Strong Fairy Tale Heroines #7: THE MASTERMAID

This fast-moving Norwegian fairy tale from Asbjørnsen and Moe was translated into English by Sir George Dasent in ‘Popular Tales from the Norse’ (1859). Nineteenth century translations can feel a little stiff nowadays and we tend to read them with too much respect. I decided to tell this story aloud a few months ago, but it came to life for me when I tweaked it a bit and told it in a strong Yorkshire accent (which is where I'm from). Traces of this should be obvious in the version below. This helped me bring out not only the Northern-ness of the tale, but also the sheer fun and naughtiness of the original, such as the bit near the end, where the Mastermaid takes various men to bed with her only to make them stand up all night gripping such suggestive items as a poker or a calf’s tail...

The story begins as if it’s all going to be about a prince, but though he’s an attractive, cheeky lad, he can’t achieve anything without the Mastermaid (the clue’s in her name)! The tale is classed as Aarne–Thompson type 313A, 'the girl helps the hero flee', a category which in my opinion ought to be renamed 'the heroine rescues the boy'. The Mastermaid saves the prince's life four separate times, provides him with invaluable advice, organises his escape, saves him from marrying a troll, and generally sorts everything out with tremendous aplomb.

There was once a king’s son who had a fancy to see the world. Off he set, and after travelling for several days he found a door that was built into the mountain. It was the door to a troll’s house; he spent the night there and hired himself out next day as the troll’s servant.

            In the morning, before the troll went out to graze his herd of goats on the mountain meadows, he told the king’s son to shovel out the stable. ‘I’m an easy-going master,’ he said, ‘when you’ve done that, you can have the rest of the day off, but do your work well, and don’t go poking into any of the other rooms in the house, or I’ll tear your head off.’ 

‘He does seem an easy master!’ said the lad to himself. He thought he’d have plenty of time, so he walked about humming, and then he thought he would take a look into some of the other rooms. What might the troll be hiding? 

In the middle of the first room a big cauldron was boiling and bubbling away with no fire under it! ‘What’s cooking?’ the king’s son wondered, and he looked in, a piece of his hair swung down into the broth and came out with each strand bright as copper.

‘Funny soup, that!’ said the lad, ‘if anyone sipped it, they’d have copper lips!’ and he went into the second room.

Here was another cauldron simmering away with no fire. ‘I’ll try this one too,’ he says and dips a second lock of hair in. Out it comes, shining silver. ‘Expensive soup!’ says he, ‘we’ve nothing like it my father’s castle, but how does it taste?’ and he went into the next room where there was a third cauldron bubbling and steaming. 

The lad dipped another lock of hair in, and this time it came out gleaming gold. ‘Anyone who drank that would get a gilded gullet!’ he said, ‘but if that’s gold, what’ll I find next?’ and he opened the door to the fourth room, and in it a girl was sitting on a bench, the loveliest lass the lad had ever seen. 

‘God in heaven,’ she says, ‘what do you want? And what are you doing here?’

‘I’ve just been hired by the troll,’ he says.

‘Have you any idea what you’ll have to do for him?’ she asks.

‘Oh he’s an easy sort of chap,’ says the king’s son. ‘All I have to do is muck out the stable, nothing hard, and then I can take time off.’ 

‘You think that’s easy? If you set about it the usual way, ten shovelfuls will fly in for every one you chuck out. I’ll tell you what to do: turn the pitchfork around and shovel with the handle, then all the muck will fly out by itself!’

He’d do that, all right, thought the king’s son, and then the two of them sat chattering away, falling in love, till as evening came the lad thought he’d better go out and do his work, and as soon as he turned the pitchfork upside down, all the muck flew out by itself to the dungheap and the stable was as clean as clean.

Troll comes back with the goats. ‘Have you shovelled out t'stable?’ he asks

.

‘I have that, it’s as clean as clean.’

‘I’ll see for myself!’ says the troll, and he came and saw, and he says, ‘You must have been talking to my Mastermaid! You haven’t got enough between the ears to have managed it yourself.’  

‘Mastermaid?’ says the lad, pretending to be thick, ‘what sort of a thing is that? I’d love to see it. Can I see it?’

‘You’ll see soon enough,’ says the troll. 

Next morning the troll gave the lad instructions to go up the mountain and bring down the horse which was grazing up there. ‘When you’ve done that you can take things easy the rest of the day, but don’t go into any of the other rooms, or I’ll wring your head off!’ 

