by Jane Yolen
Slipping Sideways Through Eternity
Yes, I wrote The Devil’s Arithmetic which is a slipstream novel that takes a Jewish girl back to the Holocaust when she opens the door for Elijah at the seder. And yes, this story (which was written years after DA) has a Jewish girl who goes back into the past with Elijah. But other than that, the stories are entirely different. Different kind of girl (this one older and goes purposefully back in time, on a rescue mission) plus an entirely different take on the role of Elijah in the stories from Jewish tradition. Fractured and finished. The poem on the other hand references both the Holocaust and Hansel & Gretel. Because once you say “oven” to a Jew, they either swap recipes or Holocaust stories. There is nothing between. I have written three Holocaust novels, a Holocaust picture book, Jewish Fairy Tale Feast, and most recently Meet Me at the Well , with Barbara Diamond Goldin , a book of feminist retellings, history, and midrash about the girls and women of the Hebrew aka the Old Testament), so I should know. The poem was published in my book of political poems, Before/the Vote/ After.
“Ovens”
“. . . when cinders smart the eyes and we begin to spit soot.” —Simon Schama
The old witch’s ovens never stop smoking,
that delectable house reeks of roast pork,
not a kosher smell, but tempting.
Along the property lines, a minyan of bones
dances the hora whenever another piece of meat
comes into sight, a warning never heeded.
There’s only one word for what she does to them.
Speak it and you become a collaborator.
Just a shudder will do, and a curse,
even as your eyes turn red,
even as sooty spit pools
along with the candy
The Foxwife
There are many Japanese folk tales about foxwives, called kitsune. Some of the foxwives are sly and wicked, some are wise and loving. Shapeshifters all. I wanted the point of view character to be feisty, sharp, tender, and true. It’s an easy voice for me to slip into. That’s where the fracture comes—the point of view. I wrote this story in 1984 and it was later reprinted in the Year’s Best Fantasy stories volume. Years later, Kij Johnson’s achingly beautiful novel Foxwife (2000) came out. It is well worth looking for it.
“Foxwife”
I found him, my gentle scholar,
living in a ruined temple.
If he can stand my cooking—
the meat too rare for most—
and my rank smell,
if he can forgive the sight
of my red tail,
I will make him a good wife.
Beast or girl,
I pledge him a warm fire
and quiet for his studies
long into the night.
Any who disturb him
will know my teeth.
The Faery Flag
This story began when I first heard about the actual Faery Flag (“actual” being a wobbly word when you are dealing with legends in Scotland). It was on the wall in Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye, ancient home of the McLeods. An unassuming and tattered piece of cloth, with a marvelous legend which was condensed to about three sentences beneath the flag. So fracturing this tale meant making up all of the interstitial parts of the story. My favorite thing to do! As for the poem . . . well, I am a pacifist (mostly) and storyteller (always) which is why I had to write it to accompany this fractured tale.
“Carrying the Flag of Faery”
We always win,
but some men die, some women,
for that glory.
The children, too,
only no one tells
that part
of the story.
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED PROOF
THIS IS NOT FOR SALE
One Old Man, with Seals
“One Old Man, with Seals” is based on the Greek shapeshifter, Proteus. But also at the time I wrote it, I was beginning to worry about aging. I was only in my early forties at the time—hardly old—but looking ahead. The story fits me much more now that I am seventy-nine! This old story is fractured by taking a Greek mythological character and bringing him into the twentieth (at that point) century to interact with a single American character instead of carousing with a bunch of Greek heroes. I wrote this poem to go with the story in this book.
“On Meeting a God”
There is no preparation for it.
One moment you are on a St. Andrews beach,
the casual sun failing to warm you.
Or in a plane, touching down outside of Dallas,
a place you are going for business, never pleasure.
Or possibly standing arm in arm with an old beau
whose charms have not advanced with his years.
Maybe you are crossing a meadow full of wildflowers,
fording a stream, bagging a Monroe.
Possibly you are in an armchair dozing.
And there is the Godhead, gender uncertain,
holding out a shining hand.
I have read the old stories, know the stern warnings.
There is no honor in these encounters.
The humans—even the lucky ones—always lose.
So why do I take that proffered hand,
follow the fast disappearing footsteps,
run on tiptoe trying to catch up?
Because curiosity—that human failing,
that human instinct, that human burden,
that human glory—makes us want to know things.
Even if it damns us to all eternity,
Even then.
Sleeping Ugly
“Sleeping Ugly” is actually a still-in-print easy reading book that a number of oral storytellers now have in their repertoire thanks to my friend and favorite storyteller Milbre Burch. This is a true fractured fairy tale, because of three things—I always thought that fairy tale princesses, being tall, blonde, and beautiful (even if they were peasants at first), often had no right to be picked by the prince. I was short, dark-haired, and somewhat cute. But no princes. Now I that I am much older, still short, still dark-haired (with help), and look more like the old fairy, I still feel that way. So “Sleeping Ugly” is my way of righting that particular wrong by fracturing Sleeping Beauty. A lot! As for the poem—since my favorite character in the story is the old fairy, I decided she needed her own poem.
