and then she hastened away to the palace. Stepping up to the young Queen’s bed, she began to try her magic arts upon her, saying, “Spit, you wretch, on the blade of my knife; bewitch my knife’s blade for me, and I shall change you into a reindeer of the forest.”
“Are you there again to bring trouble upon me?” said the young woman.
She neither spat nor did anything else, but still the witch changed her into a reindeer, and smuggled her own daughter into her place as the prince’s wife.
And again, the witch is breaking the rules. Still, I’ve got no sympathy for Princess Whoziwhatsis these days.
I do rather wonder what the ladies-in-waiting thought about the reindeer in the bed, though. I mean, that’s a hard thing to work around.
But now the child grew restless and cried, because it missed its mother’s care. They took it to the court, and tried to pacify it in every conceivable way, but its crying never ceased.
I have often had the desire to taking crying children to court, but have never found a lawyer willing to pursue the matter.
“What makes the child so restless?” asked the prince, and he went to a wise widow woman to ask her advice.
“Ay, ay, your own wife is not at home,” said the widow woman; “she is living like a reindeer in the wood; you have the witch’s daughter for a wife now, and the witch herself for a mother-in-law.”
“Wow, I never noticed. They all look the same once you apply the tar.”
“Is there any way of getting my own wife back from the wood again?” asked the prince.
“Give me the child,” answered the widow woman. “I’ll take it with me tomorrow when I go to drive the cows to the wood. I’ll make a rustling among the birch leaves and a trembling among the aspens — perhaps the boy will grow quiet when he hears it.”
I told you before, kids love trees! None of this newfangled television stuff — in my day, we rustled trees and we liked it! That was our entertainment! Leave us alone with a larch, we’d be fine for HOURS!
Kids today, you’re all soft. Get off my tree.
“Yes, take the child away, take it to the wood with you to quiet it,” said the prince, and led the widow woman into the castle.
He’s really cutting into my coating-things-with-tar time. The peasantry have been able to use their outhouses fearlessly for a month, and you can’t tell me that’s normal!
“How now? you are going to send the child away to the wood?” said the witch in a suspicious tone, and tried to interfere.
But the king’s son stood firm by what he had commanded, and said, “Carry the child about the wood; perhaps that will pacify it.”
So the widow woman took the child to the wood. She came to the edge of a marsh, and seeing a herd of reindeer there, she began all at once to sing:
Little Brighteyes, little Redskin,
Come nurse the child you bore!
That bloodthirsty monster,
That man-eater grim,
Shall nurse him, shall tend him no more.
They may threaten and force as they will,
He turns from her, shrinks from her still,
and immediately the reindeer drew near, and nursed and tended the child the whole day long; but at nightfall it had to follow the herd, and said to the widow woman, “Bring me the child tomorrow, and again the following day; after that I must wander with the herd far away to other lands.”
I am really starting to think that being a herd animal is weirdly hypnotic or something. SheepMom was totally calm about her impending doom, and now ReindeerGirl is going “Yes, well, I could stay with my child … or I could follow the herd! Oooh! I hear we’re going to Siberia! They have lichen! LICHEN!”
The following morning the widow woman went back to the castle to fetch the child. The witch interfered, of course, but the prince said, “Take it, and carry it about in the open air; the boy is quieter at night, to be sure, when he has been in the wood all day.”
Trees and tar! Just the stuff for a growing lad!
So the widow took the child in her arms, and carried it to the marsh in the forest. There she sang as on the preceding day:
Little Brighteyes, little Redskin,
Come nurse the child you bore!
That bloodthirsty monster,
That man-eater grim,
Shall nurse him, shall tend him no more.
They may threaten and force as they will,
He turns from her, shrinks from her still,
and immediately the reindeer left the herd and came to the child, and tended it as on the day before. And so it was that the child throve, till not a finer boy was to be seen anywhere. But the king’s son had been pondering over all these things, and he said to the widow woman, “Is there no way of changing the reindeer into a human being again?”
It’s been a couple of days, and I just now thought of this!
“I don’t rightly know,” was her answer. “Come to the wood with me, however; when the woman puts off her reindeer skin I shall comb her head for her; whilst I am doing so you must burn the skin.”
Hey, it works with selkies. And trees.
Thereupon they both went to the wood with the child; scarcely were they there when the reindeer appeared and nursed the child as before. Then the widow woman said to the reindeer, “Since you are going far away tomorrow, and I shall not see you again, let me comb your head for the last time, as a remembrance of you.”
Good; the young woman stripped off the reindeer skin, and let the widow woman do as she wished.
In my head, this totally just turned into a weird furry lesbian porno flick. Did I mention that I’m drinking vodka, in honor of our Russian folktale? I am. Mmmm … vodka and hot reindeer lovin’! Preach it, sister!
In the meantime the king’s son threw the reindeer skin into the fire unobserved.
“What smells of singeing here?” asked the young woman, and looking round she saw her own husband. “Woe is me! you have burnt my skin. Why did you do that?”
“Dude! I WAS GOING TO EAT LICHEN!”
“To give you back your human form again.”
