Not One Damsel in Distress

by Jane Yolen

  Li Chi bowed to them. “Dear parents,” she said, “since you have brought forth six daughters and no sons, it is as if you were childless. I am nothing. I am the sixth nothing in this family.” (For in those days girls were considered of no value in a Chinese family.)

  “You are not ‘nothing’ to us,” said her parents.

  “Nevertheless, I cannot take care of you when you are old,” Li Chi continued. “I only waste your food and clothing. What would be wrong in selling me to the serpent seekers and getting a bit of money for yourselves?”

  But her parents would not let her go. So Li Chi sneaked out of the house that very night and, in secret, presented herself to the authorities.

  “But do not bind my hands and feet,” she said. “Give me, rather, a sharp sword and a snake-hunting dog.”

  “What can you, a mere girl, do that ten men could not?” they asked.

  “What does it matter if I go armed or unarmed?” asked Li Chi.

  “You are right,” said the authorities. “The serpent will have you in the end.” And they gave her a sharp sword and the best serpent-hunting dog that could be found, for they were relieved not to have to search further.

  WHEN THE EIGHTH DAY of the eighth month arrived, Li Chi readied herself. She took several pecks of rice balls moistened with malt sugar and put them in a sack. Then, with the sack over her left shoulder and the sword over her right, she whistled up the dog and started up the steep Yung Mountains. Soldiers trailed behind her to make certain that she did not turn back.

  All day she climbed without stopping, and never a word she spoke to the men.

  At last she came to the serpent’s cave and only then turned to the captain of the troop. “Take your men back,” she said. “It would not do to have them be eaten.”

  The men were grateful to leave.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Li Chi got out the rice balls and put them at the mouth of the cave, lined up one on top of the other.

  “Oh serpent!” she called. “Eat these sweet rice balls and not poor pitiful me.” And she wept loudly, as if she were afraid.

  The serpent, smelling both the rice balls and the succulent girl, slithered out of the cave, headfirst. And that head was as large as a barrel.

  “I shall eat the rice balls, and then I shall eat you, as well,” it hissed.

  Opening its mouth wide to bite down on the sticky balls, the serpent momentarily obscured its own eyesight. That was the very moment Li Chi unleashed the snake-hunting dog.

  The dog made no distinction between a small adder and a great serpent, and it bit hard on the back of the serpent’s neck.

  The serpent tried to shake off the dog but could not.

  Then Li Chi came up from behind with the sword and scored deep gashes into the serpent’s neck.

  At this the serpent tried to back up and could not, so deep and awful were its wounds. So it tried instead to slide out farther to give itself more room to fight. But at each new length of its body, Li Chi struck with the sword and the snake-hunting dog bit with its sharp teeth.

  And very soon the serpent was bloodied all over. And very soon after that, it shook all over. And then it died.

  Li Chi waited until she was certain the serpent was dead, and then she went into the cave, where she found the skulls of the nine girls. She sighed, brought them out one by one by one, and put them into the sack, saying, “For your timidity you were devoured. How pitiful that is.”

  Then she went back down the mountain path, with the snake-hunting dog trotting behind.

  It is said that the king of Yueh learned of these events from a ballad singer and made Li Chi his queen. It is further said that he appointed Li Tan as his chief magistrate of the district around the Yung Mountains. Li Chi’s mother was given many honors, and her sisters were married off to noblemen. In this way, the girls brought honor and riches to the family.

  And from that day to this—​owing to the power and determination of one girl—​the Yung Mountains have been free of monster serpents.

  UNITED STATES/WHITE RIVER SIOUX

  Brave Woman Counts Coup

  The Sioux believe this to be a true story, but it has many elements of a folktale

  NOW, NOT ALL STORIES take place in the once-upon-a-time. This one happened less than two hundred years ago, when the Sioux lived in what is now Minnesota. The chief of this particular people was called Tawa Makoce, which means “his country.”

  In his youth Tawa Makoce was a good leader and a great warrior. As a man he married and had three sons and a daughter. When he no longer went out fighting with the young men, he proved a wise voice in the council.

  To have such a strong man for a father can be hard on the sons. And so it was with the sons of Tawa Makoce. They wanted to prove themselves worthy of him, and this made them reckless in battle. One by one by one they died fighting their enemies, the Crow.

  Soon only the daughter, Makhta, was left.

  Makhta was beautiful and proud. Not proud as some beautiful women are, strutting and preening and showing themselves off. And not so proud that she did not do the work that was expected of her. But proud within. She carried herself bravely in spite of losing her brothers, and she swore that she would never marry until she herself counted coup on the murderous Crow.

