Favorite Folktales From Around the World

by Jane Yolen

  That frightened the girl, and she took off. They watched her until she was out of sight. When she had vanished on the horizon, the hired men came to the father’s house and gathered in the yard. They shared their coca and chewed it awhile. Afterwards they went into the storehouse and carried everything out into the yard. Last of all, they took out the girl’s bed.

  Then, with their clubs on their shoulders and gripping their machetes, they entered the storeroom, they surrounded the mortar, and they waited. Then they pushed it over.

  A fat snake was stretched out there, with a big head like a man’s. When it saw it was discovered—wat’aakk! went its heavy body as it reared itself up. The men beat it with their clubs and slashed it with their machetes. They chopped it into pieces and threw the head out into the garden plot, and there it writhed, it jumped, it bubbled around on the ground. The men ran after it and pounded it with their clubs, they tried to flatten it. Blood ran out all over the ground, it gushed and spouted from the mutilated body. But still the serpent would not die.

  At that very moment the young wife, the snake’s lover, returned. When she saw all the people gathered in the yard, she ran at once to the storeroom. The mortar was bathed in blood, and the serpent’s nest was empty. She turned her face toward the yard, and there she saw them hitting her lover’s head with their clubs. She screamed as if she were dying:

  “Why, why do you destroy my lover’s head? Why do you kill him? This was my husband! This was the father of my child!”

  When she saw she blood she screamed again; her voice filled the house. She screamed and screamed till at last the effort caused her to abort. A swarm of little snakes came wriggling out onto the ground and spread all over the yard, jumping and crawling.

  Finally, the men killed the big snake. Then they went after all the little snakes and squashed them too. Some of the men dug a hole in the ground and the others swept in the blood. They swept out all the blood from the house and into the hole and buried all the serpents and the bloody mud. They brought the young girl to her parents’ room so they could care for her. Then they cleaned and straightened up the house, and fixed the storeroom the way it had been. They lugged the mortar down to the river and put the stone under a waterfall and left it there. And when everything was in order, the girl’s father gave each man fair payment for his work. The men took their pay and left.

  After a time, the parents asked their daughter, “In what way could you live with a serpent? He was no man, that husband of yours—he was a demon.”

  Only then did the young girl tell her story; she told them about her first meeting with the snake. Everything came to be known and was cleared up. The parents cared for their daughter and healed her, her body and her soul. Then, much later, the girl married a good man, and her life was happy.

  Every culture has its own resident fairies or trolls or boogers. These are the Others, the Good Folk, the Elfin, the Fey, who have gifts that humans envy. Sometimes it is simply gold, as in “Bridget and the Lurikeen”; sometimes it is second sight, as in “Then the Merman Laughed.” The Other Folk have their own morality; they think nothing of tricking humans, eating them, or using them in other, more subtle ways.

  It is this question of morality rather than the differences in stature (some of the fairy folk are thought to be tiny, and some, like giants, incredibly tall), length of life, or magical abilities that marks those who are not quite human. As Katharine Briggs points out in The Vanishing People: “The kindness of the fairies was often capricious and … little mercy mingled with their justice. We are dealing with a pendulous people, trembling on the verge of annihilation, whose mirth is often hollow and whose beauty is precarious and glamorous. From such no great compassion can be expected.”

  THE WELL-BAKED MAN

  American Indian (Pima)

  The Magician had made the world but felt that something was missing. “What could it be?” he thought. “What could be missing?” Then it came to him that what he wanted on this earth was some beings like himself, not just animals. “How will I make them?” he thought. First he built himself a horno, an oven. Then he took some clay and formed it into a shape like himself.

  Now, Coyote was hanging around the way he usually does, and when Magician, who was Man Maker, was off gathering firewood, Coyote quickly changed the shape of that clay image. Man Maker built a fire inside the horno, then put the image in without looking at it closely.

