In Sleeping Beauty's Bed

by Mitzi Szereto

  Attracted by the blaze of lanterns and alarmed by the discordant noises coming from within, this concerned citizen decided to check on the cottage’s elderly occupant. He knew that the woman lived alone and was of a very advanced age. He also knew she had a granddaughter, for he had heard many stories in the village tavern about the young damsel’s famous red hoods, one of which she did not wear upon her head. Intending to get into the old woman’s good graces, the huntsman brushed the woodland detritus from his garments and straightened his feather-tipped cap before making his approach. Only whom should he discover snoring contentedly in Grandmother’s bed and wearing Grandmother’s clothing but the crafty wolf he had tirelessly pursued for far too many days? “Ah-ha!” cried the huntsman in victory. “I have found thee, infernal rascal!”

  As he cocked his gun in readiness to fire off a shot, it suddenly occurred to the huntsman that this plague of fleas and fur might have eaten the feeble old thing in whose pink-satin bed it had taken up residence. So, setting down the weapon, he reached into his sheath for his knife and before the snoring beast realized what was happening, the huntsman proceeded to carve a line down the wolf’s meal-swollen belly. A bright flash of red appeared within the incision, and as he continued to draw the blade steadily downward, the huntsman saw what looked to be a hood of red velvet. Before he could reflect more fully upon an explanation for its presence, out leapt the nimble figure of a pretty lass.

  “Oh, kind sir, I thank thee with all my heart!” cried Little Red Riding Hood. “For it was black as pitch in there and smelled unspeakably!”

  “I am pleased to have been of assistance,” bowed the huntsman, tipping his feathered cap in respect. The eyes of the little damsel who had occupied the wolf’s fattened belly reminded him of stars in a winter night’s sky, so brilliantly and with such clarity did they shine. With faltering fingers, he reached out to touch the pale softness of her cheek, surprised that so innocently intended a gesture should leave him quaking like when he was a young lad on his first visit to the bawdy house down by the village docks.

  Red stepped out of the steaming viscera of her prison, using the hems of her skirts and pinafore to dry the grateful tears from her eyes. She spent several long moments doing so, peering stealthily through the weave of the cloth to gauge the huntsman’s reaction. In the event his eyesight was not up to usual huntsmen standards, she raised up one foot and set it atop the fallen wolf, bringing further into the light what even a blind man could not have failed to miss.

  All at once this helpful passerby spied what had been the focus of the wolf’s desperate hunger. A cherry of mouth-watering proportions burst forth from a modest garden, sporting a hood even brighter and redder than the one atop the wearer’s head. It had been draped quite jauntily, leaving much of the pulpy flesh beneath exposed to view and effecting considerable consternation in the mind and body of its beholder, who at this moment felt very much like a wolf himself. This must be the lass of whom he had heard his fellow huntsmen speak.

  Before the huntsman could pluck the fruit out from the downy vale and sink his yearning teeth into its delicate barrier of skin, a garbled squawking from within the depths of the wolf’s knife-rent belly stayed his hand. Unless he was mistaken, it sounded like the cries of an old woman. Although he would have preferred to ignore them, they stubbornly refused to be ignored. On the contrary, the cries gained in both intensity and pitch, becoming a monotonous series of Help me’s that grew ever more impatient and irate as he dawdled. Dash the feeble old witch! the huntsman grumbled inwardly, praying for the incessant wails to cease before the doubly hooded lass had taken heed of them and let her skirts back down. At the moment this Good Samaritan had far more pressing matters deserving of his attention than undertaking another rescue. The saliva of desire pooled in his mouth, making him giddy as a drunkard. How could he draw another breath without at least a little nibble upon the glossy riches flaunting themselves beneath a heart-stopping flash of skirts?

  “Art thou a huntsman?” came a muffled voice, which was followed by the sight of arthritic fingers as Grandmother clawed at the bloodied sides of the wound the huntsman’s knife had created. Indeed, she struggled with a spryness long unknown to her, for she recognized the feathered cap of a huntsman when she saw one. Apparently all that money from her old-age pension that had gone toward the cost and maintenance of the lanterns had finally paid itself back.