  Now, a woman of the Sioux does not ordinarily count coup, does not ride into the enemy camp and touch them with a coup stick, showing contempt for their ability to fight. But this is what Makhta said: “I will ride with the warriors of our people to the very cook fires of the Kangi Oyate, the Crow nation.”

  The men did not believe her, of course. They knew what a woman should do and what she should not. A woman cooked the food. A woman made the moccasins. A woman skinned the buffalo and stretched the hides. A woman did not count coup.

  Makhta was a beautiful woman, so, many of the young men had sent their fathers to her father with gifts of horses to show that they wished to make Makhta their wife. Red Horn, son of a chief, made his father go not once and not twice but three time to ask for Makhta in marriage.

  But each time Makhta said no.

  Now, there was one young man who desired her, as well, but he was too shy to say it, and too poor to make an offer for her. His name was Little Eagle and he only loved Makhta from afar.

  But even had she known of his love, Makhta would still have said no. Until her brothers were given their honor, until she could count coup for them, she would not marry.

  IT HAPPENED THAT the Crow, the Kangi Oyate, had moved onto lands that the White River Sioux believed were their own. So the young Sioux men decided to ride out in a war party and chase the Crows away.

  Makhta put on her best dress of white buckskin, with moccasins to match. She put on a necklace of shells. And thus dressed, she went to speak to her father.

  “My father,” she said, “now is the time I can do what I have promised. I will go with these warriors to the place where our enemy lives, and there I will count coup for my brothers’ honor. Give me permission to go.”

  Did he want to let her go? Of course not. Would he let her go? He saw her pride. Then he wept and said, “You are my last child. I see that I must go into my old age without children and without grandchildren around me. But you must ride. You have said it. Take my warbonnet and wear it, remembering your brothers.”

  SO, MAKHTA TOOK the warbonnet and gathered her brothers’ weapons—​the bows and arrows they had made with such loving care, the lance, the shield, the war club. She took her father’s best war pony. Then, renamed Brave Woman by her father, she mounted and rode with the young men toward the river, the Big Muddy, the Missouri.

  Did the young men want her to go? Of course not. Red Horn was furious. Little Eagle was afraid. But she had gotten her father’s permission; she wore his warbonnet. They could not send her away.

  So, they rode and rode for many days, gathering Sioux warriors from other villages as they went.

  When they came at last to a hill overlooking
the Crow village, it seemed as if the entire Crow nation—​hundreds of men, thousands of horses—​were waiting for them.

  “Should we go back?” one young man asked.

  “I have come to count coup to honor my brothers,” said Makhta. “I will not leave without doing so. Who will ride on with me?”

  Red Horn nodded. “I will.”

  She handed him her oldest brother’s lance and shield.

  “I will,” said Little Eagle.

  Makhta gave him her second brother’s bow and arrows.

  “I will,” said another young man, and to him Makhta gave her youngest brother’s war club.

  “We all will!” shouted the rest.

  “But what will you use?” asked Little Eagle.

  Makhta smiled and took her father’s curved coup stick wrapped in otter skin from her belt. “I will count coup with this. I am my father’s strong right arm.”

  And then she began a war chant, high and trembling. It put heart into the young warriors, and they turned with their horses and charged down into the midst of the boil of Crow.

  But the Sioux were so few and the Crow were so many, soon the young Sioux warriors were being beaten back.

  That was when Makhta kicked her father’s old war pony in the flanks with her heels and headed him right into the thick of the fight. All the while she kept singing that high, shrill war chant.

  One, two—​she reached out with the otter-fur coup stick, so close that she could easily count the four eagle feathers in one warrior’s hair, could see the bunches of crow feathers on another’s black-handled spear. When they saw her in the very midst of the battle, new heart was put into the Sioux warriors and they turned back again and renewed the fight.

  But once more the Sioux were beaten, overwhelmed by the number of enemies. This time a musket ball hit the old war pony in the chest. It fell to its knees and Makhta was tumbled onto the ground. Still, standing, she reached up to count coup, on a foot here, a leg there, as the Crow warriors battled around her.

  Red Horn rode by her, but he did not stop to help, for he was busy in the fight.

  Then Little Eagle rode over to her and got off his pony. He helped her mount up. He slapped the horse with her brother’s bow, and the pony—​wounded and weary—​bolted, taking Makhta out of the center of the battle and to a place of safety.

  From that position, Makhta rallied the rest of the Sioux for one last charge. And this time such was their fury—​and such was their pride—​that they drove the Crow away: away from the camp and away from the Missouri forever.

  But Little Eagle, on foot in the very red center of the fight, had taken a killing blow to the face. Makhta found him there, her brother’s bow still in his hand.

  “Let us build a scaffold for him here—​here where he died a true warrior,” said Makhta. “He honored my brothers and he honored the Sioux. He helped save our nation forever.” She drew her knife across her arms and legs till the blood ran, and cut slashes in her buckskin dress as a sign of deep mourning.

