

“Wait.” Duckworth’s eyes narrow. “This is not your typical line of argument. Who have you been talking to?”

He’s caught me.

“I had this same conversation last night with Melissa.”

“I thought so. She has much influence over you, you know.”

Picking up my fork, I say, “For the better, I hope.”

Fairy Tale of the Month: February 2024 – Part Three

A Stroll

Leaving the Rock & Sole Plaice by hopping into Duckworth’s Morris Minor, we make our way down to Victoria Embankment Gardens to walk off some of the calories we absorbed and to visit Cleopatra’s Needle, simply to have a destination.

As we walk down a gravel path, Duckworth asks, “So, why do you think the Grimms wrote this story?”

“That’s a hard question to answer, given that they did not write them and yet they did.”

“Sounds like an answer off to a wrong start,” Duckworth quips.

“Well, it’s simply that the Grimm brothers collected the stories from various sources, including variants, then wrote them up in a coherent fashion, trying not to stray too far from the originals, at least in the first edition, which they considered to be a scholarly work.

“Their purpose was to establish a ‘German Folk Voice’ in the context of the rising German nationalism. Remember, this was in 1812, when the Holy Roman Empire still held sway. There were only empires, no nations.”

We pass the erotic statue that graces the Arthur Sullivan Memorial. Arthur being of the famous operatic duo Gilbert and Sullivan.

Is that the definition of bad taste?

Duckworth glances sidelong at me. “I hear you leading to something amiss when you say, ‘at least in the first edition.’”

“Quite so. The Grimms quickly realized their larger audience was the children of bourgeois families. After the first edition, Wilhelm took over Kinder- und Hausmärchen, leaving Jacob to lead in their more scholarly works (a dictionary and a collection of Germanic mythology). There were six more editions of Kinder- und Hausmärchen; Wilhelm could not leave it alone.

“Wilhelm, in consideration of his Christian audience, eliminated most of the pagan references in the original stories and supplanted them with more Christian elements. Angels appeared in some of the rewritten versions, who had not haunted the tales before then.”

We now stroll beside the Thames. Duckworth returns to my earlier point. “They were seeking the ‘German Folk Voice’ you say?”

“Yes, which involved a bit of irony. A number of the better-known tales, like Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty, the Grimms collected from a friend and neighbor, Marie Hassenpflug of a French Huguenot family. The daughters of another neighbor, the Wild family, also of Huguenot origin, supplied quite a few other tales. One of these girls, Wilhelm ended up marrying.”

“Oh my,” says Duckworth, “collecting tales was quite a different business in those days, was it not?”

Cleopatra’s Needle comes into view.

“The Grimms were not the ‘field’ folklore collectors that were to follow,” I continue, “but depended upon friends and acquaintances to gather their material. For example, Philipp Otto Runge. He was a German Romantic painter and color theorist—and an exquisite mind that passed away too young. He sent the Grimms two stories, The Fisherman and his Wife, and The Juniper Tree. When Wilhelm read these tales, he was much impressed by Runge’s ‘voice.’ Wilhelm patterned the collection’s style on Runge’s.”

“Well, now that we are here,” says Duckworth, “we can turn around and go back. I think we can spend a little time at Sullivan’s memorial.”

Good heavens!

Your thoughts?

Fairy Tale of the Month: January 2024 Romany Tales – Part One

January 30, 2024cjkiernan Leave a comment

Three Crones

I find the winter doldrums a good time to straighten things up around the house, especially my study. My table, piled high with stacks of books, became my first target to establish orderliness.

I have them mostly back in their proper places on the bookshelves, but here in front of me, previously hidden by dusty tomes, are three clear, acrylic paperweights with a blooming flower captured at each of their centers. The three sat in the box they came in. A gift from—I don’t recall.

How long have they been here?

I pick the box up and head for the third floor, to what I think of as the nick-nack room. It brims with items I own but have no use for.

The bare, wooden stairwell up to the third floor echoes with the hollow sound of my footsteps. I should probably carpet this someday. I open the door to the nick-nack room and am greeted by darkness and a cold draft. A window must have been left cracked open.

I reach for the light switch and find my hand touching the bark of a tree trunk. Around me are other trees barely visible in the moonlight. Not far ahead is a campfire, its light showing the arc of a wagon wheel and the broad side of a caravan, as well as the figures of three, black shawled, seated women. I venture forward.

“Ladies,” I say in greeting.

“Ah! Here he is at last,” says one of the three ancient crones I see before me. “Sit, sir. You have taken your time. Look at us! What makes you think we would last much longer?”

“Oh, sister,” says another of them. “Don’t be hard on him. He is here in time for us.”

“And so he is,” says the third. “I will start the stories.”

In a fair forest lived a girl along with her four brothers, father, and mother. She had fallen in love with a handsome, rich huntsman, but he would take no notice of her, never answering her calls to him.

She entreated the devil to aid her. He gave her a mirror and told her to show it to the huntsman. She did, but the huntsman knew this to be the work of the devil and ran away. Too late, the girl found out that whoever looked into the mirror thereafter belonged to the devil and that both she and the huntsman were now his.

Still, the devil promised she would get her huntsman if she would give him her four brothers, father, and mother. The girl, for her love of the huntsman, did so.

The four brothers, the devil turned into four strings, each of a different thickness. The father, the devil made into a strangely shaped wooden box with one long arm. The mother became a stick with her hair becoming horsehair.

Stringing the father with the four brothers and drawing the mother across the strings, the devil invented the violin. The music he played caused the girl to laugh and cry. The devil told the girl to play the violin to attract her huntsman. This she did, and the huntsman was drawn to her.

They only had nine days together before the devil returned and demanded they worship him. They refused, and the devil took them away, leaving the violin on the forest floor. One of the Roma found it and played it for all who would listen, causing them to laugh or cry at his will, depending on how he played.

“Do my eyes play tricks on me?” I say. “Now that this story has ended, the three of you look a good bit younger than when I sat down with you.”

They laugh, smile, and nod to each other.

Fairy Tale of the Month: January 2024 Romany Tales – Part Two

Next Tale

The second of the Roma women feeds the campfire. Sparks fly up like little stars ascending to heaven. She adjusts her shawl around her shoulders and begins her tale.

The emperor of Bukovina gave a ball, during which a mist descended and carried away the empress. The emperor’s three sons set off to search for their mother.

They came to a place in the road that went off in three directions. Each brother took one of the paths. The youngest, a seer as well as a prince, suggested they each take a bugle to blow upon and call the others should they find their mother.

Entering a forest, the youngest eats an apple from a tree, and two horns grow on his head. While crossing a stream, the flesh fell from his body. At another apple tree, he declared he would follow God’s will and eat another apple. The horns fell from his head, and when he forded another stream, his flesh was restored.

On a mountain, he found a spot bare of trees with a boulder setting at its center. He found he had the power to move the rock easily, which covered a huge, deep hole. With his bugle, he called his brothers. They made a rope from the bark of trees, and it was the youngest who was lowered in a basket into the hole; the elder brothers not willing to try.

In the world below, he came to a house in which dwelt a princess, carried off and kept there by a dragon. The prince inquired of his mother, and the princess sent him to her sister’s house, and she on to the youngest sister’s house. It was she who knew where to find the empress.

He rescued his mother as well as the three princesses and had his brothers pull them up one by one in the basket. Before he sent the youngest princess up, they pledged marriage.

Not trusting his brothers, he put a stone in the basket, and, as he suspected, halfway up, the brothers let go of the rope. Wandering into the dragon’s palace, he found a rusted ring. When he polished it, a little man appeared to grant his wishes. The youth wished to be in the upper world.

After returning, he washed his face with certain water, which altered his appearance. He went to his father’s tailor to become his apprentice, knowing the wedding clothes would soon be ordered.

The youngest princess refused to marry either of the two brothers, so they arranged to marry the other two sisters. The youngest prince/apprentice, with the help of the magic ring, made marvelous wedding clothes and was invited to the palace. The brothers decided to marry off the youngest princess, who had refused them, to this apprentice. She, at first, again refused to marry, but the apprentice revealed his identity to her, and she accepted.

The apprentice/prince had his little man build a three-story castle that turned on a screw to follow the sun. The roof of the castle was made of glass in which swam fish so that guests would look up and see fish sporting about.

During the wedding feast, the younger brother washed his face with other certain water, and all now recognized him. He challenged his brothers to come out with him, so that all three could cast their swords high into the air. If they were innocent, their swords would fall in front of them. If not, the swords would strike them on their heads. In this manner, the two elder brothers killed themselves.

“I am sure of it now,” I say. “You all are indeed younger. Your skin, no longer wrinkled.”

Even their shawls have changed. Instead of somber black, they are laced with red and blue threads.

“Of course,” says the second of them, “that is why you are here.”

Fairy Tale of the Month: January 2024 Romany Tales – Part Three

Last Story

The third woman puts a log on the fire, sending up another wave of sparks. I am sure her story is next in the round-robin of Romany tales.

She sits quietly, looking into the flame before speaking.

The Red King declared he would reward anyone who could tell him who it was that every evening stole the food he had locked away for himself. His three sons tried in turn, but only the youngest managed to stay awake. He witnessed his baby sister turn into a hideous witch, steal the food, and, with a somersault, turn back into a baby.

Instead of telling his father about what he saw, he asked for money and a horse so that he may go out into the world and find a wife. He buried the money in a stone chest and marked the spot with a stone cross.

He traveled for eight years until he came to the Queen of the Birds. He told her he looked for the place where there was no death or old age before he would marry. She told him that with her, there would be no death or old age until she had whittled away her forest. That did not satisfy the prince.

He traveled on for another eight years until he came to the Maiden of the Copper Castle. She told him there would be no death or old age with her until the mountain and forest were leveled.

Again, the prince traveled on until his horse warned him they had come to the Plain of Regret, and they must flee.

They came next to the home of the wind, who appeared to be a lad. Here there was no death or old age, and the prince declared he would never leave.

After a hundred years, he was warned by the wind to never go near the Mountain of Regret or the Valley of Grief. The prince did not listen, went there, was overcome with both, and desired to go home.

The wind told him that nothing remained of the Red King’s realm and that, in fact, a million years had passed. Again, the prince did not listen. While returning, he came across the Maiden of the Copper Castle. Nothing was left but the dying maiden. He buried her and went on. The very same thing happened with the Queen of the Birds.

When he arrived at the place of his father’s kingdom, all he could find was his father’s well. There was his witch/sister, who attacked him, but she, too, perished when he made the sign of the cross.

He met an old man who would not believe his story. To convince the old man, the prince found the spot where he buried the stone chest. Only the very tip of the stone cross remained above ground.