  Ergo the huntsman found himself obliged to reach inside the wolf’s fetid belly to save its remaining occupant. With the same blade that had freed its two unwitting victims, he promptly skinned the beast, certain that its pelt would look quite elegant upon the floor before his hearth, to say nothing of providing comfort for whoever might wish to lie beside the fire. As he departed the cottage with a hearty wave, he thought that perhaps one day the old woman’s granddaughter might choose to pay a call to offer her thanks, at which time the huntsman planned to seize the opportunity to sample what had ultimately cost the wolf his life.

  Grandmother was at last allowed to enjoy the teacakes and strawberry jam Little Red Riding Hood had brought from home, pausing between bites to inquire with unprecedented vigor as to the whereabouts of the handsome young huntsman who had been their rescuer. As for Red, she had begun to regret that the old woman had not been left inside the wolf’s stinking belly. Of course, had she known about the wolf’s pelt being slated for use as a rug, she might not have been so keen to pursue a relationship with the huntsman. Although Red harbored no great fondness for wolves, she disapproved most heartily of animal fur’s being employed as a form of decoration.

  After many sunrises had passed, another wolf with a wicked gleam in his sanguinary eye accosted Little Red Riding Hood on her way to Grandmother’s. Ignoring his friendly good day, she kept straight to the footpath, striding resolutely onward with her skirts dancing high about her thighs. Aside from being very much on her guard against lupine lechers, she knew that the hunting season was now in full swing. Reaching Grandmother’s cottage unmolested, Red rapped soundly upon the door, knowing that the old woman’s hearing was fast failing.

  “Art thou a huntsman?” came a raspy, albeit hopeful voice from inside.

  “’Tis I, Little Red Riding Hood,” the red-hooded caller replied in exasperation.

  Grandmother could not hide her crestfallen expression at seeing the nubile young figure of her granddaughter breezing through the door. For she was also well aware that the hunting season had begun and did not think it at all unreasonable that a weary huntsman might seek out her tiny abode for a brief repast or possibly even a bed for the night. In anticipation of such an occurrence, the old woman had appealed to her granddaughter several times to bring with her a bottle of French scent on the occasion of her next visit, only to be deluged with yet another delivery of stale teacakes and sour jam. It would seem that the lass believed her mind to be as feeble as her body!

  As grandmother and granddaughter sat in the parlor drinking their tea and eating their teacakes, Red relayed what had just transpired with the wolf. Not wanting to take any chances, the two conspired to draw the bolt across the door, refusing to open it to this opportunistic creature who—like his less auspicious predecessor—proclaimed himself to be Little Red Riding Hood with some teacakes and jam for Grandmother.

  Possessing a highly persistent nature that would ultimately be the cause of his downfall, the wolf refused to be put off by his cold reception. Had he been wiser, he might have declared himself to be a huntsman, thereby guaranteeing the door being thrown open in welcome. Instead, this furry trespasser prowled around the hazel bushes, eventually clambering up onto the shingled roof of the cottage to wait out the remains of the day. Darkness was close upon them, and the old woman’s granddaughter would soon be making her way home, granting the sly beast his opportunity to strike. He had overheard many tantalizing tales about the succulent, rosy delicacy beneath the charming damsel’s skirts, the huntsman who had recently murdered his lupine colleague being most loose-li
pped when in the company of his fellow killers.

  Grandmother guessed the wolf’s clever scheme from the scuttering-about taking place above her and her granddaughter’s heads. It sounded like the sneaky beast was plotting to slip down through the chimney, whereupon they would both be done for. Wishing to spare her granddaughter such a fate, the elder pushed the younger out the door. That was when Little Red Riding Hood saw the wolf placing one of his furry feet inside the chimney. Obviously she could not leave her poor old gran behind to face certain death, so she did the only thing she could think of. She sprang out into full view of the beast, calling up to him a succession of nasty jeers and dancing fearlessly about with her skirts held high in taunting merriment. While she was at it, perhaps she might also catch the attention of a passing huntsman, in which case her efforts would be doubly rewarded.