  After a while the Magician said, “He must be ready now.” He took the image and breathed on it, whereupon it came to life. “Why don’t you stand up?” said Man Maker. “What’s wrong with you?” The creature barked and wagged its tail. “Ah, oh my, Coyote has tricked me,” he said. “Coyote changed my being into an animal like himself.”

  Coyote said, “Well, what’s wrong with it? Why can’t I have a pretty creature that pleases me?”

  “Oh my, well, all right, but don’t interfere again.” That’s why we have the dog; it was Coyote’s doing.

  So Man Maker tried again. “They should be companions to each other.” he thought. “I shouldn’t make just one.” He shaped some humans who were rather like himself and identical with each other in every part.

  “What’s wrong here?” Man Maker was thinking. Then he saw. “Oh my, that won’t do. How can they increase?” So he pulled a little between the legs of one image, saying, “Ah, that’s much better.” With his fingernail he made a crack in the other image. He put some pleasant feeling in them somewhere. “Ah, now it’s good. Now they’ll be able to do all the necessary things.” He put them in the horno to bake.

  “They’re done now,” Coyote told him. So Man Maker took them out and made them come to life.

  “Oh my, what’s wrong?” he said. “They’re underdone; they’re not brown enough. They don’t belong here—they belong across the water someplace.” He scowled at Coyote. “Why did you tell me they were done? I can’t use them here.”

  So the Magician tried again, making a pair like the last one and placing them in the oven. After a while he said, “I think they’re ready now.”

  “No, they aren’t done yet,” said Coyote. “You don’t want them to come out too light again; leave then in a little longer.”

  “Well, all right,” replied Man Maker. They waited, and then he took them out. “Oh my. What’s wrong? These are overdone. They’re burned too dark.” He put them aside. “Maybe I can use them some other place across the water. They don’t belong here.”

  For the fourth time Man Maker placed his images inside the oven. “Now, don’t interfere,” he said to Coyote, “you give me bad advice. Leave me alone.”

  This time the Magician did not listen to Coyote but took them out when he himself thought they were done. He made them come to life, and the two beings walked around, talked, laughed, and behaved in a seemly fashion. They were neither underdone nor overdone.

  “These are exactly right,” said Man Maker. “These really belong here; these I will use. They are beautiful.” So that’s why we have the Pueblo Indians.

  THE FINN MESSENGER

  Norway

  Neri Olavsson lived at Sönstveit for a while. His wife ran the farm while he was at sea. A strange thing happened to him one Christmas Eve, while he was off the China coast, and, according to Anne Godlid, it was this.

  It had been necessary for him to leave his wife while she was with child, and he was quite worried about her and very homesick.

  “If only there was some way of finding out how things are at home!” he said to one of his shipmates, a sailor who happened to be a Finn and was said to know more than the others, “I had to leave my wife when she was with child,” he said, “and heaven knows how it’s turned out!”

  “What’ll you give me if I bring word from home for you tonight?” said the other.

  “You certainly couldn’t do that!” said Neri.

  “If you’ll give me a pot of spirits, it’s in order!” said the sailor.

  “I’d gladly give you five, if
anything like that is humanly possible,” said Neri.

  “Well, if you have something at home you’d recognize again, I’ll fetch it,” said the sailor.

  Why yes, they had a queer silver spoon that had come from the huldre-folk and which they never used. It stood in a crack in the wall over the window. “Fetch that!” said Neri.

  The sailor said they had to stay as quiet as mice as long as it lasted, and this they promised to do. Then he chalked a circle on the deck and lay down inside it just as if he were dead. They all saw how he became paler and paler and lay there without moving a limb until the onlookers were downright terrified. He lay this way for some time, but suddenly he gave a start, got to his feet, and he was holding the spoon in his hands.

  “Here’s your silver spoon again,” he said to Neri. “Now I’ve been to Sönstveit.”

  “So I see,” said Neri; he recognized the spoon. “How was everything there?”