‘Kind master or not,’ thought the king’s son, ‘I’ll talk to the Mastermaid all the same. Yours, is she? What if she’d rather be mine?’ and he went to see her.

‘What work has he given you today?’ she asks.

‘Nowt much,’ says the king’s son. ‘Just go up the mountain to fetch his horse.’

‘And how are you going to do that?’

‘Shouldn’t be hard, should it? I’ll bet I’ve ridden better horses than his!’

‘It won’t be as easy as you think,’ said the Mastermaid, ‘but I’ll tell you what to do. It’ll rush at you as soon as it sees you, breathing fire and flame, but if you take that bridle hanging there by the door and throw it over its head, it’ll calm down and follow you like a lamb.’

Well, the lad would certainly take her advice, and so they sat chatting and thought how wonderful it would be if they could get away together and escape the troll… and he would have forgotten all about going to fetch the horse if the Mastermaid hadn’t reminded him as evening came on, so he took the bridle and climbed the mountain, and as the horse came rushing at him with blazing eyes and flaming jaws he threw the bridle over its head, and then it was tame and followed him back like a lamb.

Troll comes home. ‘Is horse in’t stable?’

‘Oh aye,’ says the lad. ‘A nice quiet nag, I rode it back and shut it in the stall, I did.’ 

‘I’ll see for myself!’ says the troll. And there was the horse, just as the lad had said. ‘You must have been talking to my Mastermaid!’ said the troll. ‘You could never have worked that out for yourself!’

‘Mastermaid? Mastermaid? You said that yesterday, and still I don’t know what a Mastermaid is. I wish you’d show me, master, indeed I do,’ said the king’s son, thick as a brick. 

‘You’ll find out soon enough!’ said the troll. 

Next day the troll went out with his goats as before. ‘Today it’s off to hell with you, to fetch the fire-tax,’ he said to the lad. ‘You can take it easy the rest of the day! Lucky for you I’m such a kind master.’ Off he went.

‘Oh aye, very kind,’ says the lad, ‘to give me all the dirty jobs. I’d better find the Mastermaid.’ And he went to her. ‘What’ll I do? I’ve never been to hell. I don’t know the way! And I don’t know how much to ask for!’

‘Oh, I can tell you all that. Go to the cliff face below the mountain, take this club with you and knock on the wall with it. Then someone will come out with sparks flying off him. Tell him your errand, and when he asks how much you want, you say, “As much as I can carry!”’  

Well, the lad thought he could do that, and then they sat talking all day long and he would be sitting there still if the Mastermaid hadn’t reminded him to go and fetch the fire tax before the troll came home.

Off he went and knocked at the cliff with the club, and out came someone swarming with sparks, fire flying from his hair and eyes and nose. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve come from the troll, for the fire tax!’

‘How much?’

‘Oh, just as much as I can carry.’

‘You’re lucky you didn’t ask for more. Come with me!’ So he led the king’s son into the hill, and there were piles of gold and silver like stones in a rockfall, and the lad took as much as he could carry and went home. 

Troll comes back. ‘Where’s fire tax?’

‘In that sack by wall!’

‘I’ll see for myself!’ said the troll, and he looked in the sack and it was full to the brim with gold and silver. ‘You’ve certainly been talking to my Mastermaid – and if you have, I’ll wring your head off!’

‘Mastermaid?’ said the lad. ‘You keep talking about this Mastermaid. I wish I could see the thing. I really do!’

‘You’ll have your wish,’ said the troll. ‘I’ll take you to see her tomorrow.’

Next day troll takes the king’s son to t’ Mastermaid and says to her, ‘Get on and butcher him, and cook him up in’t big cauldron while I have a nap. When broth’s ready, call me!’ He lay down on’t bench and went to sleep, snoring so loud it shook the mountain. 

The Mastermaid takes a knife, cuts the lad’s finger and lets three drops of blood fall onto a three-legged stool. She piles up all the old rags and worn-out shoes and rubbish she can find, and drops them into the cauldron. She fills up a box with powdered gold, grabs a block of salt and a flask of water. Then she catches up a golden apple and the troll’s two golden hens, and off she goes wi’t king’s son, fast as they can, till they come to t’ sea, jump on board ship and set off over the waves. 

Back home, the troll stretches a bit and stirs.  ‘Is broth ready yet?’

‘Just started to boil,’ said the first drop of blood and the troll goes back to sleep. After a while he stirs again. ‘In’t it ready yet?’

‘Half-cooked!’ says second drop of blood. So the troll goes back to sleep. Hours later he yawns and rubs his eyes. ‘Is it done?’