“Old Woman by the Well”
“Beware of old women who linger by the well, for they are usually fairies in disguise, and cranky. You’ve been warned.” —Terri Windling
I’m standing by the local well, seventy-four years old,
growing crankier by the minute. I hate being kept waiting.
I check my watch, the sun overhead. We’d said eleven.
It’s closer to noon.
A man riding a horse clops by, sees me, dismounts quickly, kneels.
He holds up a hand in supplication. I’m an American, a feminist,
not used to courtesies, prayers. On good days, we ask for things
through the ballot box, on bad days some of us use a gun.
Give me . . . he begins. I have no time for this. I beg you, he continues.
I dig in my pocket, find a zloty, a pound coin, a lire, a euro.
I throw them at his feet, He has the grace to look startled.
Enough! I say, and it is not a question.
Then I raise an eyebrow, a hand palm down,
and blast him to stone.
The Undine
“The Undine” is mostly based on Hans Christian Andersen’s “Little Mermaid” plus several French undine stories I read over the years. (In folklore, the Undine is a water nymph who becomes human when she falls in love with a man. However, she is doomed to die if he is unfaithful. Probably the basis of Andersen’s story.) So my telling has French undertones though it is not set in any real France. It’s sensual in its own way (if you like fish) and unromantic because the prince is, in his own way,
as much of a swine as many men in power today. Remember—this story was written in 1982 for my collection Neptune Rising. So you shouldn’t think it’s a critique of modern American politics and Hollywood when you read it. Though of course you can. The Rusalka poem is almost the opposite—no passion but an abhorrent rape, written three years ago (ahead of, but not by much, the MeToo movement). Rusalkas are Slavic river mermaids. Also note, I am Jewish and my family lived in the Ukraine at the time of the Cossacks’ raids. They came to America to escape that sort of thing, My father was seven years old, the second youngest of eight children.
“Warning from the Undine”
If you walk the beach at night,
Driftwind tangles in your hair,
Foam as fingers grip your ankles,
Best beware, oh best beware.
Do not think that I am wave top,
Do not think that I am tow,
I am ocean, up and under,
I am legion high and low
I am whisper, I am roaring,
I am lullaby and scream.
I will find you on the shingle,
I am nightmare, I am dream.
I am tidepool in the shallows,
I am lace on top of wave,
I am shell and shifting sand steps,
I am undertow and grave.
Great-Grandfather Dragon’s Tale
I was working on a book (first of what turned out to be a series) filled with my dragon stories and poems: Here There Be Dragons. The problem was, I had neglected one of the most famous dragons of all—St. George’s dragon. So I sat down to write it from the dragon’s point of view. Why? At this remove I cannot remember. I just heard the rumble of his voice as he tells his great-grandchildren a bedtime story that may even be memoir. The story is long for a fable and short for a novella, but evidently just right for his dragonlings.
“St. George’s Sword and Word”
Not vorpal, but sharp enough
to cut through scales.
The blade slightly curved,
Damask style.
It had the heft of history,
the slight of mystery.
The handle fit just one hand.
George was destined
for canonization.
I’d like to think killer
was not a job description,
but a feint.
Maybe they had tea together,
talked borders, boundaries,
signed a pact,
including the length
of smoke, of fire.
A codicil detailing
the number of pigs
ready for the sacrifice.
Better than maidens who—
so it is said—taste like chicken,
and wear an annoying amount
of buttons, laces, furbelows,
and other indigestibles.
Green Plague
“Green Plague” is of course a satirical fracturing of The Pied Piper of Hamelin, a German legend about a town infested with rats and the Pied Piper who promises to get rid of the rats for a rather large fee. And when the town fathers refuse to pay his whole fee, he whisks the children away as well, using his pipe and descriptions of treasures they will find along the way. Only I have written a variant with frogs instead of rats, and set in a bucolic tourist town of today, because a friend who was doing a frog fantasy anthology asked me for a story. It works because small town politics haven’t changed much. And neither have con men. As for the poem, I slammed one realtor who cheated us in a novel, have gotten back at other evil doers in poems, wrote an entire book of poems about the first year of President Trump’s thievery. And so it goes.
“To Be Paid”
Musicians, writers, and poets
are often not paid,
not even the promised pittance.
The performance is over,
magazine or book printed,
yet still there is no reward.
We cannot whisk the children away,
cannot punish the innocent
for their parents’ theft.
Cannot pull back the graft
on the internet
where people sing our songs.
But we can do this:
memorialize you in a lyric,
he’s so vain, he knows this song
this poem, this character’s about him.
Name me an artist, I will show you
Vengeance one song, one poem, one novel
at a time.
Thievery is for now.
Art hangs around forever.
You will thank me for the warning.