“Alack-a-day! I have nothing to cover me now, poor creature that I am!” cried the young woman, and transformed herself first into a distaff, then into a wooden beetle, then into a spindle, and into all imaginable shapes.
I know when I’m worried that I have nothing to wear, I immediately transform myself into wool-related objects. Also, what is this obsession with wooden beetles?
But all these shapes the king’s son went on destroying till she stood before him in human form again.
You know, if your wife has turned into a spindle, maybe throwing the spindle into the fire is a bad idea. Except in this case, it appears to have worked. Still, I’d probably have tried a few other things first.
Then again, we should probably just be grateful he didn’t dunk her in tar.
“Alas! wherefore take me home with you again,” cried the young woman, “since the witch is sure to eat me up?”
“She will not eat you up,” answered her husband; and they started for home with the child.
Because he has proved marvelously skilled at protecting you in the past, right?
But when the witch wife saw them she ran away with her daughter, and if she has not stopped she is running still, though at a great age. And the prince, and his wife, and the baby lived happy ever afterward.
The bit about running still at a great age is a pretty good line too. But that poor dog-girl! I mean, you wouldn’t want her stay with Mister Dog-Kicking Bridge-Flinging Spindle-Burner there, obviously, but her mother’s no prize pig either.
I like to think that she slunk away some night, regained her old form, and went happily herding sheep for somebody who appreciated a one-eyed dog with a weird foot. I bet she won prizes.
And never, ever, ever peed on a tree.
The Golden Apple Tree and the Nine Peahens
A red-eyed vireo is lurking in the backyard, beating larvae to death o
n branches. In celebration of yard-bird number #54 (not bad for not being on a body of water!) I give you a bird-themed annotated fairy tale! This one’s from Serbia, bears strong resemblances to the Firebird story from Russia, and while much of it is standard fairy tale fare, it includes at least one interesting reversal of the usual course of events (from Serbian Folklore, translated by Elodie Lawton Mijatovic, London: Columbus Printing Co., 1899).
ONCE upon a time there lived a king who had three sons. Now, before the king’s palace grew a golden apple tree, which in one and the same night blossomed, bore fruit, and lost all its fruit, though no one could tell who took the apples.
As a gardener, let me just say that this is not how it works, and I always wondered where they’re getting these apple trees. And what’s pollinating them? There are bat-pollinated fruit trees — in fact, the ancestor of all peach trees is believed to have been bat-pollinated — but they tend to be in Asia and occasionally the American Southwest. I assume that somewhere there’s a magical mayfly that hatches on the night the apples blossom, pollinate, have an orgy, lay eggs under the bark and then die.
One day the king, speaking to his eldest son, said, “I should like to know who takes the fruit from our apple tree!”
And the son said, “I will keep guard tonight, and will see who gathers the apples.”
So when the evening came he went and laid himself down, under the apple tree, upon the ground to watch. Just, however, as the apples ripened, he fell asleep, and when he awoke in the morning, there was not a single one left on the tree. Whereupon he went and told his father what had happened.
Then the second son offered to keep watch by the tree, but he had no better success than his eldest brother.
So the turn came to the king’s youngest son to keep guard. He made his preparations, brought his bed under the tree, and immediately went to sleep. Before midnight he awoke and looked up at the tree, and saw how the apples ripened, and how the whole palace was lit up by their shining.
At least this story makes no bones about the fact that he succeeds because he’s a third son and not because he’s cleverer than anyone else. He just woke up because narrative demands it. Occasionally you get third sons who are nicer or kinder or smarter or whatever, but this time, he doesn’t even get a name, let alone useful skills.
At that minute nine peahens flew towards the tree, and eight of them settled on its branches —
In case you’re curious, peafowl don’t fly if they can help it. They prefer to escape on foot whenever possible. They certainly can get airborne, and will fly into trees to roost, but think turkeys rather than swans. Either the peaheans live on the grounds or they walked most of the way from Fairyland.
— but the ninth alighted near him and turned instantly into a beautiful girl — so beautiful, indeed, that the whole kingdom could not produce one who could in any way compare with her.
She stayed, conversing kindly with him, till after midnight, then thanking him for the golden apples, she prepared to depart. But, as he begged she would leave him one, she gave him two, one for himself and one for the king his father. Then the girl turned again into a peahen, and flew away with the other eight.
There’s a whole branch of — well, porn isn’t quite the term, but I’m drawing a blank on another one — devoted to people who are really into transformations into animals. You go to a furry convention as an artist, and sometimes you’ll get people asking for transformation drawings, and usually the more agonizing and painful and freaky it is, the happier they are. Tearing off your own skin to reveal the animal underneath is a common one (and has some precedent in Aztec mythology, if my memory isn’t failing me.)
I am not saying this to judge anyone’s fetish, and as these things go, this one’s pretty harmless, but it does bring up the point that transformation probably either goes one of two ways — either you get the glowy transporter effect thing and wham! Peahen! or you get the horrible bone-cracking internal organs on the outside oh god oh god it hurts and where did I put my pancreas I swear it was here a moment ago and then at the end of it, you’ve gone from a 150-lb woman to a 10-lb bird and the prince watching you is vomiting into the bushes in horror.