The prince dug up the stone chest and opened it. Inside, sitting on the coins, were death and old age, who leapt out and seized the prince. The old man gave him a decent burial, placed the stone cross at his head, and left with the money and the prince’s horse.

“Well, well,” I mutter.

The three young girls, brightly dressed in scarves, bangles hanging from their wrists—the shawls gone—smile back at me. The sun is rising, and I see my box of paperweights lies in my lap. I hand each of the girls a present, over which they ooh and aah.

“Ah, but kind sir,” one says, “we must now take from you your memory of this evening that we can remember ourselves as you see us now; then we will not forget and become old again.”

Lightly, they touch their fingertips to my head. I thrill at this odd sensation, then find myself at the nick-nack door.

Why am I standing here? What did I come for? Ah! This short-term memory stuff! It is so annoying getting old.

Your thoughts?

(Source: Gypsy Folk Tales by Francis Hindes Groome)

Fairy Tale of the Month: December 2023 The Snow the Crow and the Blood – Part One

December 30, 2023cjkiernan Leave a comment

Christmas Tea

Melissa has instituted the first, annual Christmas Day tea at the bookstore for her loyal customers, which involves Christmas cake and mince pie, as well as tea.

At 5:00 pm we all gathered. I was a little surprised—although I shouldn’t have been—to find both Augustus and Duckworth were among the loyal customers.

It is now 5:30 pm, and Melissa has asked Thalia to read a story to the gathering after allowing them thirty minutes to devour cake and pie and sip some tea. Jini is here too, for moral support.

Thalia takes the stage—actually a chair in front of everyone—and we take our seats. “I have chosen a story that may not sound like a Christmas tale. It does start with snow and ends happily. However, in between, there is death, giants, and violence. Well, it is a fairy tale.” Thalia glances at Melissa, who nods her head and quietly applauds. Thalia proceeds. “The story is called, The Snow, the Crow, and the Blood” by Seumas McManus from Donegal Fairy Stories.”

One day, in the dead of winter, Prince Jack went hunting and shot a crow. When he saw this dark bird, lying in the white snow with the bird’s red blood staining it, he thought to himself that he would marry the woman whose skin was as white as snow, hair as black as the crow’s feathers, and lips as red as blood. Jack soon set off to explore the world and find this woman.

On his travels, he soon came upon the scene of a dead man being refused burial until his debts were paid. Taking pity on the corpse, Jack gave all his money to settle the accounts. Traveling on, penniless, a little red man caught up to Jack to become his “boy.”

That first night, they came to the castle of the Giant of the Cloak of Darkness. The little red man defeated the giant, they feasted and slept in the castle, and left in the morning with the Cloak of Darkness.

The second night was spent at the castle of the Giant of the Purse of Plenty. This giant had two heads, but everything else fell out as the day before.

The third night was spent at the three-headed giant’s castle, and they left in the morning with the Sword of Light, the little red man having used the Cloak of Darkness to defeat him.

With the Purse of Plenty, they purchased two fine horses, had them shod with gold, and made for the castle of the Princess of the East, who, the little red man said, was the very woman Jack wanted to marry.

They made a fine showing. Their gold-shod horses jumped the castle wall. They showered the people with gold coins. The Princess of the East called Jack to her and gave him the challenge of three tasks if he wished to marry her. As proof that failure insured the aspirant’s death, she showed him the Rose Garden of the Heads. There were three hundred and sixty-five rosebushes, three hundred and sixty-four of which had a prince’s head as its blossom. She desired Jack’s to be the three hundred and sixty-fifth.

The first task was to take the gold comb from her hair between midnight and morning, but she warned him that she would not be on earth. The little red man, wearing the Cloak of Darkness, followed her down to hell, where the devil greeted her warmly. Since the little red man could not be seen, he was able to steal the comb. The next evening—the second task—in a like manner he steals her diamond ring.

The third task was a little different. Jack had to give her the lips of the one who kissed her that night. For this, the little red man had to take with him the Sword of Light as well as the Cloak of Darkness when he followed the Princess of the East to hell, where the devil greeted her with a kiss.

After the tasks were achieved, the furious princess was obliged to marry Jack. The little red man gave Jack a wedding present of ten blackthorn rods. Each day, Jack broke one of them over the princess. At the end, she was dispossessed of the devil.

After that, the little red man revealed that he was the dead man for whom Jack paid the debts. He then, with fond words, disappeared, leaving Jack and the princess to live happily ever after.

The end of Thalia’s story is greeted by more than one “Ah ha!” and a round of applause.

Fairy Tale of the Month: December 2023 The Snow the Crow and the Blood – Part Two

Tea Conversation

The murmur of multiple conversations fills the bookstore. Augustus, Duckworth, and I pull our chairs to where Thalia, Jini, and Melissa are seated on a couch enjoying their mince pie.

“I am going to guess,” Duckworth begins, “this snow, blood, and bird is some sort of motif.”

“Oh, yes,” Thalia and Augustus chorus, then look at each other and laugh. Augustus gestures for Thalia to go on.

“Best known is Snow White. At least in some versions, before she is born, her mother, the queen, is stitching by an ebony wood-framed window on a wintery day, watching the snow fall. She pricks her finger, drawing a little blood. She wishes for a child as red as blood, white as snow, and black as ebony.

“When the child is born, it has those colors, blood-red lips, skin white as snow, and ebony-black hair. Unfortunately, the queen dies in childbirth, and the evil queen enters the picture.”

“Then,” Augustus puts in, “there is Deirdre of Irish mythology.”

“I don’t know the Irish tales,” Jini comments.

Melissa explains. “The story of Deirdre is considered the great Irish tragedy. She was born with the destiny to cause great conflict among men because of her beauty. The king tried to prevent this conflict by hiding the child away until of an age that he could marry her himself.

“Before the marriage could take place, Deirdre saw a raven in the snow, drinking the blood of a slaughtered calf. She declared she would marry only the man with cheeks as red as blood, hair as black as the raven, and his body as white as snow.

“She soon met that warrior and ran off with him, triggering the conflict the king had wished to prevent, the king himself seeking revenge and to win back his bride.”

“Let me add to the list,” I say. “I am thinking of The Juniper Tree. It is not exactly the same but certainly of the same ilk. The wife of a merchant is standing under a juniper tree in the garden, in winter, peeling an apple. She and her husband hoped for a child, but none had been granted to them. While peeling the apple, she cuts her finger, and a drop of blood falls onto the snow. She wishes for a child as white as snow and as red as blood.”

“No black?” observes Duckworth.

“Not in this tale,” I shrug. “But it is the same motif.”

“Well,” Duckworth frowns, “isn’t having Prince Jack—and I do love having such a humble name for a prince—seeing the blood, snow, and bird a bit of a turnaround; that is a guy instead of a gal?”

“It is,” says Augustus. “However, the fairy tales will do that on occasion, putting one gender into a situation usually reserved for the other. There are Cinderella stories with male protagonists.”

At this point, I realize I haven’t tried the Christmas cake and wander off to get myself a piece and refill my teacup.

Fairy Tale of the Month: December 2023 The Snow the Crow and the Blood – Part Three

More Conversation

“Who was the little red man?” Jini asks as I am returning with my treats. I discovered someone added a plate of cookies to the fare.

“One of the fear dearg,” says Augustus. “A fairy, not unlike a leprechaun, but dressed in red, not green. They can be troublesome, sometimes dangerous as all fairies can be, but a good friend to those whom they like.

“I scratch my head a little over a human corpse turning a fear dearg, being that fairies are fallen angels, but I won’t let that stop me from enjoying a good story.”

“Yeah,” says Thalia, “the little man actually being the corpse got me.”

“The grateful dead,” says Melissa.

“Isn’t that a rock group?” Thalia cocks her head.

“Yes,” Melissa nods and smiles, “but they got their name from the motif.”

“And the motif is pretty universal,” Augustus fills in. “I first heard of it as a Romany tale. The motif usually involves the grateful dead solving the mystery of the bride, whose husbands do not survive the wedding night. Inside the woman is a dragon, snake, or demon that destroys the groom.”

“I have run across this before,” comments Melissa as she finishes her mince. “It comes straight out of the apocryphal Book of Tobit with the angel Raphael standing in for the grateful dead.”

“Wow,” says Duckworth, “that makes the motif pretty old.”

“Let me suggest,” I say nibbling my cookie, “all of the motifs were invented by the Bronze Age, and the storytellers carried them forward in one storyline or another.”

“Shouldn’t that all have gotten old by now?” Duckworth quips.

“Ah, but,” I say, “each generation is a new audience.”

Duckworth nods his consent.

“But this time,” Thalia says, “it got mashed up with the Celtic giants.” Jini giggles.

“‘Mashed up’ might be the right phrase,” Melissa reflects. “The term ‘giant’ seems to be a northern thing, I have noticed. The Norse have Jotunheim, the Land of Giants. Toward the Mediterranean, they get called ogres. I am not sure they are the same thing.”

“And the increasing number of giant heads? Is that another motif?” Duckworth asks.

“I don’t think it rises to that level.” I finish my Christmas cake. “The first giant having one head, the second having two, and the third having three doesn’t add to the storyline as a motif does. It is there for light entertainment.

“It might, however, be a Celtic thing. Another story I know, The Shee An Gannon and the Gruagach Gaire—Irish of course—has that pattern.”

“Then comes the Princess of the East,” Melissa contributes. “The usual heads of failed princes on spikes are replaced by their heads as ‘blooms’ on rosebushes. I thought that a particularly striking image, not to mention that there are three hundred and sixty-five bushes, the same number as days in a year. That might suggest another dimension to the story.”

“One more question.” Duckworth finishes his tea. “I get the three tasks; that is pretty traditional—although that third task, poor devil—what about the ten blackthorn rods to exorcise the princess?”

“Oh,” says Augustus, “very Celtic. They have a special relationship with the blackthorn. It is associated with fairies, witches, and magic. Don’t let the moon fairies catch you cutting down a blackthorn at the wrong time of the month! There are many shillelaghs made of blackthorn.

“Why ten, I don’t know. That is not usually a magical number. That I cannot answer.”

My answer is to get more Christmas cake.

Your thoughts?

Fairy Tale of the Month: November 2023 Thomas the Rhymer – Part One

November 29, 2023cjkiernan Leave a comment

To Elfland

Why do we not get bored with our habits? Why do we do the same thing over and over again and continue to do the same thing over and over again and not go shrieking off into the sunset at our inanity?

The answer—comfortable familiarity; like the ringing of the bell over the door of Augustus’s tobacco shop. I have my pipe in one coat pocket and a book in the other.