  The wolf peered eagerly down over the lantern-lighted eaves of the roof, leaning farther and farther out in an attempt to glimpse the famous hood of which the chatty huntsman had spoken with such lip-smacking relish. The previous night’s rain had left the mossy shingles quite slippery, and suddenly he felt himself lose his footing. The wolf went tumbling to the ground, landing upon his head and dying instantly.

  Grandmother cooked him up for that evening’s supper, convinced that the smell of fresh wolf stew would bring a huntsman to her door. Being a strict vegetarian, Red declined to stay—much to the relief of her grandmother, who could do without the competition. After helping the old woman put a fresh set of pink-satin sheets upon the bed, Little Red Riding Hood went skipping merrily home through the woodland, hoping to meet a huntsman or two along the way with a mind to pluck her hooded cherry.

  THE TRAVELING COMPANION

  “The Traveling Companion” has been attributed to many tellers of tales and appears in many variants worldwide. Classified as a riddle tale, it features as its most popular character the riddle princess, who either poses a riddle or solves it. A number of these tales got their start in India, making their way into Persia, North Africa, and Europe. Yet it would be in Scandinavia that this tale was creatively reworked into what is likely the most widely known riddle tale of all time.

  Considered more a writer than a collector of fairy tales, Hans Christian Andersen based his version of “The Traveling Companion” on the Danish folktale “The Dead Man’s Help.” Although the theme of upward social mobility has always been prevalent in folktales, for Andersen it seems to have held particular importance. A social outsider with a slavish admiration for royalty (for he was the humble son of a peasant cobbler), Andersen was attracted to stories that contained protagonists of lesser standing who sought the attentions of a beautiful princess. By reaching for the unattainable, his characters likewise reflected his own life.

  Because of the late conversion of the populace to Christianity, the countries of Scandinavia developed more independently than those in the rest of Europe. This resulted in a more authentic form of folklore, with the Scandinavian folktales evolving primarily from ancient mythologies and the influence of the landscape rather than from external influences. Of course, exceptions can always be found. Although Andersen patterned his story on a folktale from his native land, the adventures of his two traveling companions closely parallel a tale from Brittany. Perhaps the most significant element in this variant is the presence of the magic potion a soldier uses to help a young nobleman who wishes to put forth a riddle to a princess—a magic potion featured quite prominently in Andersen. Had it not been for its existence, Poor Johannes might never have been successful in winning the princess. This use of alchemy can also be seen in the animation of the puppets, indicating a possible connection to primitive cultures, whose folklore was filled with elements relating to the magical and metamorphic.

  Like its Danish counterpart, Grimms’ traveling duo in “Das Rätsel” (The riddle) set off on an adventure, which leads to the proverbial princess, who offers the challenge that she would accept as husband any man who proposes to her a riddle she cannot solve. In the manner of Andersen’s princess, the German one relied on methods not entirely ethical in her desire to solve the riddle, taking the bold action of sitting alongside the traveler as he lay asleep in bed in hopes that he might divulge the answer—an act the puritanical Grimms and their editors somehow appeared to have missed as inappropriate.

  However, not much else would be missed. Like those who worked on the Kinder- und Hausmärchen, many editors and translators of Andersen’s tales came from the Victorian age, therefore any indicators of passion or eroticism failed to make it into print. Even a kiss on the mouth would be modified into a kiss on the cheek. Such pristine examples of physical emotion can be seen in a number of fairy tales that have made their way through the Victorian age (and past the Victorian editor). Be that as it may, neither Andersen nor his editors displayed any objection to physical violence, as for example Poor Johannes’s traveling companion makes ample use of the switch against the riddle-posing princess, even going so far as to draw blood.

  This punitive whipping with birches can be traced to the old peasant tradition of the “wedding bath.” A purification ritual designed to cleanse the bride of harmful influences (such as the princess’s contact with the troll), the process consists of the bride being whipped until all evils have been purged from her, whereupon she is bathed with milk. Indeed, it appears that this practice may have been widespread enough to have made its way into folk literature—and hence into “The Traveling Companion.”

