One day he went out to a dinner an’ forgot his key on the door. An’ his wife open the door an’ find many dead people in the room. Those that were not dead said: “Thanky, Missis; Thanky Missis.”
An’ as soon as the live ones get away, an’ she was to lock the door, the key drop in blood. She take it up an’ wash it an’ put it in the lock. It drop back into the blood.
An’ Mr. Bluebeard was an old-witch an’ know what was going on at home. An’ as he sat at dinner, he called out to get his horse ready at once. An’ they said to him: “Do, Mr. Bluebeard, have something to eat before you go.”
“No! Get my horse ready.”
So they bring it to him. Now he doesn’t ride a four-footed beast, he ride a t’ree-foot horse.1
An’ he get on his horse an’ start off itty-itty-hap, itty-itty-hap,2 until he get home.
Now Mrs. Bluebeard two brother was a hunter-man in the wood. One of them was old-witch, an’ he said: “Brother, brother, something home wrong with me sister.”
“Get ’way you little foolish fellah,” said the biggest one.
But the other say again: “Brother, brother, something wrong at home. Just get me a white cup and a white saucer, and fill it with water, and put it in the sun, an’ you will soon see what to do with the water.”
Directly the water turn blood.
An’ the eldest said: “Brother, it is truth, make we go.”
An’ Mrs. Bluebeard was afraid, because he knew 3 Mr. Bluebeard was coming fe kill him.4 An’ he was calling continually to the cook, Miss Anne: “Sister Anne, Sister Anne, Ah! You see anyone coming? Sister Anne, Sister Anne, Ah! You see anyone coming?”
An’ Sister Anne answer: “Oh no, I see no one is coming but the dust that makes the grass so green.”
An’ as she sing done they hear Mr. Bluebeard coming, itty-itty-hap, itty-itty-hap.
Him jump straight off a him t’ree-foot beast an’ go in a the house, and catch Mrs. Bluebeard by one of him plait-hair an’ hold him by it, an’ said: “This is the last day of you.”
An’ Mrs. Bluebeard said: “Do, Mr. Bluebeard, allow me to say my last prayer.”
But Mr. Bluebeard still hold him by the hair while he sing: “Sister Anne, Sister Anne, Ah! You see anyone coming? Sister Anne, Sister Anne, Ah! You see anyone coming?”
Sister Anne answer this time: “Oh—yes! I see someone is coming, and the dust that makes the grass so green.”
Then Mr. Bluebeard took his sword was to cut off him neck, an’ his two brother appear, an’ the eldest one going to shot after Mr. Bluebeard, an’ he was afraid an’ begin to run away. But the young one wasn’t going to let him go so, an’ him shot PUM and kill him ’tiff dead.
Jack Mantora me no choose none.5
SOURCE: Walter Jekyll, Jamaican Song and Story: Annancy Stories, Digging Sings, Ring Tunes, and Dancing Tunes, 35–37.
Mr. Bluebeard and Mrs. Bluebeard share much with their European counterparts, but Mrs. Bluebeard is not at all the curious, disobedient figure found in French, German, British, and Italian variants of the story. And Mr. Bluebeard is no longer a wealthy aristocrat but instead a witch determined to murder his wives. The figure of Sister Anne appears in French versions of the tale.
Click here to advance to the next section of the text.
1 t’ree-foot horse: The three-legged horse is thought to be a kind of phantom beast that rides only at night in the moonlight and can gallop faster than any other horse.
2 itty-itty-hap: an onomatopoeic phrase meant to capture the gait of the three-legged horse
3 he knew: she knew (he can refer to he or she)
4 fe kill him: to kill her (the masculine pronoun is often substituted for the feminine)
5 Jack Mantora me no choose none: In some Jamaican tales Jack appears as a listener, and the narrator closes with this phrase, which has been read to mean either “Don’t blame me for the tale I’ve just told” or “I didn’t have you in mind when I chose this tale.” Louise Bennett, the Jamaican folklorist, writer, and actress, has another view. When she exchanged stories with friends, they had to say “Me no chose none,” because “Annancy sometimes did very wicked things in his stories, and we had to let Jack Mantora, the doorman at heaven’s door, know that we were not in favor of Annancy’s wicked ways” (Jekyll 1966, ix).
