Feminist Fairy Tales Read online

  BARBARA G. WALKER

  Illustrations by Laurie Harden

  Dedication

  To Ishtar Hildachild Darkmoon

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Introduction

  The She-Wolf

  Princess Questa

  Snow Night

  Gorga and the Dragon

  The Frog Princess

  Ugly and the Beast

  Thomas Rhymer

  Jill and the Beanroot

  Barbidol

  Sir Vivor and the Holy Cauldron

  Ala Dean and the Wonderful Lamp

  The Descent of Shaloma

  The Weaver

  The Sea Witch

  Prince Gimme and the Fairy of the Forest

  The Oracle

  Lily and Rose

  The Gargoyle

  Little White Riding Hood

  How the Sexes Were Separated

  The Littlest Mermaid

  Cinder-Helle

  How Winter Came to the World

  The Empress’s New Clothes

  The Three Little Pinks

  Fairy Gold

  How the Gods Met Their End

  The White God

  About the Author

  Other Books by Barbara G. Walker

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Traditional fairy tales are drawn from many sources, including ancient mythology, pagan religion, political allegory, morality plays, and orientalia. Most such tales have filtered through centuries of patriarchal culture and show little respect for women, except as young and beautiful “princesses.” Only to be decorative is the customary female function in these old stories. Girls without beauty are automatically also without virtue, happiness, luck, or love.

  For instance, in the old German tale of Puddocky (or Paddock, the toad-familiar of Shakespeare’s three witches), a prince seeks the world’s most beautiful girl to marry; wagonloads of less attractive candidates are casually thrown into the river and drowned, just to get rid of them.

  The message that such stories convey to girls is plain: Your looks are your only asset. Whatever else you might be or do doesn’t count. Female ugliness is a crime deserving the death penalty.

  The following collection of tales turns such misogynous messages around. Some of them are obvious twists on well-known stories, like “Ugly and the Beast,” “Snow Night,” “Gorga and the Dragon,” “The Littlest Mermaid,” “The Frog Princess,” “Ala Dean and the Wonderful Lamp,” “Little White Riding Hood,” “Three Little Pinks,” “Jill and the Beanroot,” and “The Empress’s New Clothes.”

  “How the Gods Met Their End” is a version of the Teutonic Götterdämmerung. “How the Sexes Were Separated” is a retelling of the Greek myth about Zeus’s jealous attack on the hermaphrodites of the Golden Age. “How Winter Came to the World” is another Greek myth, the familiar tale of Persephone or Kore (Corey) and her mother Demeter (Dea Mater), retold without the implied domination of Father Zeus and with a better appreciation of Mother Nature’s cycles. Similarly, “The White God” features some of the best-known African goddesses in an appreciation of Nature. Three of them are chosen to remind the reader that the ancient Great Goddess frequently appeared as a trinity of Virgin, Mother, and Crone, representing the three stages of woman’s life as well as the seasons of seed time, growth, and harvest; the tripartite world of heaven, earth, and underworld; the phenomena of birth, sex, and death; the spinning, weaving, and cutting functions of the Fates; and many other three-way cycles and divisions. Modern feminist spirituality has made this ancient trinitarian concept familiar to many of today’s women.

  Some stories in this collection are simply original fantasies couched in the language and form of traditional fairy tales. They are intended to be playful, sometimes funny, sometimes thought-provoking. A feminist message of some kind can be found embodied in each.

  B.G.W.

  ONE

  Wolf worship can be traced at least as far back as the days of Europe’s pagan clans, some of which revered the wolf as a sacred totem, as shown by the survival of “Wolf” as a family name. Wolf-clan members ritually transformed themselves into animal spirits by wearing wolf skins and performing wolf-mimicking dances. In Greek myth the heavenly father, Zeus Lycaeus, takes wolf form.