‘Ready!’ says third drop of blood. So the troll got up and he couldn’t see the Mastermaid, but the cauldron was steaming, and he was clemmed. Hungry! He took the ladle and tried the soup, and it’s nothing but mashed up rags and old leather, and he was so angry he didn’t know what leg to stand on, and he set off after the Mastermaid and the king’s son as fast as he could go. Soon he comes to the edge of the fjord, and he can see the two of them far off on the ship, but he can’t cross the water. So he calls his River-sucker, and the River-sucker lies down at the fjord’s edge and sucks and sucks till the fjord’s almost dry. 

‘Throw out that block of salt!’ cries the Mastermaid, so the king’s son threw out the block of salt behind the ship, and it turned into a mighty mountain too high to climb, that blocked the way. ‘I’ll call for my Mountain-borer!’ yelled the troll, and his Mountain-borer came and bored a hole right through the mountain, but just as the troll was scrambling through it the Mastermaid cried, ‘Pour out the flask of water!’ and the king’s son did, and the tunnel filled with water and the troll was swept away and drowned.

So now the lad wants to take Mastermaid back to his father, but he wants to do it in style. ‘Just wait for me here, while I go on. There’s seven grand horses in my father’s stable, and a carriage. I’ll fettle them up and bring them for you.’

‘Oh no, don’t do that!’ said the Mastermaid, ‘if you go home without me, you’ll forget me, I know you will.’

‘How could I forget you after all we’ve been through together and when we love each other so much?’

‘All right’ said the Mastermaid, ‘go if you will, but don’t speak to anyone and whatever you do don’t have a bite to eat – if you do, it’ll be bad luck for both of us.’ He said he wouldn’t, and off he went.

But when he got to his dad’s castle, one of his brothers had just got married and they were all celebrating. They were right glad to see him and asked him to join the feast, but he wouldn’t say nowt, he brushed them off and went to t’ stables to hitch up the horses. Well, this woman comes after him, she’s the bride’s step-sister, and she chucks him an apple, ‘If you won’t stay with us, have a bite of that,’ she cries, and as he were hungry and thirsty he took a bite, and all at once he forgot the Mastermaid and all that had gone on wi’ him and her. ‘I must have gone mad. What do I want these horses for?’ And he went back into t’ castle, and no time at all he was engaged to marry the woman who gi’en him the apple, who was really a troll.

The Mastermaid waited and waited, but as king’s son didn’t come she walked along till she came to a dirty little cottage close by the king’s meadows. In she goes and lights a fire, and then she takes out the box of gold dust and chucks half of it on’t fire so it spits and splutters and gilds the whole cottage inside and out, till it shines like the sun. 

Who should come riding by but the Constable? He was so mithered by the glittering cottage and so smitten by the lovely lass sitting by t’ door, that he asks her to marry him, straight off.

‘I might, if you’ve plenty of brass,’ she says.  

Oh, he had plenty of that! So he comes back that evening with half a sackful, leans it in’t corner and they go to bed. But soon as they’re in bed, the Mastermaid sits up. ‘I forgot to stoke fire,’ says she.

‘I’ll do it!’ says Constable, and he jumps out of bed.

‘Tell me when you’re grabbed hold of poker,’ says the Mastermaid.

‘I’m holding it now!’ says he.

‘Then you hold on to the poker and the poker hold you, and you can chuck coals all over yourself till morning!’ says the Mastermaid. So the Constable stands there all night, flinging fiery coals and embers all over himself till daybreak, and then he could let the poker go and he took to his heels as if the devil was after him. And did he say a word to anyone? Not likely!

Next day an Attorney comes riding past, and when he claps eyes on t’ golden hut and the beautiful maiden, down he goes on his knees and asks to marry her. ‘I might,’ said the Mastermaid, ‘if you’ve plenty of brass, I might…’

The Attorney was rich enough, so he come back that evening with a big sackful and leans it in the corner, and they went to bed. But as soon as they lie down, the Mastermaid sits up. 

‘I forgot to shut porch door,’ said she.

‘Lord, what a time to remember that!’ says Attorney. ‘I’ll do it,’ and he jumps out of bed.

‘Tell me when handle’s in your hand,’ says the Mastermaid. 

‘I’m holding it now,’ calls the Attorney.

‘Right, well you hold door handle and door handle hold you, and rush you this way and that till morning!’ said she. Well, the Attorney never had such a night, as the door rushed him this way and that all night long, almost battering him to death, and as daybreak came he fled home, leaving his money behind. And did he breathe a word to anyone? Not likely!