Augustus sees me and reaches for the canister of Elfish Gold. “Back already?” he says. “But I am glad you are here; you can help me with a quandary.”

“I am at your service.”

“As you know, I compulsively concoct new blends. Eventually, I need to ‘cull the herd.’ I have two similar mixes, and one of them needs to go. I hear authors talk about ‘killing their darlings.’ I am in that fix, I cannot decide, and need someone else to judge.”

After I make my purchase, we retire to his smoking room, as we always do, and pack our pipes with the first blend, Leprechaun Gold.

“What is your offering for today’s fairy-tale discussion?” he asks.

I produce my book from the coat pocket. “Melissa sold this to me last week.”

“Think you keep her and me in business,” Augustus quips.

“That may be true. It’s entitled, Lovers, Mates, and Strange Bedfellows, by James Foster. I’m not finished with it, but one of the stories has caught me, Thomas Rymer.

Thomas of Erceldoune reclined on the Huntly Bank near the Eildon Hills, when he spied an extraordinary woman riding toward him. He first thought she must be the Virgin Mary, given her beauty, but then he noticed her less-than-Christian attributes. She dressed as a huntress, bells upon her magnificent horse’s bridle, and three greyhounds on leashes.

They talk and come to terms. Upon a kiss, he fell under her spell, and she now appeared as a hideous hag. Because of the spell, he could not refuse her. For three days, they traveled through the underworld, emerging at last in an enchanted wood. Having not eaten anything for three days, Thomas reached for an apple—low-hanging fruit. His conductress forbade it. These were the same apples that caused the fall of man.

In the enchanted wood, were four paths. His paramour, now returned to her former beauty, explained their meaning. One path led to heaven. The second—well worn—led to hell, and the third to purgatory. They would take the fourth path to Elfland.

She warned him never to speak while in Elfland, lest he say too much. Since they are lovers, and she is the Queen of Elfland, her husband must never know about their liaison.

He shut his mouth, and all went well for seven days. He participated in much merriment. Then the queen told Thomas to prepare to return to his world. Those seven days in Elfland were seven years in his world. But worse, the next day the ‘fiend of hell’ would come for his tribute, and someone as handsome as Thomas would attract his eye.

Placing Thomas again upon the Huntly Bank, she gave him “tender leave.” She also bestowed upon him the gift—or burden—of prophecy and the inability to lie. He pleaded with her to withdraw the gift, fearing it would destroy him, making him unsuitable for the church, market, king’s court, and ladies’ bower.

Instead, it made his reputation.

After my reading, I tap the ashes from my pipe and sample the other blend, Pleiades’ Pleasure.

Fairy Tale of the Month: November 2023 Thomas the Rhymer – Part Two

Settling In

“You’ve hit upon a rather favorite topic of mine. May I see your book for a second?”

I hand it to him, the book opened to the story.

“Odd,” he says, “Thomas Rymer was a seventh century poet, critic, and historian. The Thomas in this story is Thomas The Rhymer, also a poet and a prophet of the thirteenth century, also known as True Thomas.”

“Ah,” I say, “a real person.”

“Yes. In fairy tales, if the hero has a name, then he is probably a real person, even if the adventure he never had is attached to him. If the hero does not have a name—the usual case—then the storyteller was using an archetype for the main character: the prince, the youngest son, etc. This rule does not apply to heroines, sorry to say.”

“Interesting,” I say. “So who was Thomas the Rhymer?”

“Sir Thomas was a Scottish lord, and I will guess charismatic if the folk remember him so well. He may have been the author of Sir Tristem, a version of the Tristam legend. Many a prophetic verse has been attributed to Sir Thomas, usually predicting events soon to be Scottish history but encoded in imagery hard to penetrate. Not unlike Nostradamus.

“It was Sir Walter Scott who became Sir Thomas’s publicist. In his Minstrelsy, he covered Sir Thomas’s visit to Elfland and his later return to the fairy world. How much of this is Scott’s invention is hard to say. He claims his source to be a Mrs. Brown, who heard and learned ballads about Thomas the Rhymer from an aunt.

“In any case, the story that Scott provides goes that, sometime after his first visit to Elfland, Sir Thomas is entertaining friends when someone arrives with the message that a hart and a hind are roaming about, apparently searching. Thomas immediately leaves his friends to follow the hart and hind. Since then, he has not been seen, but the expectation is that he will, one day, return.”

“Wonderful,” I say. “Not unlike Arthur going to Avalon. It also sounds like Oisín’s visit to Tir na nÓg, without the tragic consequences.”

“It,” says Agustus, “sounds more like Ogier La Danois and Morgan la Fay, complete with the hero mistaking the woman for the Virgin Mary.”

I am annoyed. “Are storytellers thieves? Do they take the adventures of one hero and graft them onto the hero they admire? Have they no conscience?”

“Oh,” says Augustus, “don’t be too hard on our illiterate storytellers—most of them were illiterate—the word ‘plagiarism’ was not in their vocabulary. All they wanted was a rollicking good story to tell to their peers.”

“I’m sure you are right,” I concede. “If I don’t hold the tales to high literary standards—and that would not be appropriate—then I should not expect them to play by literary rules. The fairy tales are a free-for-all, aren’t they? It is part of their charm.”

“Well, what do you think of Pleiades’ Pleasure compared to Leprechaun Gold?” Augustus raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure. Let me go another round.”

Fairy Tale of the Month: November 2023 Thomas the Rhymer – Part Three

Bad Marriage

I repack my pipe with a little bit of Leprechaun Gold, then light it, trying to savor its effect on my olfactory sense.

“Let me pose another question,” Augustus goes on. “What in your opinion is the fairy/mortal relationship all about? I don’t know of a fairy/mortal marriage tale that ends with the words, ‘And they lived happily ever after.’”

“Oh, good point,” I say, blowing a smoke ring as I contemplate. “I will guess it has to do with us mortals’ wish to hold on to the ephemeral.”

“How so?” Augustus frowns.

“The fairy queen took Thomas to a crossroads. One path led to heaven, another to hell, the third to purgatory, and the fourth to Elfland. That does put Elfland on a par with heaven, as well as the other worlds. The story suggests the path you take depends upon your guide. Mind you, Augustus, I am talking and thinking at the same time.”

“Go on,” he encourages.

“One of the differences between heaven-purgatory-hell and Elfland is that one can return from the latter, which Thomas did, only to disappear again when summoned.”

“And we now wait for Thomas as we wait for King Arthur?” Augustus suggests.

“We also wait for Jesus to return, but we sinners would be less happy about that than the return of Thomas or Arthur, but you are straying from my point, if I have one.”

I blow another smoke ring, then repack my pipe with the other tobacco. “How we think of a marriage between a mortal and an immortal is best represented in Oisín’s visit to Tir na nÓg. He spends three years with Niamh of the Golden Hair, but then desires to visit his family. He is warned not to dismount from his horse, not to touch the earth, or he will never return.

“When back home, he finds three centuries have passed, not three years. When the girth of his saddle breaks, he falls to the ground, turning into an ancient being.”

I blow another smoke ring as the implication of what I am saying occurs to me. “Time in Elfland moves faster than in our world. They are immortals; time has no value to them. Nothing for them should be ephemeral. Not until they touch our world can they experience it.

“For us mortals, time is precious. We hang on to it, not wanting it to slip away too quickly. You know I was married once. That has slipped away from me with her passing. Thalia’s childhood has slipped away as well. Time is the villain of us mortals. Time makes our world ephemeral.

“When Oisín enters Tir na nÓg, he escapes time and, for a while, is timeless. But being mortal by origin, he is drawn back to the physical world to meet his demise. I think it best if Thomas, Arthur, and Jesus stay where they are.”

“I must agree with your assessment of our world as ephemeral,” Agustus reflects. “I always think of tobacco as ephemeral, here today and the next day turned to ash. And what do you conclude between the two blends?”

“Oh,” I say, “I been talking so much I didn’t truly take notice, but I’ll go with Leprechaun Gold. The leprechauns are close to the fairies, so I choose that blend in honor of Thomas the Rhymer.”

Your thoughts?

Fairy Tale of the Month: October 2023 King of the Cats- Part One

October 28, 2023cjkiernan Leave a comment

Halloween Party

Halloween. Samhain. It marks the end of a yearly cycle. It’s not as well recognized as New Year’s Eve as the end of the year. For me, it is when we enter the colder days that bring about temporary death until the invigorating spring. Halloween is the transition.

Teenagers are persons in transition.

“No candy,” pronounces Thalia.

Jini backs her up. “Candy is for children.”

“Ah,” I say as we discuss our Halloween party menu, “then let’s go traditional with Mash of Nine Sort and bangers.”

“Sounds cool,” says Thalia.

“What’s Mash of Nine Sort?” Jini asks.

“Basically, potatoes and other root vegetables,” I answer.

“Safe,” she says.

“How about caramel apples for dessert?”

They hesitate. These are candied apples, but they quickly cave.

American apple cider is a given in our household for such a party, not the British cider, which is, of course, alcoholic.

As we prepare the Mash of Nine Sort, I throw in my late wife’s wedding ring, to their confused looks.

‘You didn’t let him put a ring in it, did you?” Melissa asks them when the party starts. Their wide-eyed, nonresponse answers her question. “Well then, whoever gets the ring in their serving is the next to get married.”

The girls gasp.

I chortle.

Melissa gives me a harsh glance.

We decide to start off our evening with Thalia’s reading. We all gather in the study. By “all” I mean Melissa, Jini, Thalia, the fairy, Johannes, the brownies (in the shadows as usual), and myself.

“Tonight’s story is dedicated to Johannes. It’s called King of the Cats.”

Johannes’s eyes shine as he curls up on Jini’s lap.

One winter’s night, the sexton’s wife is sitting by the fireside with their old, black tom cat lying in her lap, waiting for her husband to come home. He does, at last, return, but in a fit of excitement, shouting, “Who’s Tommy Tildrum?”

The wife demands an explanation, and her husband embarks on a wild tale.

He was digging a grave when he heard meows. Looking out over the top of the grave, he saw nine black cats, eight of them carrying a coffin covered with a black pall on top of which rested a small, gold crown. The procession was led by the ninth cat. On every third step, they all chorused a meow.

As the sexton tells his story, every time he refers to the meows of the cats, their cat, Old Tom, meows as well. The sexton twice notices that Old Tom seems to understand what he is saying, but the wife returns his attention to telling the tale.

The sexton relates that the funeral party of cats came parallel to the grave he was digging. The nineth cat came over to the grave’s edge and looked down upon him, saying, “Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Tildrum is dead.”