  “Oh, just fine,” said the sailor. “Your wife’s had a lovely big boy. Your mother was sitting inside a black house, spinning on a distaff. She was a little poorly, she said. But your father was down on his knees, out by the chopping block, cutting wood.”

  Neri wrote down the date and the hour right away.

  When he came home, he found out that everything was just as the sailor had said.

  “But the old silver spoon has disappeared!” they said. “One day there was a rumbling so the whole house shook. We never were able to figure out what it was, but since then we haven’t seen anything of the spoon!”

  “Well, here it is,” said Neri. “It’s been all the way to China!” And then he told then how it had happened.

  VASILISA THE BEAUTIFUL

  Russia

  In a certain kingdom there lived a merchant. Although he had been married for twelve years, he had only one daughter, called Vasilisa the Beautiful. When the girl was eight years old, her mother died. On her deathbed the merchant’s wife called her daughter, took a doll from under her coverlet, gave it to the girl, and said, “Listen, Vasilisushka. Remember and heed my last words. I am dying, and together with my maternal blessing I leave you this doll. Always keep it with you and do not show it to anyone. If you get into trouble, give the doll food, and ask its advice. When it has eaten, it will tell you what to do in your trouble.” Then the mother kissed her child and died.

  After his wife’s death the merchant mourned as is proper, and then began to think of marrying again. He was a handsome man and had no difficulty in finding a bride, but he liked best a certain widow. Because she was elderly and had two daughters on her own, of almost the age as Vasilisa, he thought that she was an experienced housewife and mother. So he married her, but was deceived, for she did not turn out to be a good mother for his Vasilisa.

  Vasilisa was the most beautiful girl in the village. Her stepmother and stepsisters were jealous of her beauty and tormented her by giving her all kinds of work to do, hoping that she would grow thin from toil and tanned from the exposure to the wind and sun; in truth, she had a most miserable life. But Vasilisa bore all this without complaint and became lovelier and more buxom every day, while the stepmother and her daughters grew thin and ugly from spite, although they always sat with folded hands like ladies.

  How did all this come about? Vasilisa was helped by her doll. Without its aid the girl could never have managed all that work. In return, Vasilisa sometimes did not eat, but kept the choicest morsels for her doll. And at night, when everyone was asleep, she would lock herself in the little room in which she lived, and would give the doll a treat, saying, “Now, little doll, eat, and listen to my troubles. I live in my father’s house but am deprived of all joy; a wicked stepmother is driving me from the white world. Tell me how I should live and what I should do.” The doll would eat, then would give her advice and comfort her in her trouble, and in the morning she would perform all the chores for Vasilisa, who rested in the shade and picked flowers while the flower beds were weeded, the cabbage sprayed, the water brought in, and the stove fired. The doll even showed Vasilisa an herb that would protect her from sunburn. She led an easy lfe, thanks to her doll.

  Several years went by. Vasilisa grew up and reached the marriage age. She was wooed by all the young men in the village, but no one would even look at the stepmother’s daughters. The stepmother was more spiteful than ever, and her answer to all the suitors was, “I will not give the youngest in marriage before the elder ones.” And each time she sent a suitor away, she vented her anger on Vasilisa in cruel blows.

  One day the merchant had to leave home for a long time in order to trade in distant lands. The stepmother moved to another house. Near that house was a thick forest, and in a glade of that forest there stood a hut, and in the hut lived Baba Yaga. She never allowed anyone to come near her and ate human beings as if they were chickens. Having moved into the new house, the merchant’s wife, hating Vasilisa, repeatedly sent the girl to the woods for one thing or another; but each time Vasilisa returned home safe and sound: her doll had showed her the way and kept her far from Baba Yaga’s hut.

  Autumn came. The stepmother gave evening work to all three maidens: the oldest had to make lace, the second had to knit stockings, and Vasilisa had to spin; and each one had to finish her task. The stepmother put out the lights all over the house, leaving only one candle in the room where the girls worked, and went to bed. The girls worked. The candle began to smoke; one of the stepsisters took up a scissors to trim it, but instead, following her mother’s order, she snuffed it out, as though inadvertently.