On the third day, a Bailiff came by, and same thing happens. He wants to marry the Mastermaid and she says she might, if he has enough brass! Oh, the Bailiff had plenty. Back he comes that evening with an even bigger sack than the Attorney – so that was all right, and off they go to bed. But hardly did their heads touch pillow when the Mastermaid sits up.

‘I’ve forgotten to shut the calf away,’ she says. ‘I’ll have to go out and do it now.’

 

‘I’ll do it!’ says Bailiff, and he jumps out of bed.

‘Tell me when you’ve got hold of calf’s tail,’ says the Mastermaid.

‘I’ve got hold of it now!’ cries the Bailiff.

‘Then you hold on to the calf’s tail, and the calf’s tail hold you, and you can run over the whole world till daybreak,’ says the Mastermaid. And off goes the calf, kicking and leaping, and drags the Bailiff up mountains and down dales, and the more he yells the faster it runs, and by daylight he’s so worn out he can hardly limp home.

Now the very next day was the day of the King’s son’s wedding to the sister of his brother’s bride, the woman who gived him the apple. But when they climbed into t’ carriage to drive to the church, one of the axles broke, and it couldn’t be mended, and then Constable, who’d come to t’ wedding, said there was a lass living in a gold cottage down by the meadows, and they ought to ‘see if she’ll lend you her poker, that’ll hold all right!’ So they sent a messenger, and the Mastermaid didn’t say no, and they used poker instead of axle and it worked! 

But as soon as they got going, the floor of the carriage drops out underneath them. So the Attorney says, ‘See if the lass in the gold cottage will lend you her gilded door, I guarantee that won’t break!’

Well, the Mastermaid lends the door. So that’s fettled, but this time when they try to set off again, the horses won’t move. They hitch up six, then eight, then ten, but still the horses won’t stir, and it’s getting late. The Bailiff spoke up. ‘See if the lass in the gold cottage’ll lend you her calf. That beast’ll pull anything!’

Well, the Mastermaid lends them the calf and they unhitch the horses and put it in the traces and what did it do? It shoots away with that carriage over hill and dale, sometimes on the ground, sometimes in the air, and when it reaches the church it goes around and around the steeple like a yarn-winder, and they only just manage to get out. And on t’ way back from the wedding it does the same, only even faster. 

Now as they sat down to feast, the king’s son – the bridegroom – thought they ought to invite the lass in the gold cottage, who’d lent them her poker, her door and her calf, ‘Without her, we’d never have got to church in time!’ And the king said this was only fair, and he sent five of his best men down to the gold cottage to invite the lass to dinner.

‘If king’s not good enough to come and see me, he’s not good enough for me to come and see him,’ said the Mastermaid, so the king had to go down himself and invite her to dinner, and the Mastermaid went with him and he put her in the seat of honour, next to the bridegroom. When she’d sat down, the Mastermaid took out the two gold hens and the golden apple she had brought from troll’s house and put them on the table, and the two hens started pecking and fighting over the golden apple. 

‘By heck,’ said the king’s son, ‘look at the way them hens is struggling to get at the apple!’

‘Aye,’ says the Mastermaid, ‘That’s just the way we two struggled to get our freedom, when we were shut in troll’s house under the mountain.’

Then the king’s son remembered everything! He knew who she was, and you can’t think how happy they was, the two of them! As for the troll bride who’d given him the apple, the king told her off to be torn in twenty pieces between twenty horses, and then they could really celebrate, and Constable, Attorney and Bailiff danced all night at the wedding!

More about fairy tales and folklore in "Seven Miles of Steel Thistles" available from Amazon here and here.



Picture credits

The Mastermaid by Charles Folkard
The Prince collects the fire-tax by HJ Ford
The River-Sucker by HJ Ford

 

Strong Fairy Tale Heroines #6: GILLA OF THE ENCHANTMENTS

 

GILLA OF THE ENCHANTMENTS

Told in the 1880s by Patrick McGrale of Dugort, Achil, County Mayo, to William Larminie (“West Irish Folk-Tales”, Camden Library, 1893). Larminie says of this tale that it combines domestic incident with romantic extravagance. It is a variant of Aarne-Thompson Tale Type 451: the brothers who are turned into birds. Towards the end of the story I have made some slight changes where Patrick McGrale's oral rendition, faithfully reproduced by Larminie, becomes a little unclear as to who does what to whom.