Upon hearing this, Old Tom speaks up. “What? Old Tim is dead! Then I’m king of the cats.” And disappears up the chimney.

Fairy Tale of the Month: October 2023 King of the Cats – Part Two

Of Cats

“A mostly true tale,” Johannes offers. “I knew the Tildrum litter well, and I approve of the story. It doesn’t have us of the Cat Sith stealing souls and such things from the dead.”

“You black cats,” I comment, “do have a bad reputation on the whole. I have always heard it is unlucky to have a black cat cross your path, for example.”

Johannes hisses gently in resigned agreement. “And to think we were once worshipped in Egypt. It could have led to someone’s death to harm a cat back in those days. Gone are the times of Bastet.”

“Bastet?” Jini asks as Johannes leans into her hand while she scratches behind his ear.

“Daughter of the sun god Ra and Isis. She served as a protector against contagious diseases and evil spirits. Isn’t it ironic that by the Middle Ages our reputation became the opposite.”

“How did that happen?” Thalia queries.

“Christians, is the short answer.” Johannes’s tail thrashes. “They eradicated anything pagan that they could not put a Christian gloss upon. Not only were we cats worshipped by the Egyptians, but we drew the Norse goddess Freya’s chariot. We had far too much contact with other deities for the monotheists to be comfortable with us.

“We were accused of stealing babies’ breath, snatching souls before they could go to heaven; our bites were poisonous. When the Black Death came, many thought we were the cause. Thousands of cats were killed to slow down the plague, when it was we who hunted the rats who were the culprits.”

Melissa raises her hand. “Why did cats and witches become associated?”

“I believe you ask that question because you already know the answer.”

Melissa smiles at him.

“But for the benefit of others,” Johannes continues, “disadvantaged women and cats—themselves disadvantaged by their history—were thrown together by the ignorant, popular mind. Scapegoats are always needed, and here was a pairing not to be ignored.

“To be fair, Christianity is not the only religion or philosophy to denigrate women and cats. However, not since the fall of the pagans has anything feminine or feline been treated fairly.

“Whenever have you heard of a ‘sorcerer hunt’? It’s always a ‘witch hunt.’ Sorcerers have tomes, which they consult. Witches have familiars with whom they confer. The popular mind has cast different scenarios for men and women in the black arts.”

“Aren’t you being a little harsh?” Jini objects.

“I don’t think so. You are young. I have been about, perhaps, a little too long. Forgive me if I appear jaded, like an overworked horse.”

“Aren’t the Cat Sith inherently evil?” I prod.

“No!” Johannes’s fur bristles as Jini tries to pat it down. “Ah, you are baiting me. You got me on that score. Are my buttons so obvious that you must push them?”

It is my turn to smile.

Johannes growls a bit, despite Jini’s calming hand. “Evil is a relative state. Visit politics to see examples. Whose side are you then on?”

Good point.

Fairy Tale of the Month: October 2023 King of the Cats – Part Three

Cats Considered

Melissa and I are in the kitchen, warming up the Mash of Nine Sort, cooking the bangers, and pouring ourselves some wine, leaving the girls to chat by the fireside with their American apple cider and Johannes contently curled in Jini’s lap.

“I feel like I am talking behind Johannes’ back.” Melissa sips her wine. “But what is the role of cats in fairy tales?”

“An interesting question to contemplate while we prepare our little feast,” I say, checking the oven temperature. “Let’s think on this.”

“The first to jump to mind is The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse, which is almost the lead story in the Grimm collection. The tale does not end well for the mouse, and the cat is cast as villainous. The whole piece is a cautionary tale.

“Another of the cautionary tales is The Fox and the Cat.”

“I don’t recall that one. Remind me.”

“A fox and a cat were talking. The arrogant fox asked the cat what skills it could boast of compared to his many. The cat said she could climb trees, a talent that the fox belittled until hunting hounds suddenly descended upon them. The cat scampered up a tree, and the fox was killed.”

“I see. In this cautionary tale, the cat is in the right.” I move the bangers about before saying, “However, I think first mention should be given to Puss in Boots.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Melissa agrees. “Here the cat is the protagonist and a witty hero, outsmarting humans and ogres. Certain Johannes would approve.”

“I recently read Wood of Tontla,” I say. “In it is a cat having something to do with magic, but it has a small role and never says anything.”

“That makes me think of The Cat on the Dovrefell. The cat is just a cat, but its presence works into the pun at the end of the story.”

“A device, in other words, not a character like Puss in Boots,” I reflect. “And then there is The Bremen Town Musicians, one of whom is a cat. The cat, and her companions, fall between being devices in the story and protagonists, maybe?”

“Let’s just label them as characters,” Melissa decides.

“I’ll buy that.” Melissa takes another sip of her wine. “Oh, Madame d’Aulnoy’s The White Cat! While the prince is the protagonist, the white cat is certainly the heroine.”

“But,” I protest, “the cat is really a princess under a spell and not a real cat. Does that count?”

“Well, she had enough claws on her front paws to count to ten. She counts in my book.”

I will not argue. “Ah, Gabriel Rider.” I raise my finger in the air. “In that story are the very Cat Sith representing evil that Johannes complained about. These cats are not devices or protagonists, but rather antagonists.”

Melissa considers. “That is the first story we have cited in which the cats are the minions of the devil. None of the stories we have mentioned had a witch and a black cat in them. The witch and black cat pairing is not a traditional fairy-tale convention.”

When the oven bell chimes, we finish our wine and carry the hot dishes into the study, along with the caramel apples the girls and I produced earlier in the day. We set the study table up as a dining table and have at it.

I take no more than two mouthfuls of the Mash of Nine Sort when my molars clamp down on a round, metal object. It makes a clink. The three others look up at me and smirk.

I should have known better.

Your thoughts?

Fairy Tale of the Month: September 2023 The Wood of Tontla – Part One

September 29, 2023cjkiernan Leave a comment

From Estonia

Why is it that every time I hear the bell over Augustus’s door to his tobacco shop I feel comforted by its announcement of my presence, my existence? The heavy aroma of the tobacco soothes my senses rather than overwhelming them as, really, they should. More sensitive souls would turn and leave, but I am drawn in.

“Let me guess,” says Augustus. “You are out of Elfish Gold.”

“That is my favorite, but I also need an ounce of Angel’s Glory.”

“Quite so, but let me make two requests of you today. First, to sample my latest blend, Elven Quest, and second, to listen to a story.”

“I am always happy to try out your blends, but, Augustus, you have never told me a story before; I have always brought the story.”

Augustus smiles. “That I know. However, I have come across a tale that I like and think I should despise.”

“Well, let’s have to.”

We retreat to Augustus’s testing room, complete with comfy chairs, and light up.

“It’s Estonian,” he says, “called The Wood of Tontla.”

There once stood a forest in the middle of which many people claim to have seen an abandoned house, and in its environs were questionable gypsy-like beings. Tales told of a dwarf with a long beard and a huge black cat. When a woodsman tried to cut down a Tontla tree, it shrieked and bled.

Near Tontla, in a village, lived an unfortunate girl named Elsie . . .

“Hold on,” I say. “That first part sounded like a preamble. Fairy tales do not have preambles.”

“Quite right. Which is one of the reasons I should not like this story, but stay with me for a bit.”

Near Tontla, in a village, lived an unfortunate girl named Elsie whose mother had died, and her stepmother hated her.

One day she picked strawberries with a group of village children when they realized they had wandered too close to Tontla and ran away, but not Elsie, who did not fear the wood.

She was approached by a young girl dressed all in silk, who asked Elsie to be her friend and playmate, taking her into the wood. To Elsie’s wonder, they came to a magnificent garden in the center of which sat a grand house built of glass and precious stones. The young girl, Kiisike, asked her mother if Elsie could stay.

“Both main characters have names? Will everyone have a name? That is a very Disney sort of thing to do, giving everyone names.”

“No, no, those are the only two, but I will agree, it is a little unusual.”

Elsie, in tears, explained her hardship to the mother, who promised to think on it and allowed the two girls to play together.

Kiisike, taking magical items out of a box, transformed the garden into the open sea, the two girls in a boat made from a mussel shell, surrounded by other boats with people laughing and singing. When called to supper, Kiisike transformed the sea back into the garden.

“Well, that is rather delightful,” I muse, drawing on my pipe.

Fairy Tale of the Month: September 2023 The Wood of Tontla – Part Two

Magical Devices

In the hall were twenty-four beautifully dressed women, plus the lady of the house, Kiisike’s mother, seated on a golden chair. They ate and talked softly in a language Elsie could not understand.

To Elsie’s joy, at the end of the meal, the lady of the house announced she wished to adopt Elsie, but a copy of Elsie must be sent back to the village. An old man with a long beard appeared and molded an image of Elsie in clay. Three salt herrings and a bit of bread were placed in the hollow body, along with a black snake and a drop of Elsie’s blood drawn by a golden needle.

The doll was placed in a case and, by morning, appeared to be alive. Dressed in Elsie’s old clothing, the doll was sent to the village to be, as the mother explained, beaten and abused by the stepmother, but it would feel no pain, being made of clay.

“I will guess that qualifies as a magical device,” I say, relighting my pipe. “I believe I ran across a similar doll in a Baba Yaga story. Oh yes, Vasilisa the Beautiful.”

“Hmmm.” Augustus frowns a little.

A rock of granite stood near the house. Every day, the old man with the long beard went to the rock, drew a silver wand, and struck the rock three times. A large golden cock sprang out and perched on the rock, flapping his wings and crowing. Out of the rock and into the house came a table and chairs, followed by one dish after another. When everybody had eaten enough, the old man knocked on the rock a second time with his silver wand. The golden cock crowed, and the bottles, dishes, plates, chairs, and table went back into the rock. But when the thirteenth dish came, from which nothing was eaten, a great black cat ran after it and sat on the rock with the cock. The old man took the dish in one hand, the cat under his arm, the golden cock on his shoulder, and disappeared with them under the rock. Not only food and drink, but everything else required for the household, even clothes, came out of the rock upon the crowing of the cock.

“OK, another magical device, but how extraordinary and complex,” I ponder.

Augustus glances at me warily, then blows a smoke ring.

One day Elsie asked why the thirteenth dish came to the table every day, although nobody ate anything from it. The lady of the house explained it was the dish of hidden blessing. They dare not touch it, or their happy life would come to an end. To not return anything in gratitude to the Heavenly Dispenser would be avarice.

“Ah! Here it comes.” I wave a finger in the air. “Elsie, human and sinner that she is, will not be satisfied until she samples the thirteenth dish!”