  Having been diabolized by Christian authorities, wolf worship gave rise to medieval superstitions about lycanthropy (werewolfism). This in turn gave rise to fairy tales that made wolves the villains. This darker, wilder canine image probably owed less to the observed behavior of real wolves than to buried childhood fears of domestic dogs who looked formidable and might bite.

  As a dog lover from my earliest years, I could never see anything especially scary about fairy-tale wolves, however big and bad they might be called. Why vilify an interesting and attractive animal? Members of the old wolf clans must have liked the basic premise of lycanthropy, which suggested that, through a magical transformation, humans might be able to experience the keen senses of smell and hearing, the agility, strength, and swiftness of the wolf. A certain envy of such animal characteristics has been found in nearly all human societies.

  She squatted down and tenderly bandaged the wolf’s leg.

  Once upon a time there was a poor widower who lived with his daughter, Lupa, in a wretched hut on a stony little farm. The land produced hardly enough food for them, and their only reliable source of nourishment was their one cow, who gave milk, butter, and cheese. The widower’s only pleasure in life was watching his daughter grow up. She was both clever and kind, the apple of her father’s eye. One day disaster struck. The cow took sick and died. There was no more milk, butter, or cheese to be had. The widower had no money to buy another cow or even a chicken or two for eggs. He and Lupa cut up the dead cow and preserved her meat, which nourished them for a while. After the meat was gone, they had almost nothing left but the seeds put by for a new crop.

  The widower’s late wife had been an accomplished needlewoman and had left some beautiful tapestries behind when she died. Lupa’s father took them from storage. “I had hoped to keep these in memory of your mother,” he told Lupa sadly. “Now I have no choice but to offer them for sale. Tomorrow I must start the spring planting. While I do that, you must take this embroidery to market and get the best price you can.”

  Early the next morning Lupa set out with the tapestries rolled up under her arm. She had to travel many miles to town. Along the way, a fierce thunderstorm came up. Finding no shelter, she trudged on through the rain and became thoroughly soaked.

  After the sky cleared, Lupa opened the soggy roll of tapestries to wring them out. To her horror, she found that all the colors had run together—her mother had not been able to afford colorfast dyes. The pictures were ruined.

  Feeling hopeless and frustrated, Lupa sat down beside the road and cried. Not only did she now have nothing to sell, but she had even lost her mother’s handiwork, which would grieve her father very much.

  After a while she dried her tears and decided to go on to the market anyway, hoping to sell the canvas itself, or perhaps just beg for a few coins or a bit of bread to take home.

  As she was passing through a thick forest, she heard a dismal howling not far away. It seemed the very expression of her own sorrow. Too depressed to feel frightened, she followed the sound and came upon a large, gray, yellow-eyed she-wolf caught in a trap by her right foreleg, howling with pain and distress.

  “Oh, poor wolf,” said kindhearted Lupa. “Can I help you?” To her amazed delight, the wolf replied.

  “Get me out of this trap,” begged the wolf. “I have babies at home in my den. They will die if they lose me.”

  Lupa pic
ked up a stout stick and opened the jaws of the trap to release the wolf’s leg. Then she squatted down and tenderly bandaged the lacerated limb with a strip torn from her petticoat. The wolf stood patiently for these ministrations.

  “My cubs and I thank you,” she said. “How can I repay your kindness?”

  “Alas, my situation is so unhappy that no one can help me,” said Lupa. She told the wolf all her troubles, beginning with the cow’s death and ending with the spoiled tapestries.

  “Never mind going to the market,” said the wolf. “Go home and don’t worry. All will be well.”

  With that, the wolf limped away on her bandaged leg and disappeared into the underbrush.

  Lupa was puzzled, but she reflected that the word of a she-wolf magical enough to talk was probably a word to be trusted. She buried the tapestries, not wanting her father to see them spoiled. Then she went home empty-handed. She told her father a white lie, saying that she had sold the tapestries and had been robbed on her way back home.