Although the parallels with better-known tales are clear (such as the Grimms' 'The Six Swans', KHM 49, and 'The Seven Ravens, KHM  25), this story has its own individual character. It’s both confusing and fascinating, with a great deal to puzzle over. On the death of his wife the queen, Gilla’s father sends his three sons away to a ‘greenawn’ – a sort of sunny pavilion on an island. He appears to do this in order to keep them safe from his new wife, from whom he has kept all knowledge of them. But his daughter Gilla has inherited powerful magic in the shape of a cloak left to her by her dead mother (just as the power of Aschenputtel’s dead mother is channeled to her through the tree planted on her grave). She cannot be harmed while she is wearing it. Only Gilla may ever visit the brothers; she brings them food, and she cuts off, washes and replaces their heads each day. It is as if they are dependent on their sister for continuance in life: perhaps the greenawn itself is an otherworld, a liminal land which requires them to undergo a daily resurrection only Gilla can perform. Gilla is both a magic-worker, and a person who can bring back the dead. At the same time, she belongs to the fairy tale sisterhood of those who persist and endure trials in order to rescue the brothers they love. The motif of the death of a child, and smearing its mother with blood in an attempt to frame her for its murder, is reminiscent of the story of Rhiannon and her son Pryderi, in the First Branch of the Mabinogi. 

There was a king in Ireland and his wife, and they had but one daughter, whose name was Gilla of the Enchantments, and she had a magic coat that her mother had left her when she died. And there was a man courting her whose name was George nă Riell, and the two were courting.

                When her mother died the king made a fair and beautiful greenawn [a summer-house or sunny palace] for his three sons on an island in the midst of the sea, and there he put them to live, and he sent his daughter to them with food every evening.

                It was not long after that till he married another wife, and by this wife he had three daughters. She was one day walking in the garden and she got the corner of her apron under her foot and she fell.

                “May neither God nor Mary be with you,” said the hen-wife.

                “Why do you say that?” said the queen.

                “Because the wife that was here before you was better than you.”

                “Was there a wife before me?”

                “There was; and that one is her daughter, and there are three sons also in an island in the sea, and the daughter goes every night to them with food.”

                “What shall I do to the three of them, to put them to death?”

                “I’ll tell you,” said the hen-wife, “if you will do what I advise you.”

                “I will do it,” said she.

                “Promise a dowry to your eldest daughter if she will follow the other daughter out when she is going with food to her brothers.”

                So the queen sent her daughter out after Gilla who was going with food, but Gilla looked behind and saw the other one coming, and she made a bog and a lake between them, so that the queen’s daughter went astray and was wandering all night. She told her mother, and her mother went to the henwife, and the henwife said, “Promise a dowry to your second daughter.”

                And she did this, and the second daughter fared in the same way as the first, and she came and told her mother. And the mother went to the hen-wife, and the hen-wife said, “Promise the dowry to your third daughter.”

                Now the third daughter followed Gilla of the Enchantments as she was going with the food, and this time Gilla did not look behind her. She parted the sea and she came to her brothers’ house, and she put the pot of water down and cut off the heads of her three brothers and washed them, and put them on their shoulders again. And the half-sister was at the window looking on at everything she did, and she went home through the sea, before the sea returned together, and while they were eating their supper, Gilla came home.

                The mother went next morning to the hen-wife and told her the third daughter had succeeded, and had learned everything. And she asked her what she should do.

                “Say now, your daughter is going to be married, and ask Gilla for the loan of her coat. She will not know that the power of the coat will be gone if she gives it away. So long as she keeps the coat herself she can do everything; there are spells on the coat so that the sea must open before it, without closing after it; but she does not know that the spell of the coat will be lost.”

                The third daughter got the loan of the coat from Gilla, but instead of going to be married, this is what she did. When night came she put the coat on and went to the house of her half-brothers, knocked at the door and asked them to open it. And one of the brothers said, “That is not my sister.” But another looked out of the window and saw the coat and recognised it, and he opened the door and let her in. She cut the three heads off, and took them three-quarters of a mile and put them into a hole in the ground, and went back to her mother and told her she had killed the three.

                She gave the coat back to Gilla of the Enchantments, and Gilla went in the evening to her brothers with food, and whatever sort of fastening the other one put on the door she could not open is, but had to go in by a window, and she found her three brothers dead.