Gonna guess this was a glowy transporter effect one. Just a feeling.
Next morning, the king’s son took the two apples to his father, and the king was much pleased, and praised his son.
When the evening came, the king’s youngest son took his place again under the apple tree to keep guard over it. He again conversed as he had done the night before with the beautiful girl, and brought to his father, the next morning, two apples as before.
But, after he had succeeded so well several nights, his two elder brothers grew envious because he had been able to do what they could not. At length they found an old woman, who promised to discover how the youngest brother had succeeded in saving the two apples.
Never send a postadolescent male to do an old woman’s job! Also, am I the only one picturing Jessica Fletcher from Murder She Wrote?
So, as the evening came, the old woman stole softly under the bed which stood under the apple tree, and hid herself. And after a while, came also the king’s son, and laid himself down as usual to sleep. When it was near midnight the nine peahens flew up as before, and eight of them settled on the branches, and the ninth stood by his bed, and turned into a most beautiful girl.
The old woman, being under the bed and all, could only tell that she had really sexy ankles.
Then the old woman slowly took hold of one of the girl’s curls, and cut it off, and the girl immediately rose up, changed again into a peahen and flew away, and the other peahens followed her, and so they all disappeared.
… I guess her hair hung down to the ground? Otherwise Jessica Fletcher is a ninja.
Then the king’s son jumped up, and cried out, “What is that?” and, looking under the bed, he saw the old woman, and drew her out. Next morning he ordered her to be tied to a horse’s tail, and so torn to pieces.
Nooooo! Jessica! Who will solve Cabot Cove’s murders now? (or possibly secretly commit them?)
Seriously, though, this is way overkill. Your brothers hired the woman! If they didn’t step in and say “Whoops, sorry, told her to do that!” then they are scum and deserve whatever happens to them. And I do not think highly of your kingdom, when you are allowed to draw-and-quarter people in the morning without a trial.
But the peahens never came back, so the king’s son was very sad for a long time, and wept at his loss.
Oh, you’re crying? That old woman had six grandkids. She was beloved in the community. Her gingersnap-baking skills were hailed far and wide. You monster. The peahens probably aren’t coming back because YOU TIE LITTLE OLD LADIES TO HORSES, did you think of that?
At length he resolved to go and look after his peahen, and never to come back again unless he should find her. When he told the king his father of his intention, the king begged him not do go away, and told him that he would find him another beautiful girl, and that he might choose out of the whole kingdom.
But all the king’s persuasions were useless, so his son went into the world — taking only one servant to serve him — to search everywhere for his peahen.
I like to think that there were posters up with a picture of a peahen and “HAVE YOU SEEN ME?” written underneath.
After many travels he came one day to a lake. Now by the lake stood a large and beautiful palace. In the palace lived an old woman as queen, and with the queen lived a girl, her daughter. He said to the old woman, “For heaven’s sake, grandmother, do you know anything about nine golden peahens?”
And the old woman answered, “Oh, my son, I know all about them. They come every midday to bathe in the lake. But what do you want with them? Let them be. Think nothing about them. Here is my daughter. Such a beautiful girl! And such an heiress! All my wealth will remain to you if you marry her.”
I frequently try to marry my daughter to random vagrants who show up babblin
g about being in love with fowl. It’s a thing.
But he, burning with desire to see the peahens, would not listen to what the old woman spoke about her daughter.
Next morning, when day dawned, the prince prepared to go down to the lake to wait for the peahens. Then the old queen bribed the servant and gave him a little pair of bellows, and said, “Do you see these bellows? When you come to the lake you must blow secretly with them behind his neck, and then he will fall asleep, and not be able to speak to the peahens.”
The mischievous servant did as the old woman told him. When he went with his master down to the lake, he took occasion to blow with the bellows behind his neck, and the poor prince fell asleep just as though he were dead.
Drugged bellows are a new one. Generally they just go with poisoned drinks. I kind of wonder if small children were helping flesh out the details at this point.
Shortly after, the nine peahens came flying, and eight of them alighted by the lake, but the ninth flew towards him as he sat on horseback, and caressed him, and tried to awaken him. “Awake my darling! Awake, my heart! Awake, my soul!”
On the strength of three short conversations and an unjust draw-and-quartering, I am madly in love with you!
But for all that he knew nothing, just as if he were dead.
After they had bathed, all the peahens flew away together, and after they were gone the prince woke up, and said to his servant, “What has happened? Did they not come?”
The servant told him they had been there, and that eight of them had bathed, but the ninth had sat by him on his horse, and caressed and tried to awaken him. Then the king’s son was so angry that he almost killed himself in his rage.
Next morning he went down again to the shore to wait for the peahens, and rode about a long time till the servant again found an opportunity of blowing with the bellows behind his neck, so that he again fell asleep as though dead. Hardly had he fallen asleep before the nine peahens came flying, and eight of them alighted by the water, but the ninth settled down by the side of his horse and caressed him, and cried out to awaken him, “Arise, my darling! Arise, my heart! Arise my soul!”
The Halcyon Fairy Book Page 9