The Unicorn and the Pool
“The Unicorn and the Pool” is based on unicorn lore. The two pieces I have used are 1) That a unicorn’s horn can cure disease and disperse even the foulest poison. (That is why in medieval times, kings used unicorn horns to test for poison in their food. And no, it didn’t work because they had bought narwhale horns instead of unicorn horns. On the other hand, narwhales, at least, exist.) 2) Where a unicorn steps, flowers spring up. Probably why there are so many millefleur tapestries of unicorns picturing the creature sitting or standing in fields of flowers. And how did I fracture those bits of lore? Put them in a parable that suggests Jesus. Not an original idea on my part because the unicorn since early days was thought to be an avatar of Christ. Or perhaps Christ an avatar of the unicorn. Either way, I love parables from whatever religion or creed they develop. By the way—I wrote the poem in college, where I was an English major and a religion minor, and it was published in the college literary magazine my sophomore year. Two few years later on at graduation(1960) I won all the poetry prizes the college had on offer. I have always wondered if some wandering unicorn had a hand . . . er . . . hoof in getting me those awards!
“Rhinoceros”
Bloated relic of a past
Where hungry behemoths
In ponderous herds lumbered
Through the swamp-filled woods.
Behind the folds of unwashed poundage,
Behind that muted horn of plenty,
Pink eyes, myopic and small,
Strain into the African muds.
Preposterous nose,
Elephantine toes,
Cyclopian rear
Cumbrous ear,
Down to a wee-wispish,
Barely switch-tipped
Tail.
And yet the memory of a swift
And silken racer of the wind,
Golden horn rippling the pool
Of dreams, troubles my mind.
What alchemy of the last few worlds,
What lava-filled abyss
Transformed the silken fair?
Has the unicorn come to this?
The Golden Balls
“The Golden Balls” is a teaser of a story. And the fairy tale it comes from—The Princess and the Frog—has two interesting variants. In the English version the princess treats the frog (a Frenchman?) with haughty disdain and is ordered by her father the king to let him eat from her plate and sleep on her pillow. And what is her reward for barely keeping her promise? She wakes up in the morning to find a handsome prince sleeping by her side. And if that variant doesn’t please you, try the German variant where the princess, ordered to take the frog into her bedroom, flings him against the wall. He slides down into a puddled mess and arises—yes, you guessed it—as a handsome prince. Dear Readers—they married and (presumably) lived happily ever after. (Possibly.) Perhaps had many polliwoggish royal children. What is the moral of either of those variants? Beats me. So, perhaps my little fractured tale is me trying to get to the (well’s) bottom of the tale. Perhaps not. The poem speaks for itself!
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED PROOF THIS IS NOT FOR SALE
“Frog Meet Princess”
You asked too much,
forgot to bow,
slurped your soup.
No wonder she denied you.
When she flung you against the wall,
/> Cook was appalled.
What a way to ruin Sunday dinner.
Sister Death
“Sister Death” comes from the Jewish tradition of both Lilith and the Angel of Death, stories that make Death female. And you thought Neil Gaiman made that up! You must have missed an older . . . (i.e. way before the Gaiman Sandman comics) story of mine called “The Boy Who Sang for Death” in my collection Dream Weaver. We writers have been stealing from tradition forever. This story fractures the Jewish tales in that Death is the sympathetic character. The keening woman of the poem is the banshee, of course, who lives in Gaelic folklore, most notably Irish and Scottish. Her wailing appearance warns a family that one of them will soon die. I like to think of her as Death’s younger sister. The poem was written for this story.
“The Keening Woman”
She stands, birdlike,
over the cliff body,
dark robe her wings;
tremoring as if ready
to fly away from death.
But it is to death
she is beholden.
Her life, her living
bound up in it.
Her songs lift the spirits,
sets this spirit free.
We see it fly
like a kittiwake
high above us,
then below us,
skimming water
till it disappears
beneath a wave.
Oh, keening woman,
the wail in your mouth
devours our sins.
We fly up to Heaven,
leaving the dross
of our lives behind
till we are only
wind, waves, water
and a skein of memory.
Sule Skerry
The fisherfolk who live in the Scottish islands of Shetland and Orkney and as far west as the Hebrides tell many strange and beautiful tales of the selchies, seals who can take on human form, usually by shrugging out of their skins. Often you see seals lying on the rocks (skerries) off the Scottish coast. So, first take into account that I own a house in Scotland where I spend four months a year. Next that I have read many selchie stories over the past fifty years. I have also written many selchie stories and poems about selchies, beginning with “Greyling,” which I wrote when I was nursing my first child and she is now over fifty. Stir in my love of selchie songs: everyone in my birth family sang. Well, that is not entirely true. As I grew up, my mother no longer sang. She’d been a gifted contralto, or so she said, but her voice had hoarsened and changed. My father played guitar as if it were a ukulele, and sang cowboys songs. My brother and I were both musicians and singers, I a low alto. I have always loved folk songs, long and sad British/Scottish ballads especially. Among my favorites was “The Great Selchie of Sule Skerry,” and this selchie story is fractured by being a modern version of the story. The poem is in my own voice after my husband died, looking back on my life.