                She wept and she screamed and pulled the hair from her head in her lamentations, till the whiteness of the day came upon the morrow. She had not one head of the heads to get, but she followed the trace of the blood, and three-quarters of a mile from the house were they, in the place where they were buried. She dug them up and took them to her, and washed and cleaned them as was her wont, and put them on the bodies, but down they fell. She had to take them up at last, and cry to God to do something to them, that she might see them alive. And they turned into three otters, and she made another otter of herself. They were swimming that way for a time and then they made themselves into three doves, and she made of herself another dove. They were flying and she was flying, and the four came and settled on the gable of the house, and in the morning the man [the king] said to his wife,

                “There is a barrel of water. Let it be wine in the evening.” (He thought to test her, he thought it was not the right woman he had got.)

                Then said one of the brothers to the sister, “Go in, and do good in return for evil, and make wine of the water.”

                She went down, and when she got in, and she in the shape of a dove, the old blind wise man who was lying in his bed under the window got his sight, and he saw her dipping her finger in the water and making of wine, cold and wholesome.

                And in the morning the man said to his wife, “Here is a barrel of water. Let it be wine with you in the evening.”

                And the second brother said to his sister, “Go in, and do good in return for evil, and make wine of the water.”

                She went down, and when she went in at the window, and she in the shape of a dove, the wise old blind man who was lying on the  bed under the window got his sight, and he saw her dipping her finger in the water and making it wine, cold and wholesome.

                And in the morning on the third day the wise old man spoke to the king, and said to him that he had seen a beautiful woman come in by the window on two days, and that he got his sight when she came in and lost it when she went out and (said he) “Stretch yourself here today, and when she comes in and makes wine of the water, catch her as she is going out.”

                And he did so, and the third brother said to his sister, “Go in, and do good in return for evil, and make the wine.” And she did this; and as she was going out the man caught her. And when her brothers heard that she was caught they went away. And she asked the king to to give her leave to take just one look at her brothers. “Here’s the corner of my apron.”

                So he took hold of the corner of her apron, and she slipped out of it and left it with him and went away after her brothers.  When they saw her coming they waited for her, and she asked them if there was anything at all in the world that would make them come alive again; and they said there was one thing only, and that hard it was to do it.

                “What is it?” said she, “and I will try it.”

                “To make three shirts of the ivy-leaves in a day and a year, without uttering a word of speech or shedding a single tear, for if you weep we shall lose a part of ourselves.”

                And she said to them to make a little hut for her in the wood, and they made her the hut and went away and left her there. She was not long before she began to get material for the shirts, and she began to make them.

Now the queen’s daughter had her dowry. And she thought the king’s sons and the king’s daughter were dead, and she married George nă Riell, and her mother died and her father, and now she was queen.  But Gilla of the Enchantments was not long in the house in the wood, till George nă Riell found her, and she did not speak a word to him, but he was with her till she had a child to him.

                A young man was in the wood one day and a dog with him, and the dog took him to the place where the woman was, and the man saw the woman and the child there, and he went home and told the queen there was a beautiful woman in the wood. And the queen went and found the woman and the babe, and she killed the babe and caught up some of the blood and mixed the blood and ashes together and made a cake and she sought to put a piece of the cake in the woman’s mouth. And Gilla dropped one tear from her eye; but the queen who was her half-sister went back to her husband and said to him that great was the shame of him to have children by that woman, and that Gilla had killed her own child and eaten it.

                “It is not possible,” said he, “that she has killed my child.”

                “She killed and she ate.”

                He went to her and found the child dead; but Gilla did not speak a word to him. He said then that he would burn her at twelve o’ clock of the next day. He commanded that every one should come in the morning with sods of turf and sheets of paper, and everything to make a fire. And she was brought and put there, and she was still sewing. When it was twelve o’ clock, the sign was given to light the fire, but an old man in the crowd asked them to give her another hour by the clock, and when that hour was passed he asked them to give her a half-hour; the woman in it (he said) was under geasa. “You see that it is not her life that is troubling her, but that she is always sewing.”

                It was not long before they saw a black cloud coming through the air, and they saw three things in the cloud coming. “Well,” said the old man, “there are three angels from heaven, or three devils from hell, coming for her soul.”

                There were three black ravens coming, and their mouths open, and as it were fire coming out of their mouths, till the three black ravens came and lay in their sister’s bosom, and she on top of the pyre, and she put the three shirts on them and said, –

                “Finn, Inn and Brown Glegil, show that I am your sister, for in pain I am today.”

                They took hold of her and lifted her down from the pyre, and the brothers told George nă Riell everything that the half-sister had done, first that she had killed the three of them, and afterwards that it was she that killed their sister’s child.

                So the half-sister was thrown into the fire. And they went home, and George nă Riell married Gilla of the Enchantments, and they spent the rest of their lives as is right.