  In keeping with the spirit of Andersen, I, too, have made generous use of certain punitive measures, for, like the Danish princess, the one in my version protests unconvincingly (if at all) against their frequency.

  POOR JOHANNES WAS A GOOD SON. Therefore he saw to it that his father was placed respectfully beneath the rich green earth when Death arrived to claim him. With little remaining to keep him behind but memories and the freshly turned soil of his father’s grave, the bereaved son decided to seek his fortune far from the safe environs of home and all that he had ever known in his young life. As the sun cast its golden rays upon the breeze-swept leaves in the churchyard, Johannes bid his father a final farewell, certain they would meet again in the afterlife.

  The next morning, the orphan packed a small parcel containing everything he owned in the world. After hiding his modest patrimony within his belt, he embarked upon his adventure. Since Poor Johannes had never been away from the village of his father, he allowed himself to be guided by the experienced flutters of doves’ wings. The faces of the flowers in the fields smiled their encouragement as he passed, straining their slender necks to receive the kiss of the sun against their petaled cheeks. As darkness fell, Johannes was obliged to make for himself a bed in a haystack. Yet not even this untoward accommodation could diminish his good cheer, for above him he had the moonlit sky and beside him the sweet fragrance of wild roses and below him the comforting rush-and-tumble of the river.

  The insistent tolling of bells finally roused Poor Johannes from his peaceful slumber. It was Sunday morning, and the farmers and their families could be seen wearing their best garments as they walked toward a tiny chapel in the misty distance. The orphan joined the procession, intending to offer a prayer for his father. As he approached the gate, he suddenly noticed a beggar loitering outside the churchyard. Despite the fellow’s destitute appearance and outstretched palms, none of the parishioners paid him any mind. Without a moment’s thought for his own difficulties, Johannes bestowed upon the bedraggled specimen all the silver coins he had in his belt—indeed, nearly half of his paternal legacy—and then quickly rejoined the others as they entered the chapel. Exhilarated by his selfless act of charity, Johannes remained oblivious to the snickers of the beggar, who flagged down a passing hackney coach and jumped inside, followed by a pair of heavily painted women who had been waiting hopefully on the corner.

  Later that afternoon a frightful storm erupted, and the fatherless young traveler decided to seek shelter before its black wrat
h engulfed him completely. Arriving at another little chapel, he went inside to wait out the night in an available pew. However, he was awakened shortly after midnight by a heated argument, the subject of which concerned a dead man in a coffin. Unable to bear the sound of voices raised in anger, Poor Johannes intervened at once, only to learn that the coffin’s occupant had cheated the quarrelers out of money owed to them by dying before the debt could be paid. As a result, the men wished to cast the deceased out into the rain and chop up his coffin for firewood. Having been a good son to his own father, Johannes could not permit such a sacrilege to be committed upon the father of another, so he made an offer of money to pay off the debt—the entire remainder of his inheritance—the agreement being that the debtees leave the debtor in peace. Chuckling at this outsider’s soft-headedness, the men agreed, snatching the precious gold coins from Johannes’s outstretched palm and leaving him in the company of the dead, who had already been left in the coffin far longer than advisable.

  Once the storm had seen fit to blow off toward the distant foothills, Poor Johannes set off once again without waiting for the arrival of morning, relieved to be leaving behind the gamy remains of the chapel’s lifeless parishioner. A silvery moon lighted his way, showing the orphan that he was not alone. Naked elves frolicked to all sides of him, undisturbed by his presence in their wooded glen. They danced around him in carefree circles, which caused the young wanderer’s spirits to rise and his step to bounce. Indeed, he did not even take offense when they used their tiny elfin nozzles to spray him with their special elves’ milk, for they said it brought prosperity—and prosperity was exactly what Poor Johannes needed. As the moon began to relinquish its post to the sun, the wee creatures scurried back inside the flower blossoms in which they lived, and Poor Johannes emerged from the shadowy glen into the full bright yellow of morning. Before he could adjust his eyes to the light, a voice greeted him heartily, inquiring of his destination.