“Nope. Does not happen. How could you think that of our precious Elsie?” Augustus quips.

“No. Wait. Who collected this tale, and did they alter it like the Grimms did theirs?”

“Dr. Friedrich Reinhold Kreutzwald. He was an Estonian writer, considered to be the father of Estonia’s national literature, and author of several moralistic folk books. So, yes, he put his mark on what he collected. Another reason for me to not like the story, but let me continue.”

Fairy Tale of the Month: September 2023 The Wood of Tontla – Part Three

The Departure

Nine years passed. Kiisike and Elsie were educated together by the governess. Elsie grew into a young lady, learned easily, and even learned their language. However, Kiisike preferred childish games and never grew any older.

With great sadness, the lady of the house informed Elsie that it was time for her to leave now that she was grown. Elsie pleaded, but to no avail. The lady told her that they—she, Kiisike, and the others—were beings of a higher order that Elsie could not comprehend. The lady consoled Elsie with the knowledge there was happiness in her future.

“Let me stop you here.” I feel my eyebrows frowning. “Are they fairies?”

“I’m thinking not,” Augustus returns. “The lady makes reference to their ‘Heavenly Dispenser.’ The fairies are fallen angels, not receiving aid from their former lord.”

“Are they then angels?”

“Again, I think not. They appear to be earthbound. A step below the angels, perhaps. Maybe an Estonian thing.”

The story shifted to the clay doll, again being beaten by the stepmother, when the stepmother’s rage overtook her, and she strangled the doll. Out of the doll’s mouth sprang the black snake, biting the woman’s tongue, and she fell dead.

After the wake was held for the deceased, the husband found the bread and three herrings on his table. He ate them and was dead by morning. The clay doll had disappeared.

“Wait again.” I puff on my pipe. “What did the husband do to deserve death?”

“He allowed the abuse and was culpable. Kreutzwald was strict in his morals. Now be quiet and let me finish,” Augustus glares.

Elsie spent one more night in her beloved home, and in the morning, the old man gently touched her head with his silver wand, and Elsie transformed into an eagle. For days, she flew southward until shot down by an arrow.

When Elsie awoke from her swoon, she was on the ground, in her human form, unharmed. In her company was a handsome prince—her soon-to-be husband—declaring that for half a year he had dreamt of finding her. This morning he shot an eagle and, while searching for it, found her.

On their wedding day, fifty loads of treasure arrived, a gift from Elsie’s foster mother. Elsie became queen and, in her old age, related her adventures. But no one has ever heard any more of the Wood of Tontla.

“It is certainly literary,” I say. “I never liked Anderson for that reason.”

“I agree, but the images of this story captured me.” He knocks the ashes out of his pipe.

“And here I will express another annoyance,” Augustus continues. “I first read Andrew Lang’s version, actually Lady Lang’s version, under the title A Tale of the Tontlawald in the Violet Fairy Book, which was inferior. Translations are always a problem. Let me make an example.”

Augustus rummages around on a desk in the corner of the room and comes up with the Violet Fairy Book.

“This is from the story’s preamble as translated by Mrs. Lang from a German version. ‘One old crone had a broad iron ladle in her hand, with which every now and then she stirred the fire, but the moment she touched the glowing ashes, the children rushed away, shrieking like night owls, and it was a long while before they ventured to steal back.’”

Augustus picked up a page of a computer printout. “I found this other version of the story on the Sacred Stories site, titled The Wood of Tontla. I could not find who translated it, but I suspect it came directly from the Estonian language.

“‘An old woman held a broad iron shovel in her hand, and every now and then scattered the red-hot cinders over the grass, when the children flew up into the air, fluttering about like owls in the rising smoke, and then sinking.’”

“Oh!” I say. “What a different image. I see your point.”

“How can I trust the Langs ever again, when through my own ignorance, I don’t know to spot a discrepancy? I caught it this time, but I could easily be seduced at another time.”

“And you like this tale, despite all your objections; for what reason?” I challenge.

Augustus pauses. “I think it is the images Kreutzwald creates in my mind that pull me in.”

Well, isn’t that what good literature and fairy tales do?

Your thoughts?

Fairy Tale of the Month: August 2023 Raja Rasalu – Part One

August 28, 2023cjkiernan Leave a comment

Another Picnic

Richmond Park, one of the royal parks, is the destination for our picnic. Oh yes, another picnic! What is summer without numerous picnics?

This one is Melissa’s idea. The park is her choice, the exact location in the park is her favorite, and the menu of her inspiration will be delightful if not as varied as our last picnic’s repast.

Both Thalia and Jini give quiet squeals of wonder when they spot a herd of fallow deer grazing contentedly, even before we reach our intended spot. We will hardly be out of sight of them the entire time, nor of the kestrels flying overhead.

I spread our blanket under an old, old oak tree, and we settle ourselves around it on low beach chairs. I, for one, need a bit of back support on such occasions.

Before opening Melissa’s basket, we look to Thalia for the traditional story. To my surprise, she nods to Jini.

“I have a story for you,” Jini says. “It’s from my people, called Raja Rasalu.”

“Once there lived a great raja, whose name was Salabhan, and he had a queen, by name Lona, who, though she wept and prayed at many shrines, had never a child to gladden her eyes.”

To my pleasure, I realize Jini intends to recite, not read, her tale to us.

Eventually, before a child is granted to the queen, a fakir tells her that her son, whose name will be Rasalu, must not see the light of day for twelve years. If she and the king look upon his face for all that time, or all three will die.

The lad grows up constantly attended to, well educated, and in the company of a colt, born on the same day as he, and a parrot, both his constant companions. At eleven years of age and impatient, he goes out into the world before his time. His parents refuse to “see” him, and he leaves without meeting them face-to-face, never to be in their presence again.

Rasalu, fully armed, astride his faithful horse, ventures forth determined to play games of chaupur with Raja Sarkap, in which the stakes are always high. During his travels, he takes shelter in a graveyard during a lightning storm and has a long conversation with a headless corpse. The corpse turns out to be the brother of Raja Sarkap, through whose hand he lost his head. He warns Rasalu and advises him to make a pair of dice out of a bone from the graveyard to match against Sarkap’s enchanted dice.

Traveling on, Rasalu saves a cricket from a fire, and the cricket gives Rasalu one of his feelers, promising him aid if he burns the feeler to evoke the cricket. Bemused, Rasalu accepts the gift.

Coming to Sarkap’s kingdom, he is greeted by the raja’s seventy daughters, the youngest of whom falls in love with him. The other sixty-nine want him to pass a test. They mix millet seed with sand and order him to separate them out. Rasalu calls upon the cricket, and the cricket’s swarm easily performs the task.

The seventy daughters then want him to push them on their swings. He puts them all in one swing and gives it such a push, they land on their heads. The youngest, now disenchanted, goes to her father to complain. Sarkap understands who Rasalu is and challenges him to games of chaupur.

Before the games, Rasalu—always compassionate toward the needy—saves the kittens of a mother cat, who gives him one of her litter to put in his pocket. During the rounds of chaupur, Rasalu loses his armour, his horse, and is about to lose his head, when his faithful horse reminds him of the bone dice.

During the game, Sarkap’s rat, Dhol, had been running about, knocking over the pieces to distract Rasalu, but now Rasalu insists upon using his dice and brings out the kitten to keep Dhol at bay. After that, Rasalu is victorious and claims Sarkap’s head.

At this point, Sarkap is informed that one of his wives has had a daughter. Rasalu trades Sarkap’s life for the daughter. The daughter is shut into an underground palace for twelve years, and a mango tree is planted at its entrance. Rasalu declares that he will marry the girl when the mango tree blooms.

Jini bows to indicate the end of her story.

We applaud.

Fairy Tale of the Month: August 2023 Raja Rasalu – Part Two

Plot Thickens

Melissa opens up the wicker basket, setting out the quinoa-kale salad. “If that is a story of your people, I will assume your family is from the Punjab?”

Jini smiles. “You are right.”

“Raja Rasalu is something of Northern India’s Siegfried. There are a number of legends about Rasalu, poetic sagas, if I recall.” She looks at me, knowing how little I know about the subject.

“Yes,” says Jini. “My parents brought me up to be English, pushing our own culture aside. I am only now beginning to teach myself about my origins, and, like Thalia, love the fairy tales and legends. I see so much in them.”

“Good,” says Melissa, setting out scotch eggs (I snatch one immediately). “But like the Arthurian tales, for which there are multiple sources that don’t agree with each other, you will find the same disagreements in the Rasalu tales.”

“Such as?” Jini’s eyes glimmer as she stretches out her hand for a Jaffa Cake.

“Well, there is Rasalu’s older brother, Puran. According to some legends, it was Puran who, at his birth, was sequestered for twelve years and could not have his parents look upon him.”

As Melissa slices some bara brith, she continues. “In another version, Salabhan’s second and younger wife makes false accusations against Puran, the son of Salabhan’s first wife, after Puran rejects the younger wife’s advances. In fury, Salabhan has Puran’s hands and feet cut off, and his body thrown down a well.

“Puran survives for twelve years at the bottom of the well, being fed by birds and animals, until a fakir discovers him, retrieves Puran from the well, and, through his powers, restores the severed limbs. Puran studies under the fakir and becomes one himself.

“As a fakir, he returns, unrecognized, to his father and stepmother and grants the queen the long-sought-for child, but with the stipulations of the twelve-year isolation and no visitation. Something of a reflection of his own travail.”

“Wow,” says Thalia. “In Jini’s version, it is some fakir who sets up the terms, and here it is Rasalu’s saintly half-brother. That’s some heavy editing going on!”

I nibble on some Jacob’s Cream Crackers topped with Cornish Yarg. “I am afraid this has often happened when foreign tales get taken over by a different cultural viewpoint. They get disassembled and reassembled, kind of like a Picasso painting.”

“All tales, including these, may get bowdlerized as well,” Melissa adds.

“By the way,” I ask, pouring myself some blueberry-and-mint iced tea (I am glad she had the sense not to bring wine with two young girls in tow) “What is the game of chaupur?”

“Oh, very old,” Jini says. “The board is made of cloth in the form of a cross full of very colorful squares. Each arm of the cross has three columns of eight rows. Each player has four pawns. There can be two players or two teams of two players each for each arm of the cross. The pawns move depending on the value of the seven dice thrown.

“What I don’t get is the dice I always see are made of cowry shells, not bones. Anyway, it’s popular with old people. I don’t have the patience for its impossible rules. The game can go on forever. The game ends when someone gets all four of their pawns to the center.”

“Hmmm,” I say. “I’m old. I may have to try it.”