THE CHOSEN SUITOR: THE FORBIDDEN ROOM
Is a boy name John. An’ he had a sister. An’ dis king was payin’ dis boy sister maddress. Dis little boy was a witch, could tell whe’ his sister goin’ to get a good husban’ or not. So when dis man come, his sister always put dis boy underneat’ de step, an’ put him to bed. So den dis little boy wake up an’ tell his sister, “Sister, you married to de Debil.” Sister slap him aroun’ an’ kick him, wouldn’ listen de boy. So, sure enough, she married de man against de boy. Man kyarry his sister from dere an’ kyarry him to his house, little over t’irty or fo’ty miles. So after kyarrin’ dis woman summuch nights an’ summuch days, dis boy know exaxly how dis man was treatin’ his sister. One day de man han’ his wife sewen key. An’ he had sewen room in de house. But he show her de room, an’ say, “Use de six room; but de seven room don’ use it, don’ go in dat room!” So one day his wife say to heself, “I got all de key. I wan’ to see what is in dat room.” He husban’ been ’bout twenty-five mile from dere when she said dat. She wen’ into de room, open de room. When she open de room, was nothin’ but de wife dis man married, de skeleton hung up in de room. Dis one fall down, faint, right to de do’. Less dan half an hour she come to her sense. She lock de do’ back. Gone, set down.
Husban’ drive up to de do’ at de time, an’ tell um, “Dis night you will be in dat room.”
Forty mile from her broder den. So her broder know dat his sister have a fas’ horse. An’ he took sewen needle wid him. He started fo’ his sister den. He ritched his sister’s place ’bout fo’ o’clock. Sister was to put to deat’ at fus’ dark. When he see dat his broder-in-law come, he welcome him like any broder-in-law do, like not’in’ goin’ to be done.
Dis king ask him what his horse eat? He tol’ him, “I feed my horse wid cotton-seed.” Dis king den had to go half a mile from dis house to his nex’ neighbor to get cotton-seed for his broder-in-law horse.
When he gone, he tell his sister, “Sister, take not’in’, jump in de buggy!” Dey had fo’ty miles to go. When he get a half a mile from de house, he han’ his sister dese sewen needle. He said, “Sister, he done hitch up his horse, he comin’ after us.” Drop one o’ de needle, an’ it become a swamp across de road. De king drive until he come to de swamp. He had to tu’n back home an’ get a grubbin’-hoe an’ axe to cut t’rough dere. All dat time John was goin’ wid his sister.
De king was a witch himself. He cut um so quick, he was on dem again. She drop anoder needle. Den it become a ocean across de road. He had to sup up all dat water befo’ he could star’ again.
When dey was one mile of John house where his sister live, he tell his sister t’row all de needle out his han’. Dey become an ocean. Dey cross de oder side den. He drive down here. When he get to de ocean, he had to stop, couldn’t get any furder. John an’ his sister ’rive his ol’ cabin why de king kyarry her from. An’ dis sister gave de broder what she used to kick about lovin’ praise. An’ John save his sister life.
THE CHOSEN SUITOR: THE FORBIDDEN ROOM (Second Version)
Once upon a time there was a man had one daughter. Every man come to marry her, she said, “No.” So a man came, all over was gold. And she married him. He had a horse name Sixty-Miles, for every time he jump it was sixty miles. So they went. The more he goes, his gold was dropping. Mary Bell wanted to know why his gold was dropping. He said, “That is all right.” They reached home soon. He gave her a big bunch of keys and take her around to all the room in the house. “You can open all the room except one room; for if you open it, I will kill you.” She start to wonder why her husband didn’t want her to open it. So one day she open it. It was great surprise. She saw
heads of woman hanging up. She also saw a cast of blood. Her key dropped in the blood, and she couldn’t get it off. So she began to mourn. The Devil daughter told her not to cry. She took three needles and gave it to her. “He is coming; but when you first drop one, there will be a large forest, and so on.” She went and get Sixty-Miles, and she went. Now the Devil came from the wood. He had a rooster. He told his master, “Massa, massa, your pretty girl gone home this morning ’fore day. Massa, massa, your pretty girl gone home this morning ’fore day.” The Devil look about the house for his wife, he didn’t see her. So he went to get Sixty-Miles, and he couldn’t find it. So he get Fifty-Miles. Start after her. He spy her far down the road. He said, “Mary Bell, O Mary Bell! what harm I done you?”