 NB: since Gilla sheds one tear, it's possible that one of her brothers lacks an eye, but the narrator does not say so.


More on fairy tales and folklore in my book "Seven Miles of Steel Thistles" available from Amazon here and here.

Picture credit: 
The Ravens of Wotan, Arthur Rackham

Strong Fairy Tale Heroines #5: THE THREE PRINCESSES

THE THREE PRINCESSES

This Hungarian story, in which the spirited third daughter of an impoverished king is abandoned in the forest with her two elder sisters, comes from ‘The Folk-Tales of the Magyars’ by W Henry Jones and Lewis L Kropf (Folklore Society Publications, 1889). It incorporates elements recognisable from Hansel and Gretel, Cinderella, and the Scottish tales Mollie Whuppie or Maol a Chliobain (in which the youngest child of a group of siblings defeats a giant), but although the ingredients may seem familiar and similar variants are told across Europe, this tale has a freshness and interest of its own. Wicked stepmothers and weak fathers are standard fare in fairy tales: sometimes the tales explore such relationships a little further but often, as in this case, the reader has to accept them as given and move on. I think you'll enjoy the surreal nonsense opening (intended to catch the attention of perhaps a rather raucous audience) and I love the mischievous manner in which the heroine gets her own back on her sisters on her final ride to the palace – and the bargain she strikes before agreeing to marry a particularly bloodless prince.

Once – I shan’t tell you where but you’d better believe me – there was a broken-down oven in splendid condition barring the sides, and it had cakes baking in it. One of you has eaten them! Well then, on the Komáran mountains, on the glass bridges, on the beautiful golden chandelier, there was once a Debreczen cloak with ninety-nine tucks in it, and in the fold of the ninety-ninth I found this tale…

                There was a king with three daughters, but the king was so poor he could hardly keep his family; so one night his wife, who was the girls’ stepmother, told her husband that in the morning she would take the girls deep into the forest and leave them where they wouldn’t be able to find their way home.

                But the youngest overheard her, and as soon as the king and queen fell asleep she hurried off to her godmother, who was a magic-worker, to ask her advice. Her godmother’s pony was waiting at the front gate, and taking her on its back it ran straight to the magic woman, who knew just what the child needed. She gave her a reel of cotton which she could unwind in the wood and so find her way back; but she made the condition that the girl was not to bring her elder sisters back with her, for they were very bad and proud. 

                Next morning the girls were led by their stepmother far into the wood to gather twigs, so she told them – and when they had wandered about for a long time she told them to rest. They sat down under a tree and soon all three fell asleep. Seeing this, the stepmother hurried home.

                When they woke and discovered their mother was gone, the two elder girls began to cry, but the youngest was quiet. Then she said she knew how to find her way home but could not take them with her, upon which her sisters began to beg and implore and scold her, till at last she gave in. On their arrival home their father received them with open arms while their stepmother feigned delight. Next night she told the king that she would lead them even deeper into the wood. Again the youngest overheard the conversation, and just as before she rode the little pony to her godmother, who scolded her for having brought home her bad sisters. Making her god-daughter promise to obey this time, she gave her a bag full of ashes to scatter along the path as they went in; so the girls were led into the wood again and left there. And this time too, the youngest took her sisters home.

                On the third night the stepmother once again schemed to lose them in the forest; and this time the girl didn’t have the courage to speak to her godmother; she thought she could help herself, so she took a bag full of peas, which she threw behind her as they went.  When the mother abandoned them the two elder girls again began to cry, but the youngest said laughing that they could find their way home just as easily as they had before – but she could not find a single pea, for the birds had eaten them all. 

                Now the three outcasts wandered all day through the wood hungry and thirsty, for until sunset they did not find so much as a spring of water to quench their thirst. Here they found an acorn lying under an oak tree under which they chose to spend the night. They planted the acorn, and carried water to it in their mouths to water it, and by next morning it had grown into a tree as tall as a tower. The youngest girl climbed it to see if she could spy any house or dwelling from the top, but she saw nothing, and they spent the whole day crying and wandering about. 

                On the following morning, the tree was as tall as two towers, and still the girl could see nothing from its summit; but by the end of the third day the tree was as high as three towers, and from its topmost branches she saw a lighted window shining far away. She led her sisters in the direction of the light. They walked for three days and three nights, until at last they came to a beautiful castle. And now, far from being grateful, her sisters began to beat and bully her, and told her that when they knocked at the door she was to say that they were grand ladies and she was their servant.