Jini blushes.

Fairy Tale of the Month: August 2023 Raja Rasalu- Part Three

Number Twelve

“I have to wonder about the number twelve,” I say, turning my attention to some crisps. “Here in the West, there are the twelve days of Christmas, the twelve months of the year, and the twelve-hour clock, all dealing with time.”

“Ah, but,” says Melissa, “I never heard of twelve years of isolation or confinement. In the Grimm canon, Maid Maleen is shut in a tower for seven years. The six swans’ sister has to not speak or laugh and sew six shirts out of aster flowers for six years. A twelve-year sentence of this nature, I don’t recall.”

Our conversation falls off for a while as we enjoy Melissa’s picnic offerings.

“That cricket,” Thalia says, finishing off a scotch egg, “sounded familiar. He was an animal helper, but there was only one, not the usual three.”

“What about the kitten?” Jini asks.

“Not the same thing. Animal helpers give the hero some way of calling them when in need. The kitten simply ended up in his pocket for his use.”

“You make a good point,” Melissa muses. “We may be seeing the origin of a motif. Let me suggest that this notion of an animal helper giving the hero a token or evocative chant to use when in distress, in exchange for a service rendered, came down the Silk Road to Europe.

“Our tellers, knowing a good thing when they heard it, tripled the effect, creating the motif of the three animal helpers. The West is warm to the pattern of threes.”

“I like the notion,” I say, “but who influenced whom?”

“Oh, they influenced us. Rasalu legends date from the second century AD. The fairy tales, as we know them, with their body of motifs, were developed around the twelfth century.”

“Oh,” says Thalia, “there’s the number twelve again.” Both she and Jini giggle.

Melissa smiles. “I am sure it is coincidental.”

“And then,” I say, goading, knowing there are teenage girls in company, “we have a talking horse that gives Rasalu good advice.”

“Yeah!” they chorus.

Melissa rolls her eyes. “If there is a horse in the tale, it is bound to say something. Any animal in fairy tales can talk, but I feel horses are particularly chatty.”

“I did notice,” says Jini, “there isn’t an animal in my tale that Rasalu cannot talk to.”

“And no one is ever surprised by it,” Thalia puts in. “Where in any fairy tale are the words, ‘Oh! You can talk.’ Doesn’t happen.”

“Another good point,” says Melissa. “There are certain assumptions that the fairy-tale genre always makes.” She ticks them off on her fingertips.

“Animals can talk.

“Royalty has magical powers.

“Witches appear poor, even if they have hoarded wealth.

“Rather few heroes and heroines have a name—well, that only applies to the European tales.

“There will likely be a marriage in the story.

“If there are siblings, there will be two, three, six, or seven. Never four or five. Well, okay, in Jini’s tale, there are seventy sisters.

“There are very few fairies in fairy tales. We should be calling them ‘wonder tales.’

“If I thought more about it, I could come up with other notions.”

“Does that mean fairy tales, or should I say ‘wonder tales,’ are rather predictable?” I argue.

“Not at all. But if so, as most popular literature does, even if predictable, it aims to satisfy.”

I am satisfied with that answer.

Your thoughts?

Fairy Tale of the Month: June 2023 The Three Daughters of King O’Hara – Part One

June 29, 2023cjkiernan Leave a comment

The daughters of George II (Anne, Amelia and Caroline) Martin Maingaud

A Request

I am uneasy, and I don’t know why. I imagine that is why I am uneasy.

We are in my study for the evening read: Thalia, Jini, the fairy, Johannes, and the brownies (out of sight). There is an air of tension between Thalia and Jini; they are all business. There hasn’t been a giggle passed back and forth.

In Thalia’s hands is my copy of Myths and Folk-Lore of Ireland, by Jeremiah Curtin. I have rarely seen her reading it.

“Tonight’s tale,” Thalia announces, “is The Three Daughters of King O’Hara.”

The eldest daughter of King O’Hara decided how she would marry. She put on her father’s cloak of darkness and wished for the most handsome man in the world. He immediately appeared in a coach pulled by magnificent horses and whisked her away. The second daughter did the same, settling for the second-most handsome man.

These men came with a price. Being enchanted, they could spend either the day or the night as men, and the other half of the time as seals. Their wives had to choose, and both preferred they be men during the day.

The youngest put on the cloak of darkness and wished for a white dog. Appearing in a splendid coach, a white dog whisked her away and offered a similar condition as had been offered to her sisters. She chose he be a dog during the day and a man at night.

They had three children, two boys and a girl, who were carried away by a gray crow a week after their births. The white dog had forewarned the princess not to shed a tear over the loss, but she cried one tear over the girl, a tear that she caught in a handkerchief.

King O’Hara, at first angered at his daughters leaving him, reconciled with them and offered a feast. The husbands were welcome, but the king did not wish to entertain a dog. However, the youngest insisted.

The queen that evening, in the company of the cook, snuck into her daughters’ bedrooms to find the youngest with a most handsome man and the others sleeping with seals. Unfortunately, she also found the dog’s skin and threw it into the kitchen fire.

The husband of the youngest daughter began his flight to Tir na n-Og after explaining that had he been able to stay under her father’s roof for three nights with her, the curse over him would have been broken. She followed him, and the next three nights he instructed her to stay in certain houses, in each of which she was hosted by a woman, met one of her children, and was given magical gifts: a scissors, a comb, and a whistle. However, her daughter had only one eye. The princess restored the other eye with the tear she had caught in the handkerchief.

On the fourth day, the husband explained she must not follow him, for having lost his dog form, he must now marry the queen of Tir na n-Og. The princess hesitated a while but eventually followed.

She was befriended by a washerwoman and used the scissors and comb to benefit the children of a henwife. However, the henwife warned the queen of these two magical gifts. The queen demanded them, and the princess traded them, each in turn, for a night with her husband. This the queen granted, but she drugged the husband.

After those two failures, the princess used the whistle to call the birds. From them, she found out what she must do. The queen found out about the whistle and wanted it as well. On the third night, the princess left a letter with her husband’s trusted servant, telling her husband what they must do to kill the queen.

In front of the castle grew a holly tree that the husband then cut down. Out of the tree sprang a sheep. The princess released a fox that ran down and tore open the sheep, from which flew a duck. The princess released a hawk that downed the duck, smashing the egg inside the duck. The queen’s heart, hidden in the egg, broke, and the queen died.

They held a great feast, the washerwoman and the servant were rewarded, the henwife burnt alive in her house, and the princess and her husband reign in Tir na n-Og until this day.

Thalia closes the book, glances at Jini, raises the book and stares directly at me. “Will you take Jini and me to Miss Cox’s garden to meet Mr. Curtin?”

Ah, that’s the uneasiness in the air. Will I let Jini visit the garden?

“Of course I will.”

They giggle.

Fairy Tale of the Month: June 2023 The Three Daughters of King O’Hara – Part Two

A Meeting

It is a gorgeous June day in Miss Cox’s garden. When we left the house, a fine drizzle filled the air, but not here. A bench and two chairs surround a small round table, all of wrought iron. On the table sits a larger-than-usual teapot in its cozy and four china cups. How does Miss Cox know what to anticipate?

Our eyes, trained on the garden gate, soon gaze upon an elderly man with a somewhat scraggly beard and sad eyes. Yet his countenance has a merry tone. This is a man who has seen the world and found peace with it.

“Mr. Curtin,” I say, “Let me introduce my granddaughter, Thalia, and her dear friend Jini.”

He nods his greeting, sits, and Jini springs up to pour the tea. Thalia, prepared with a script in hand, starts the interview. “Mr. Curtin, Jini and I are particularly interested in The Three Daughters of King O’Hara. How did you come to write it?”

“To be clear, I did not write it, I collected it. Oh, I did translate it from the Gaelic language through an interpreter. Although I am born of Irish parents, my specialty ended up being Native American and Slavic languages. I am fluent in many tongues but not Gaelic.

“I worked for the Bureau of American Ethnology as a field researcher and did much work on Native American culture and their stories. I have also translated literary works from Slavic languages. Eventually though, my Irish heritage called to me. My wife, Alma, and I visited Ireland a number of times to collect stories.

“We were afraid many of the older tales we had come to collect may have died out. We found that not to be true, but the tales survived only among the Gaelic speakers, that is, the areas where Gaelic was the everyday language, such as the Aran Islands. We did not collect a single tale from an English speaker. The tales we collected were totally tied to the Gaelic language.”

Thalia nods and refers to her script. “Jini and I were attracted to the youngest daughter. We liked her pluck. What attracts you to tales like this one?”

“A tale may be considered a thing of value from three different points of view. From one point of view, it is valuable as a wonderful story and the way in which this story is told. A beautiful tale has a value all its own.

“From a second point of view, a tale is interesting for the social or antiquarian data that it preserves or for purposes of comparison with tales of another race. This is the folklorist approach.

“From a third, and very small class, a tale is valuable for the mythical material it contains, for its contribution to the history of the human mind.

“As for myself, it is hard not to hold all three points of view at once. I am charmed by the simplicity and straightforwardness of the narrative. I am titillated by its similarities and differences compared to other tales, and drawn in by the subtle suggestions it makes about the human condition.”

We all take a round of sipping tea before it gets cold.

Fairy Tale of the Month: June 2023 The Three Daughters of King O’Hara – Part Three

The game birds and wild fowl of Sweden and Norway, Illustrations by : Lloyd, L. (Llewelyn)

A Conclusion

Jini, with a bit of impatience in her voice, pipes up. “Why does she wish for a white dog?”

“Ah!” Jeremiah raises a finger. “Here we return to the point of view of the folklorist, who values the tales for their comparisons. Let me rephrase the question: Are there white dogs in Celtic myths and legends? The answer is ‘yes.’ There are a number of them.

“I’ll skip over the hounds of hell—white dogs with red ears—and go straight to Bran and Sceόlang (Raven and Survivor), the hounds of Fionn mac Cumhail. Fionn’s aunt, during the second of her three marriages, is turned into a dog by her unhappy mother-in-law. She gives birth to two white hounds before returning to her human form. The dogs, keeping their canine shape, are given to Fionn; Bran and Sceόlang actually being his cousins.

“In a work known as the Book of Invasions, there appears a poem about a creature that is a sheep by day and a hound at night, and what water touches the creature turns to wine.

“I should also mention Cuchulain, the hero of the Ulster Cycle, whose name translates as ‘Hound of Culann.’ He does not turn into a dog, but does become monstrous in battle.”

“Wait. They aren’t exactly the same as the princess’s white dog,” Thalia questions.

“No, but they are comparable. That is what interests the folklorist.”