  Her father had worked all day and was hungry, but they had nothing to eat except a few roots and seeds. They went to bed with rumbling stomachs and slept badly. Both Lupa and her father were sporadically awakened by the howling of wolves nearby in the forest.

  In the morning Lupa felt too tired to get up, but she hurried out of bed when she heard her father shouting.

  “Look, look!” he was crying. “Here on the doorstep!” There lay a whole haunch of venison, freshly butchered, ragged at the edges as if it had been chewed from the carcass instead of cut. Father and daughter immediately roasted some slices for their breakfast and had their first good meal in a long time.

  The next day they were startled to find a company of the king’s guardsmen on the same doorstep. The captain of the guards pounded on their door with his sword hilt and roared, “Open up in the king’s name, poachers!”

  Lupa’s father hastily opened the door. “I am no poacher, but a poor peasant,” he said. “You have the wrong man.”

  “You have been poaching the king’s deer in the royal woodland,” bawled the captain. “Don’t deny it. We followed a blood trail right to your door.”

  The guardsmen pushed their way into the hut and found the venison hanging by the hearth. The captain took one look and said, “You’re both under arrest.”

  In vain Lupa and her father protested that the meat had been delivered to them by agents unknown, and they had no idea where it had come from. No one listened to them. They were seized, bound, and marched away to the king’s castle to stand trial.

  After a miserable night in the dungeons, father and daughter were dragged to the audience chamber where the king and queen sat surrounded by their courtiers. Even the twin infant princes were present, in their cradles next to the queen’s throne. An imposing official in a gold-trimmed black velvet robe announced the accusations against various evildoers and presented the evidence.

  When it was his turn to respond to the charges against him, Lupa’s father knelt before the king and pleaded innocent. He explained that a person or persons unknown had somehow left a haunch of venison on his doorstep during the night. The king seemed bored by this story. The defendant himself realized how feeble it sounded and lapsed into shamefaced silence. The queen, however, looked interested.

  She gazed intently at Lupa and her father. Lupa noticed that she had unusual yellowish eyes.

  “You will pass no sentence on these two,” the queen said firmly. “I will make them my servants.”

  “But, my dear,” said the king, “the penalty for poaching is execution.”

  “I say these two will not be executed,” said the queen, in a tone that brooked no opposition. “Guard, take them away to my quarters.”

  Lupa and her father waited under guard in the queen’s drawing room until the queen appeared in person. She ordered their bonds removed and then dismissed the guardsmen. Lupa and her father fell at her feet and thanked her for her mercy.

  “I am not merciful, only conscientious,” the queen said. “I repay my debts. My former mode of recompense got you into trouble, and now it’s up to me to repair the damage.”

  “I don’t understand, Your Majesty,” Lupa said timidly.

  “Does this look familiar?” the queen asked. She rolled up her right sleeve. On her forearm was a bandage, slightly bloodstained. Lupa looked closely and recognized the strip torn from her own petticoat.

  “Your Majesty is the she-wolf?” Lupa whispered in amazement.

  “We will not speak of this again,” said the queen. “You, Lupa, will become my handmaid. Your father will be a royal gardener. He will be well paid and well fed, as will you also. Your life of privation is over.”

  Lupa and her father wept tears of joy and kissed the queen’s hands. They never returned to their poor hut but took up residence in the castle at once. Lupa served her royal mistress faithfully and well for many years. Her father tended the castle gardens with care and eventually rose to the rank of head groundskeeper.

  Lupa dug up the tapestries her mother had made, rinsed out their cheap dyes, and gave them to the most expert of the royal needlewomen to be copied. The resulting work became known far and wide as the celebrated Lupine Tapestries. Years afterward they were still prized gems in the national museum.

  People said that sometimes, on moonless nights, Lupa and her father both underwent a strange transformation and ran through the forest with the wild wolves, in a pack that was always led by a large gray female with yellow eyes and a scarred right foreleg.