You done me no harm, but you done me good. Bang-a-lang!
Hero, don’t let your foot touch, bang-a-lang!
Hero, don’t let your foot touch!
The Devil catch at her. She drop a needle, and it became a large forest. He said, “Mary Bell, O Mary Bell! how shall I get through?”—“Well,” said she, “go back home, get your axe and cut it out.” And he did. He saw her again, and catch at her. She drop another needle, and a large brick wall stood in the way. He said, “Mary Bell, how shall I get through?”—“Go get your shovel and axe, and dig and pick your way.” He done just the same way. And he get through all right. He spy her again. He said, “Mary Bell, what harm I done you?”
You done me no harm, but you done me good. Bang-a-lang!
Hero, don’t let your foot touch.
He catch at her. She step into her father’s house. The Devil get so mad, he carry half of the man’s house.
I step on a t’in’, the t’in’ bend.
My story is end.
SOURCE: Elsie Clews Parsons, Folk-Lore of the Sea Islands, South Carolina, 47–49.
The first of the two chosen suitor stories recorded by Parsons was told by Jack Brown, a sixty-five-year-old boat builder living on Port Royal Island off the coast of South Carolina. It includes not only the wife’s opening of a forbidden chamber but also a thrilling magical flight, thus emphasizing the twin themes of constraint and liberation.
The second version was told by Julius Jenkins, a pupil in Edding’s Point School on the island of St. Helena off the coast of South Carolina.
THE SINGING BONES
Genuinely macabre is the legend of “The Singing Bones,” which took place out in the bayou country.
A man, father of twenty-five children and unemployed, grew more and more morose. No matter how he tried he could not find work, and most nights his brood went to bed crying with hunger.
One day, after his usual exhaustive search for work, the father was amazed, as he dragged his lagging feet up on the porch of his home, to have the tantalizing aroma of roasting meat strike his nostrils. The family had had no meat for months. Rushing back to the kitchen he found his wife rending a large roast in the oven.
Immediately he demanded to know where the meat had come from, but his wife begged him not to ask questions, but to sit down and eat. Too tired and hungry to care anyway, he obeyed her like a child.
The next night and the next there was meat on the table, always the same delicious boneless pork-like meat, and the father and the children ate in unquestioning silence. Strangely, the mother never joined them, saying always that she had already eaten.
Soon after this he looked for a certain one of his children and couldn’t find him. Asking his wife about him, she replied simply that she had sent several of the youngsters to her sister’s for a few days.
But a week later he missed his favorite son.
“He’s gone to my sister’s, too,” the wife said.
But weeks passed, then months, winter grew into spring, and one day, counting carefully, the father discovered that more than half of his offspring were missing. He was strangely saddened and depressed, but hesitated about questioning his wife, for she had developed a very bad temper lately and if any of the children were mentioned flew into a violent rage. Yet he knew something was wrong.
One afternoon, sitting out on his back steps to brood, he heard a faint humming sound from beneath the steps. The hum grew louder and louder. First he thought it was mosquitoes, but then with horror, he knew what he heard was the voices of children. They seemed to sing right into his ear:
Our mother kills us,
Our father eats us,
We have no coffins,
We are not in holy ground.
Leaping to his feet, the man stopped and lifted the concrete slabs that had served as steps. Beneath lay a pile of tiny human bones. Now he knew the ghastly truth behind the meat they had been eating, of what had become of his children.
He rushed into the house, strangled his wife, and beat her head to a pulp with an axe. Then he fetched a priest and had the bones of his murdered children properly buried. It is said that he was never able to eat meat again.
SOURCE: Lyle Saxon, Edward Dreyer, and Robert Tallant, eds., Gumbo Ya-Ya, 277–79.