                What a fright they had! The door was opened by a woman as tall as a tower, with an eye as big as a plate in the middle of her forehead and teeth a foot long, which she gnashed at them. “What lovely girls!” she said. “What a splendid roast dinner you will make!” All three were terrified, but the youngest spoke up and told the giantess how skilled they all were at needlework, and described the beautiful clothes they could make for her, if only she would let them live. 

                The woman with the big teeth listened and agreed, and she hid the girls in a cupboard so her husband would not see them when he came home. But the giant sniffed about and demanded the  human flesh he could smell, and his wife had to bring the girls out. Now the youngest again spoke up and told the giant what good cooks she and her sisters were, and described the wonderful food they could prepare for him, if he would spare their lives. 

                The giant’s mouth watered, but he thought to himself that he would let the girls cook the food first, and then eat them afterwards. So the three sisters began baking and roasting: the two eldest kneaded the dough, and the youngest built up the fire in the oven, which was almost big as hell, and when it was red hot she popped a pot of lard into it and called the giant to taste the lard with his tongue to see if it was hot enough and if the oven had reached its proper heat.  

                This tower of flesh tried it – but the moment he put his head in the oven, the girl gave him a push and he was a dead man in the fiery furnace. The giantess flew into a rage at this and would have swallowed them up at once, but the youngest sister begged her to wait until they had beautified her, which she agreed to do. 

                “First let me comb your hair,” said the girl, and she took a ladder and climbed it, but instead of combing the giantess’s hair with the big iron comb, she knocked her on the head so hard with it that the creature dropped dead on the spot. The girls had the giants’ bodies carted away by twenty-four pair of oxen, and now they were the owners of the magnificent castle. 

                Next Sunday, the two eldest dressed up in their best clothes and went to a dance in the royal town. But they left their younger sister behind to do the housework. While they were gone, the young girl set out to explore all the rooms, passages and closets in the castle, and during her search she saw something shining in the flue of a fireplace. Knocking it free with a stone, she found it was a beautiful golden key. She tried it in every door and cupboard, but it fitted none of them until in the end she managed to open a small wardrobe full of beautiful dresses, all of which seemed made to fit her. She flung on a silver dress, the little pony was waiting for her outside, and like a hurricane she galloped away to the ball. 

                Here every eye was turned on her, gentleman vied to dance with her, and her two sisters, who until her arrival had been the belles of the ball, were set aside. But before the dancing ended, the young lady suddenly disappeared and was waiting in her servant’s clothes to greet her sisters when they returned. They told her they had enjoyed themselves very well at first, until some impudent female had stolen all the attention. The youngest sister laughed and said, “Suppose that had been me!” but they boxed her ears and called her names.  

                Next Sunday the same thing happened again, but this time the girl was dressed in gold, and on the third Sunday she appeared in a dress all covered in diamonds. Now the young men kept such a close eye on her that when she made her escape she had no time to pick up a shoe she had accidentally dropped in a corridor: she only just got back in time to receive her sisters. But the prince of the land found the shoe and kept it carefully.

                A few days later he fell ill. No one could tell why or find a cure for him, until at last one foreign doctor announced the cause: he had fallen in love with the mysterious lady who had lost the shoe, and would not recover until he married her.  So it was proclaimed throughout the realm that all the ladies of the country should come to the palace next Sunday to try on the shoe, and whoever it fitted should be the prince’s wife. The two eldest sisters joined the crowds swarming to the capital: they felt they has a good chance, since their younger sister had scraped their heels raw to make their feet smaller. 

But after they’d gone the youngest sister wrapped the second shoe of the pair in a handkerchief, jumped on the pony’s back in her best dress, and galloped off to the palace. She overtook her sisters on the way, and jumping the pony into a puddle, splashed them all over with mud. The moment she was seen approaching, a hundred cannons were fired off and all the bells were rung, but she wouldn’t acknowledge the shoe as her own without a trial. It fitted exactly on her foot, and when she produced its mate, three hundred cannons greeted her as the future queen. 

She accepted the honour on one condition,  that the king should restore her father’s conquered land. Her wish was granted and she became the prince’s wife. Her sisters returned to their royal father who was now rich and powerful once more. And if they are not dead yet, they are living there still. 

More on fairy tales and folklore in  "Seven Miles of Steel Thistles" available here and here.

Picture credits:

As I couldn't find any illustrations of this particular Hungarian tale, the one at the top of the post is from the fairy tale 'Mollie Whuppie' and it's by Errol le Cain.