“And the seal thing?” Jini wants to know.

“Selkies!” Thalia chimes in.

“Quite right,” Jeremiah acknowledges. “There is a long tradition about the people of the sea, who are shapeshifters. They can be seals in the water and humans on land by removing their sealskins.

“A typical selkie tale is about a fisherman who sees a female selkie, or a group of selkies, in human form, and steals a sealskin, forcing its owner to marry him. They have children and are a family until she rediscovers her sealskin, puts it on, never to return, abandoning the children and her husband.”

“Oh, how sad,” Jini pouts.

“Again, not exactly the same as our story,” Thalia observes.

“And the thieving gray crow?” Jini asks.

Mr. Curtin hesitates. “It almost has to be Queen Eriu or Erin, from whose name the word ‘Ireland’ is derived. She was one of the last three queens before her people, the Tuatha Dé Danann, were driven into the fairy world, Tir na n-Og. The other three queens were her sisters, all married to three brothers. As a shapeshifter, her form was that of a gray crow. There are many crows and ravens in Celtic mythology, but no other than Eriu’s form that I know of is described as a gray crow.

“If the gray crow in our story is a reflection of Eriu, and the three women who take charge of the princess’s three children are she and her sisters, then the irony is that these women give the princess the magical gifts that become the instruments to trap and destroy the queen of Tir na n-Og.”

“Wow,” says Thalia.

“I can’t help but think,” I say, “that the motifs of the white hounds, the selkies, and Eriu were thrown into a caldron by the storytellers, heated up and blended, reemerging to appeal to a different palate.”

“That is not a solid folklorist analysis,” Jeremiah smiles, “but you may be right.”

Your thoughts?

Fairy Tale of the Month: May 2023 The Girl Who Went To War – Part One

May 31, 2023cjkiernan Leave a comment

Row Row

Rowing on the Isis with Duckworth is one of my delights. The month of May is the perfect time for such an exercise. He and I apply our backs to the oars. But something is not right.

“Duckworth,” I say, “you are being rather quiet.”

“Am I? Sorry. I am distracted.”

“Over what?” I ask, still applying strength to the oars.

“It’s my eldest daughter. She is thinking of joining the military. I am not at all fond of the idea.”

“Wait. How old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

“Oh, Duckworth, there is plenty of time for her to change her mind.”

“Yes, I know,” he concedes, “but she is single-minded.”

“Well,” I say, “call it synchronicity, but I read a tale last night dealing with this issue.”

“What? My daughter joining the military?”

“Quite so. It’s a story collected by R. M. Dawkins in his Modern Greek Folktales, called The Girl Who Went to War.”

Three sisters decide, taking a dim view of their marriage prospects, to become soldiers instead when their country is invaded. Their father dissuades them, one by one, as they venture out, by disguising himself as a warrior and threatening with his sword.

However, the youngest, who when younger, had found a colt by the seaside and raised it as her own. Fully grown, it could breathe fire and had the power of speech. When she dresses herself as a young man, arms herself, and sets off to war, the horse warns her of her father’s ruse. When confronted by him, she attacks. Realizing there is no dissuading her, he gives his daughter his blessing.

“Yup,” says Duckworth, “that’s my daughter.”

Coming to the battle, she draws her double-edged sword, and her horse is soon knee-deep in blood. Single-handedly, she drives the enemy into submission.

“That’s rather Joan of Arc-ish,” Duckworth comments.

Her king, who is unaware of her true identity, is delighted with his new hero, marrying this warrior off to his very own daughter.

“Oops,” says Duckworth.

The newly wed princess is distressed when her “husband” puts a sword between them in their bed, commanding she shall not cross over it. Both the princess and the queen are enraged and convince the reluctant king to send the “youth” on an impossible quest.

The king asks his esteemed warrior to bring him an apple from paradise. With the horse’s advice, the youngest steals the clothing of one of the girls of paradise while she is bathing and returns the garments for an apple.

“That’s one,” Duckworth nods. “I bet there are two more.”

Next, she is given the task of collecting seven years of taxes from a notoriously resistive village. However, with the horse’s advice and not too many deaths, she succeeds.

For the third task, it is the queen who makes the request. There is a wild mare that guards ten thousand acres of fertile land and wears a band plaited with diamonds and “brilliants” that shine so brightly that no one can go close to it. The queen wants the mare defeated and brought to her.

With great trepidation, the girl’s horse comes up with a plan, battles with the mare, and defeats her through trickery.

For the fourth task . . .

“Wait, a fourth task? That’s not right.”

For the fourth task, they enlist the horse’s mother, who rises from the sea and would devour the girl but for the horse’s insistence that she does not. The girl rides the mare into the land of the one-eyed giants to steal their fire. By throwing magical devices behind them, they outrun the giants. Unable to cross their boundary, the giants hurtle a curse upon the girl. “If you are a boy, you will become a girl. If you are a girl, you will become a boy.”

“Ha!” says Duckworth. “Brilliant.”

Fairy Tale of the Month: May 2023 The Girl Who Went To War – Part Two

More Rowing

“Would you call that a ‘trans’ fairy tale?” Duckworth inquires. “If so, the tale is way ahead of its time.”

“No, no, not at all. Questions of sexuality have always been with us. This tale only reflects that. I can think of another of this ilk, a Danish tale simply called The Princess Who Became a Man.”

The rhythm of our rowing lets my mind wander. “There is also another tale called The Lute Player. In that case, a queen disguises herself as a young male musician in order to rescue her husband. There is no question of sexual identity on her part, but she knows she’d make an attractive young man.”

“Ah, I see your point.” Duckworth stops rowing to tap a finger to his head. “Shakespeare was known to dress his female characters up as men. Let me remember; Rosalind in As You Like It and Viola in Twelfth Night.”

“I’m impressed with your memory. Have you ever considered going on a quiz show?”

Duckworth waves off my compliment. “Cross-dressing for comic effect, as Shakespeare did—having other women fall in love with the hero/heroine—and an actual ‘trans’ experience are two different things. This tale you just told me has both.”

“There is an irony in all that,” I say, still rowing, “In Shakespeare’s day, women were not allowed to perform on stage. Young men were used to represent women. In Rosalind’s and Viola’s cases, young men were pretending to be women who were pretending to be men. Did anyone ever notice?”

Duckworth takes up his share of the rowing again. “I quipped a few minutes ago about how Joan of Arc-ish the main character is, but I’m beginning to take my comment more seriously.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

Duckworth ignores the comment and continues. “When were the fairy tales, as we know them, created?”

“Oh, starting around the twelfth century they were first recorded, but certainly they evolved before that and since.”

Duckworth puts down his oars to fact-check. My shoulders are getting a bit stiff.

“Right, so, Joan of Arc is early fifteenth century. Goodness, she was only seventeen when all that started and burned as a heretic by nineteen. Ah, here is what I was looking for. She was captured by the Burgundians, who turned her over to the English. They put her on trial for heresy, one of the charges being blasphemy for wearing men’s clothing.”

Duckworth’s eyes are fixed on his cell. “This is all in the context of the Hundred Years’ War. It was her influence, even after her death, that inspired the French to keep fighting and eventually win.

“I can’t help but see shades of Joan’s history in this tale. A woman dressing as a man bursts onto the battle scene, driving the enemy before her, in a sense, single-handedly.”

Not keeping doubt from my voice, I say, “If that is so, should not there be a French version of this tale instead of a Greek one that has come down to us?”

“Stories travel,” he defends.

“Yes, they do, but the parallel between Joan of Arc and our heroine ends with the cross-dressing and the initial battle. There is neither talk of any kind of marriage concerning Joan nor does she have a talking horse.”

“Well, I did say ‘shades of Joan’s history.’ Joan’s history did not have a fairy-tale ending.”

That is true enough.

Fairy Tale of the Month: May 2023 The Girl Who Went To War – Part Three

Merrily Merrily

“What about all those horses in this story?” Duckworth has returned to rowing.

“Well,” I say, “talking horses are not rare in these tales. Horses contesting with each other are well enough known. However, a horse calling on its dam from out of the sea, I have not encountered before. I am not sure what to make of her.”

“I suppose,” says Duckworth, doing a good job at the oars again, “all animals can talk in the tales.”

I hesitate. “Not exactly. I think it falls into categories.”

“Ah,” Duckworth returns, “categorize away. I am listening.”

“I am thinking out loud,” I warn. First off, the animals that can talk are rather culturally dependent. For example, folktales from India can have snakes talking, which rarely, if ever, happens in European tales, despite Old Testament references to such a thing. I will stick to the European tales, which I know better.

“Category one: Animals talking to other animals. Actually, I think that category is pretty universal. I have been led to believe that in China there is a prejudice against animals and people talking to each other. I read somewhere that Alice in Wonderland was banned in China in the 1930s for that reason. Nonetheless, animals talking to animals was fine with them.

“Category two:—perforce—is animals talking to people. Under this category, I can make a number of subcategories.”

“You are pretty detailed,” Duckworth interrupts, “for just thinking out loud.”

My turn to ignore. “Subcategory one: Talking animals who are actually royalty under enchantment.”

“Oh, lots of those,” says he.

“Think I’ll call this the “East of the Sun” category. It is well populated by bears but also foxes, as in The Golden Bird. I cannot forget the frog in The Frog King, nor the beast of beauty fame.”

“My favorite is the flounder,” Duckworth puts in.

“The Fisherman and His Wife, yes, and interestingly, something of an exception. We hear from the start that the flounder is an enchanted prince and, in the course of the story, remains so. All the other tales have the talking creatures transformed at the end of the tale and revealed as humans.”

“What about,” Duckworth interjects, “characters that are transformed into animals by a witch or to escape a witch?”

“Such as in Brother and Sister? Hmmm. Difficult. That group is transformed during the story, not before the story began, and may or may not be of royalty, and may or may not talk while in that state. I might need a sub-subcategory.

“I will exclude characters that learn the language of animals and birds. That would be a bit of a cheat to get into one of my categories.”

“Oh,” says Duckworth, “now there is competition for this honor.”

I get to ignore him again. “Subcategory two comprises the animal helpers.”

“Lots of them too.”

“And here we return to the horse, mare, and dam of our story. The horse is the magical helper. He coerces the mares to do his will. I wonder if the mare and the dam were the same being in an earlier iteration of this tale. That would have been more logical, but the tales are weak on logical construction. The tellers/creators of the fairy tales were more in tune with emotional impulses than striving for believability.”

“Hmm. That might explain some things.”

“Also note, all talking animals, whether enchanted or helpers, nonetheless are helpful. The hero/heroine never receives a threat from a talking animal. From giants, witches, trolls, and dwarves, yes, but from animals, no.”