  “What shall we do now?” said the girls. “There is no light in the house and our tasks are not finished. Someone must run to Baba Yaga and get some light.”

  “The pins on my lace give me light,” said the one who was making lace. “I shall not go.”

  “I shall not go either,” said the one who was knitting stockings. “My knitting needles give me light.”

  “Then you must go,” both of them cried to their stepsister. “Go to Baba Yaga!” And they pushed Vasilisa out of the room.

  She went into her own little room, put the supper she had prepared before her doll, and said, “Now, dolly, eat, and aid me in my need. They are sending me to Baba Yaga for a light, and she will eat me up.”

  The doll ate the supper and its eyes gleamed like two candles. “Fear not, Vasilisushka,” it said. “Go where you are sent, only keep me with you all the time. With me in your pocket you will suffer no harm from Baba Yaga.” Vasilisa made ready, put her doll in her pocket, and, having made the sign of the cross, went into the deep forest.

  She walked in fear and trembling. Suddenly a horseman galloped past her: his face was white, he was dressed in white, his horse was white, and his horse’s trappings were white—daybreak came to the woods.

  She walked on farther, and a second horseman galloped past her: he was all red, he was dressed in red, and his horse was red—the sun began to rise.

  Vasilisa walked the whole night and the whole day, and only on the following evening did she come to the glade where Baba Yaga’s hut stood. The fence around the hut was made of human bones, and on the spikes were human skulls with staring eyes; the doors had human legs for doorposts, human hands for bolts, and a mouth with sharp teeth in place of a lock. Vasilisa was numb with horror and stood rooted to the spot. Suddenly another horseman rode by. He was all black, he was dressed in black, and his horse was black. He galloped up to Baba Yaga’s door and vanished, as though the earth had swallowed him up—night came. But the darkness did not last long. The eyes of all the skulls on the fence began to gleam, and the glade was as bright as day. Vasilisa shuddered with fear, but not knowing where to run, remained on the spot.

  Soon a terrible noise resounded through the woods; the trees crackled, the dry leaves rustled; from the woods Baba Yaga drove out in a mortar, prodding it on with a pestle, and sweeping her traces with a broom. She rode up to the gate, stopped, and sniffing the air around her, cried, “Fie, Fie! I smell a Russian
smell! Who is here?”

  Vasilisa came up to the old witch and, trembling with fear, bowed low to her and said, “It is I, grandmother. My stepsisters sent me to get some light.”

  “Very well.” said Baba Yaga. “I know them, but before I give you the light you must live with me and work for me; if not, I will eat you up.” Then she turned to the gate and cried, “Hey, my strong bolts, unlock! Open up, my wide gate!” The gate opened, and Baba Yaga drove in whistling. Vasilisa followed her, and then everything closed again.

  Having entered the room, Baba Yaga stretched herself out in her chair and said to Vasilisa, “Serve me what is in the stove, I am hungry.”

  Vasilisa lit a torch from the skulls on the fence and began to serve Yaga the food from the stove—and enough food had been prepared for ten people. She brought kvass, mead, beer, and wine from the cellar. The old witch ate and drank everything, leaving for Vasilisa only a little cabbage soup, a crust of bread, and a piece of pork. Then Baba Yaga made ready to go to bed and said, “Tomorrow after I go, see to it that you sweep the yard, clean the hut, cook the dinner, wash the linen, and go to the cornbin and sort out a bushel of wheat. And let everything be done, or I will eat you up!” Having given these orders, Baba Yaga began to snore.

  Vasilisa set the remnants of the old witch’s supper before her doll, wept bitter tears, and said, “Here, dolly, eat, and aid me in my need! Baba Yaga has given me a hard task to do and threatens to eat me up if I do not do it all. Help me!”

  The doll answered, “Fear not, Vasilisa the Beautiful! Eat your supper, say your prayers, and go to sleep; the morning is wiser than the evening.”