  TWO

  “A good man is hard to find” seems to be the theme of Princess Questa’s quest. Her disappointments begin with a father who fails her, and thereafter she learns several hard lessons about having to look after herself. The final message might serve as a feminist creed: Don’t be sucked into the helper/nurturer role if it makes you suffer.

  In any patriarchal society the principle of first taking care of yourself is implicitly followed by most men, but for most women it still needs to be consciously articulated.

  Questa’s cowrie shell, gift of the fairy godmother, is the primary worldwide symbol of female genitals, of the powers of birth and rebirth, and of the passages through the Gate of Life.

  It was a cowrie shell with a round, polished back.

  Once upon a time there was a young princess named Questa. She grew up in a castle with her mother the queen and her father the king. Unfortunately, while Questa was still in her teens, her mother became sick and died. The grief-stricken king banished all the wisewomen who had tried in vain to cure his wife’s illness. Then he plunged himself into affairs of state, ignoring Princess Questa and becoming more and more ruthless in his pursuit of glory for his kingdom. He began to make war on neighboring kingdoms, to seize more territory, and to destroy rivals. Within a few years’ time he had become a cruel despot. Princess Questa could hardly recognize him, and she grieved for the father she had once known. He seemed to have gone mad. As the king’s displeasure brought terrible punishments, his fearful courtiers and servants all followed the king’s lead in neglecting his daughter. Poor Questa was reduced to the status of an unpaid housekeeper. Her personal maid was fired. Her once-splendid dresses became shabby. The white stallion that she once loved to ride was taken from her and given to one of the king’s generals. She was forced to serve meals to her father’s knights, a rowdy collection of ruffians who pawed her, pulled her hair, spat on her skirts, and made her the butt of crude jokes. The nastiest of the knights, the king’s champion, often hinted that she would soon become his personal plaything.

  When she could manage to take time away from chores in the kitchen and scullery, Questa sometimes left the castle and went to a certain grove that she had loved since her childhood—a place said to be the haunt of fairies. It was a mossy mound surrounded by a thicket of willows whose lacy branches drooped like curtains around it. In the center of the mound stood a large upright stone that the peasants whispered about, saying that it had been sacred
to an elder race and was imbued with mysterious powers. Questa never feared the magic stone. She liked to sit and lean her back against its sun-warmed roughness, feeling it as a support and a comfort.

  One day when she was resting in the grove, she suddenly felt overwhelmed by the hopelessness and helplessness of her position. She began to cry bitterly, beating her fists against the upright stone. After a time, she heard a small rustling sound. She opened her eyes to see, standing before her, a beautiful lady in a shimmering silver gown.

  “Why do you weep?” the lady asked.

  “I am very unhappy,” Questa said. “My mother is dead and my father has become a tyrant who treats me like the lowest of his servants. The knights harass me, and I think my father will soon give me to the fiercest and meanest of them, as a reward for his battlefield slaughterings.”

  “Then you must run away,” the lady said.

  A pang of fear touched Questa’s heart. “But the castle is the only home I’ve ever had,” she protested. “I have nowhere else to go. I have no money or possessions. I would starve to death, wandering the roads as an outcast.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” the lady said. “You are destined to undergo three trials before you find your rightful place in the world. Your present life is the first. Now it’s time for you to move on.”

  From the silvery folds of her gown the lady withdrew an object the size of a child’s fist and placed it in Questa’s hand. It was a cowrie shell with a round, polished back and a front somewhat resembling a wide, slightly grinning mouth lined with small teeth.

  “Here is an amulet to protect you. Listen to the sea’s voice and be guided,” the lady said.

  Questa put the cowrie’s mouth to her ear and heard the faraway murmur of the ocean. “Must I go to the seacoast, then?” she asked.

  The lady made no answer. She only smiled and gently touched Questa’s forehead with her finger. Then her outlines grew fainter and fainter, until she seemed to fade away into a dazzle of mist, absorbed by the sunlight.