“I’ll try to remember that if ever my dog starts talking to me,” he smiles.

“And,” I’m not done yet, “horses are never enchanted royalty. They can be eerie, like the severed horse’s head hanging in the dark gateway of the city as in The Goose Girl, but not royalty.”

Duckworth nods in contemplation.

“My,” I say, “our conversation has wandered far from the subject of your daughter’s career options.”

I immediately wish I’d not said that as I see him slip back into gloominess.

“What career would you rather she follow?”

“Dentistry.”

Dentistry? Where did that come from?

“You know,” I say, “the military does offer the opportunity to travel.”

Your thoughts?

Fairy Tale of the Month: April 2023 The Enchanted Head – Part One

April 29, 2023cjkiernan Leave a comment

Owl Scowl

It is a brilliant moon that shines down on the Magic Forest below me. The night air supports me as I push against it with the wiry strength of my wings. Summoned, I cannot resist the call.

Wait a moment. Why am I a bird? What’s going on? Aren’t I in my study sipping Proper Twelve whiskey?

Below is the pond with Melissa sitting on a stone along its bank. I land on the branch of a tree above her. She is looking hard at the path from my house into the forest.

“Hello, you called?”

Startling, she looks up into my tree. “What are you doing up there? Yes, I called, but . . . Oh dear,” she laughs, “this is my fault.”

“How so?”

“Well,” she stammers a bit, “I’ve begun to frequently visit the Magic Forest when I want to contemplate. This time I wanted your reflections, so I called for you. I know Ultima has done that at least once, but I felt the calling should be, at least, a little poetic. I called out three times, ‘Come, my friend, wise as an owl. Come, my friend, and bear me no scowl.’ And here you are.”

“Well and good,” I say. “But you could have called me on the cell.”

“Not as romantic,” she pouts.

“Fine.” My talons resettle themselves on the branch. “What is the issue?”

“A story, of course.” She smiles. “What else do I concern myself about?”

I blink my eyes and let her continue.

“The story is from Andrew Lang’s Brown Fairy Book. As you know, the fairy books were his wife’s production. The story that caught my attention was The Enchanted Head.”

A poor, old woman and her two daughters earned their living by making veils that the old woman sold in the marketplace. To get to market, the old woman crossed a bridge, but one day a severed head lay on it. To the old woman’s horror, it spoke to her, asking to be taken to her home. The old woman fled, but the head rolled after her, following her into the house.

The head managed to ingratiate itself with the mother and daughters after sending the old woman out at midnight, back to the bridge, instructing her to call out, “Ahmet” three times, then asking Ahmet for the “green purse.” When she called out, a gigantic Negro appeared and fulfilled the request.

“I don’t think ‘Negro’ is the proper term these days,” I say.

“That is the word used by the story and wait, things get worse. I’ll explain in a minute.” Melissa returns to the narrative.

There was enough money in the purse for them to not only get food but also to rebuild their house, wear fine clothes, and not have to make veils. When the money ran out, the head sent the old woman back to the bridge to call out to a different servant and ask for the “red purse.” During the course of the story, the head has her call out to other servants, each one a Negro larger than the one before.

All goes well until one day the head requested the old woman to go to the sultan and ask for the princess’s hand in marriage to him. The old woman, although appalled, was convinced to carry out his wish. The old woman told the sultan that the suitor was very powerful. The sultan, mistakenly thinking the suitor was her son, proposed to test the suitor three times. The first task was to remove the mountain in front of the palace, replacing it with a formal garden, all within forty days.

On the thirty-ninth day, the head sent the old woman to the bridge with the request to remove the mountain and create a garden. It was accomplished in one night, which was a good thing because the sultan had planned to hang the old woman for trying to play a trick on him.

The next two tasks were to create a magnificent palace in forty days, and then staff the palace with forty beautiful, identical servants within the next forty days. On each of the thirty-ninth days, the old woman went back to the bridge.

However, the sultan was outraged when he discovered that his new son-in-law would be a severed head. Nonetheless, the princess agreed to the marriage, she finding it, after all, a handsome head.

After the marriage, the head appeared to her as a handsome man. He explained about the curse put upon him by a wicked fairy. Unfortunately, the curse was not broken, as one might expect. To her, he would appear as a man, but to everyone else, he would remain a severed head.

With that, the princess was content.

“What?” I say, ruffling my feathers. “That is an unusual ending.”

“Well,” Melissa smiles, “I rather liked the ending, until I discovered I’d been betrayed.”

Fairy Tale of the Month: April 2023 The Enchanted Head – Part Two

Hey, I really can turn my head all the way around.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “In what way were you betrayed?”

“Well, like you, I noticed the story ended on an unusual note. The origin of the story appeared to be Middle Eastern. The story source is Traditions Populaires de Toutes les Nations. The French I learned in college held me in good stead along with an internet word translator.”

“And what did you discover?” I am interested, but my body can’t help preening its feathers.

“I discovered Mrs. Lang told only half the story!”

“Only half?” I stop preening.

“Not only that, but where she left off, the story goes on to say that the enchanted head told her she must not tell anyone of this or the garden, palace, servants, and he himself would disappear. She would never see him again until she wore out three pairs of iron shoes and three iron walking sticks looking for him, and then he would appear as if dead until she filled a barrel with her tears.

“She, of course, promised to tell no one of their secret. However, the queen mother came to her daughter often to console her, only to find the daughter quite happy. The mystery of this intrigued the queen, and she would not relent until she discovered the reason. When finally she did, a pretty, golden canary flew out the window and the princess’s husband was gone.

“After a few days of crying, the princess, remembering his words, resolved to search for her husband. Three pairs of iron shoes and three iron walking sticks later, she found herself in front of a palace, which she entered to find her husband lying lifeless on a couch. Beside the couch stood a barrel.

“Again, remembering his words and seeing him, by all appearances, dead, she cried her tears into the barrel. By morning, the barrel was almost full. Filled with hope, she stopped crying.

“At that moment, a gypsy woman entered the room, asked what was the matter, offered to help—having pains of her own to cry over—and sent the princess off to rest. When the princess awoke, the gypsy had absconded with her husband. As she tore out her hair in lamentation, a Negro appeared, giving her three magical nuts to be opened when needed and a horse on which to ride to the capital city, where her husband would now be king.

“The gypsy, now queen, ordered the guard not to let her pass into the palace. The princess rented a room nearby and opened the first nut—a walnut—out of which came a hen with her chicks, all with brilliant plumage, and singing beautifully. These she put into a golden cage and hung it from her window where the queen could see it. The queen desired them and agreed to let the princess spend the night with the king, but not before she drugged his wine. The poor princess could not wake him up, and her entreaties went unheeded.

“The second nut—a hazelnut—produced a vast plain with rivers, streams, woods, and fields. This too she hung from her window.”

“Come again?” I say, blinking rapidly.

“That’s exactly what the story says. The same agreement occurs with the same result, only this time a faithful servant observed what happened and informed the king. When the third nut—a chestnut—was opened, out came a sea with its shores, islands, and all of its fish to be hung from the window. The king only pretended to drink the wine and was awake when the princess appeared.

“All was revealed and the false queen punished by being tried to the tail of a wild horse that dragged her over sharp rocks until she was torn to pieces.”

“Ouch.” My feather fluff out in empathy. “But, she did deserve it,” I resolve.

Fairy Tale of the Month: April 2023 The Enchanted Head – Part Three

Story’s End

I flap my wings, then focus my thoughts. “This is—I am sure you recognize—the Psyche and Cupid motif. At least the part that Mrs. Lang edited out.”

“Yes,” agrees Melissa. “There are many of those in the fairy-tale genre. I have to wonder if Mrs. Lang was simply tired of that trope and refused to face it one more time.”

“Perhaps,” I say, “but by doing so she obscured a marvelous version. Usually, the three gifts are items of clothing desired by the false bride. In this case, the walnut, with its multicolored, singing hen and chicks is striking enough. But then we are presented with the hazelnut containing a plain with rivers and streams, followed by the chestnut bringing forth a sea with islands and fish, all of them hung from the princess’s window. Well, it does stretch the imagination, in a good way.”

I begin preening as Melissa answers. “In that motif, the husbands appear in many forms, as beasts, bears, and even invisible beings, but I had not heard of any as a severed head. What do you make of that?”

“The severed heads do have their place. I am thinking of The Three Heads of the Well, not to mention the Celtic talking heads like Brân the Blessed and the Nordic Mímir. This story is Middle Eastern. I can’t speak to that, still, I’ll guess there is a similar tradition. I’ll suggest severed heads can appear wherever they want to.”

“Fair enough,” she agrees before going on. “While Mrs. Lang edited out the last half of the story, there are a number of things she did not include in the first half.”

I answer with a ruffling of feathers.

“First,” she enumerates, “the old woman and her daughters lived near the Bosphorus. Second, the market was in Constantinople. And three, the bridge she had to cross was called, in the story, “the bridge of the Golden Horn, which has to be the famed Galata Bridge.

“There is a conundrum. The story was told in February 1834, by Madame Martmerik Ge. The Galata Bridge had not been built by then. It had been talked about for a few centuries. I will have to assume a fairy built the bridge before the Ottomans could get around to it.”

“That was a lot of detail and color to have left out,” I observe. “Speaking of color, what was the ‘Negro’ thing all about?”

“Ah, the Langs, although highly educated and artistic, were still a product of their age. I believe the phrase ‘ethnic slur’ was not in their vocabulary or their understanding. Let me read to you parts of Andrew’s preface to the Brown Fairy Book.”

She produces a copy of the work from her canvas carry bag and reads.

“The stories in this Fairy Book come from all quarters of the world. For example, the adventures of ‘Ball-Carrier and the Bad One’ are told by Red Indian grandmothers to Red Indian children who never go to school, nor see pen and ink. ‘The Bunyip’ is known to even more uneducated little ones, running about with no clothes at all in the bush, in Australia.”

Melissa pauses and scans down the page. “Then there are tales like ‘The Fox and the Lapp’ from the very north of Europe. . . . The Lapps are a people not fond of soap and water, and very much given to art magic. . . . Other tales are told in various parts of Europe, and in many languages; but all people, black, white, brown, red, and yellow, are like each other when they tell stories. . . whether they go to school and wear clothes, or, on the other hand, wear skins of beasts, or even nothing at all, and live on grubs and lizards and hawks and crows and serpents, like the little Australian blacks.”

She closes the book.

“Good heavens,” I say, “I’d peck his eyes out if I could.”

Your thoughts?

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