“The Singing Bones,” from Lyle Saxon, Robert Tallant, and Edward Dreyer, eds., Gumbo Ya-Ya: Folk Tales of Louisiana. Copyright © 1945, renewed 1973 by the Louisiana Library Commission. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.
THE SINGING BONES
(Second Version)
Once upon a time there lived a man and a woman who had twenty-five children. They were very poor; the man was good, the woman was bad. Every day when the husband returned from his work the wife served his dinner, but always meat without bones.
“How is it that this meat has no bones?”
“Because bones are heavy, and meat is cheaper without bones. They give more for the money.”
The husband ate, and said nothing.
“How is it you don’t eat meat?”
“You forget that I have no teeth. How do you expect me to eat meat without teeth?”
“That is true,” said the husband, and he said nothing more, because he was afraid to grieve his wife, who was as wicked as she was ugly.
When you have twenty-five children you cannot think of them all the time, and, you do not notice if one or two are missing. One day, after his dinner, the husband asked for his children. When they were by him he counted them, and found only fifteen. He asked his wife where were the ten others. She answered that they were at their grandmother’s, and every day she would send one more for them to get a change of air. That was true, every day there was one that was missing.
One day the husband was at the threshold of his house, in front of a large stone which was there. He was thinking of his children, and he wanted to go and get them at their grandmother’s when he heard voices that were saying:
Our mother killed us,
Our father ate us.
We are not in a coffin,
We are not in the cemetery.
At first he did not understand what that meant, but he raised the stone, and saw a great quantity of bones, which began to sing again. He then understood that it was the bones of his children, whom his wife had killed, and whom he had eaten. Then he was so angry that he killed his wife; buried his children’s bones in the cemetery, and stayed alone at his house. From that time he never ate meat, because he believed it would always be his children that he would eat.
SOURCE: Alcée Fortier, ed. Louisiana Folktales: Lupin, Bouki, and Other Creole Stories in French Dialect and English Translation, 61.
These stories are related to “The Juniper Tree,” a European tale about a mother who kills her stepson and serves him up to his father in a stew. If the Grimms’ version of that fairy tale turns on redemption through beauty (the boy turns into a bird that transforms the world with his song), these stories from Louisiana give us bleak, unforgiving violence driven by poverty and hunger.
THE MURDEROUS MOTHER
De little girl, he ma an’ pa live in one house. An’ de ma was complainin’ fo’ some time to eat an’ kill de little girl fo’ de
moder eat. An’ dey take up supper. An’ de fader went to supper. An’ de ol’ man was eatin’, an’ he look aroun’, an’ ax de moder, “Where is little Mary?” An’ de ol’ woman was very frighten’, but she didn’ tell de ol’ man. She say, “Oh, she is over to de auntie.” De man eat on, worryin’ ’bout de little girl. When he look aroun’ to her again, ax about de little girl again, she says, “Is ower to he aunt.” De man say, “You mus’ bring um home, go fo’ him!” She says, “No, she ain’t comin’ back to-night, she goin’ to stay all night.” De man eatin’, but yet still was worry. Den de little spirit come right up to de man, an’ sing,—
Ol’ Debil, ol’ Debil,
Don’ you pull ma hair!
My moder has killed me fo’ t’ree green pear,
My fader, my fader, don’ you pull my hair!
My moder has killed me, an’ bury me there.
My moder kill’ me, my moder kill’ me.
My t’ree little sistuh get all my bone,
Buried unduh de little white marble stone.
(When I hear dat song, you couldn’ get me out o’ door nohow. I been scared dat little song.)
SOURCE: Elsie Clews Parsons, Folk-Lore of the Sea Islands, South Carolina, 122–23. Told by Pinky Murray, a thirty-five-year-old woman from Savannah, Georgia.
THE STOLEN VOICE
An interesting conjure story, which I heard, involves the fate of a lost voice. A certain woman’s lover was enticed away by another woman, who sang very sweetly, and who, the jilted one suspected, had told lies about her. Having decided upon the method of punishment for this wickedness, the injured woman watched the other closely, in order to find a suitable opportunity for carrying out her purpose; but in vain, for the fortunate one, knowing of her enmity, would never speak to her or remain near her.
The Annotated African American Folktales Page 62