  The other warriors slew Little Eagle’s poor wounded pony to serve him in the Land of Many Lodges.

  When they all returned home, Red Horn was in disgrace for his part in the battle, for many of his companions had seen his refusal to help Makhta. He could not even look at her after that.

  But Makhta did not notice. As she told her father, “You are to call me Little Eagle’s widow, for in the heat of battle, we were wed in blood. I will mourn him as long as I mourn my brothers.”

  So, Makhta won the honor and respect of her people, and she held to her promise, mourning Little Eagle till the day she died.

  UNITED STATES/OZARK MOUNTAINS

  Pretty Penny

  Sometimes a quick wit is faster than a pointed gun

  WELL, THERE WAS ONCE a man named Old Jake who had a daughter named Penny—​about sixteen years old, she was, and round and shiny as her name, with long dark plaits and a button nose.

  Old Jake wasn’t a man to work hard. He just loaned out money at a high interest. And he didn’t trust anybody but his own daughter to bring that money home.

  “Take care of the Penny,” he would say, “and the dollars take care of themselves.”

  One day some folks over the east of town were ready to pay off their mortgage, and Old Jake sent Penny down the road to collect it. They gave her the hundred dollars they owed—​which was a lot of money in those days—​all in silver coins. She packed it up in a little paper sack, flung her plaits across her back, then headed for home.

  Huppity-one, huppity-two, she walked on down the road, minding her manners and tending to her own business, when behind her she heard the cloppity-clop of a great big horse.

  She moved to the roadside to let the horse and rider pass, but when they came by her and she looked up, she saw the rider was a road agent, a highway thief, with a red bandanna over his nose and mouth, and a pistol in his hand.

  “Howdy, Miz Penny!” he called. He sure knew her, though she didn’t know him.

  He jumped off that horse and grabbed her round the waist. Near tore her dress off reaching for her tote sack.

  “Give me that, girl!” he cried.

  She kicked and hollered and punched him; she slapped him with those thick dark plaits, but it was no good. She was a big girl, but he was a bigger man.

  When she saw he was getting the better of her, she tore open that sack and scattered the silver dollars all over the road.

  That road agent dropped her like she was a hot pan just off the fire, and began to scrabble around picking up the coins. Which was just what Penny was hoping.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she jumped onto his big horse, kicking it hard with her heels. Then off she rode to her pappy’s house.

  Well, the road agent got up off his knees and fired off one shot from his pistol. But he was too late. Penny was like the wind in a holler: hot and fast and gone.

  When she got home, Old Jake looked at her on that high horse. “What do you mean, riding around like a hoyden, your dress half tore off and the hair coming out of your plaits? And where is the tote sack full of my mortgage money?”

  Penny climbed off the horse, settled her dress to be more ladylike, bound up her plaits once more, and told him what had happened. Then she said, “Look in the saddlebags, Pappy.”

  And what do you think he found?

  Gold and silver, silver and gold. All that the road agent had stolen in a year.

  “Daughter,” Old Jake admitted, “you have worked harder this day than I have ever seen. There’s a hundred times more money in these saddlebags than was ever in that tote sack. You kept your honor, and your pappy’s as well.”

  “And I got us a good horse, and a saddle, too,” Penny pointed out.

  Did they keep what they got?

  Well, who was to tell on them? Not that road agent. He couldn’t say where he had happened on all that money. And there was a price on his head besides.

  Some say it shows that honesty pays off in the long run. Not me. I’d rather say a Penny goes a long way on the road to riches. And a quick-thinking Penny can be the start of a vast fortune.

  SCOTLAND

  Burd Janet

  Sometimes to be a hero means holding on; sometimes it means letting go

  ONCE, ON A WEEDY PIECE OF LAND called Carterhaugh, there was a strange, forbidding castle. It had been many years since anyone had lived in the place. Only the rats and mice and owls claimed it for a home.

  “Do not go down to Carterhaugh,” warned the mothers and fathers of the lands around. “It is a place of evil. Do not go there. The Fair Folk”—​and by this they meant the trooping fairies—​“own it now.”

  Most of the children heeded the warnings, but for a few of the more adventurous boys—​and they went down to Carterhaugh only on dares. They would go and leave a token, then hurry home again. But not a one of them ever went a second time.

  Now, there was one girl, the clan chief’s lass—​called Janet
by her mother but affectionately called Burd Janet by her nanny—​who laughed at the warnings when they came to her in turn. “I am not afraid,” she said. “My father’s father’s father owned Carterhaugh. It is mine by right, though I am not allowed to claim it. When I am old enough, I shall go there and take it for my own.”

  Her mother and father wept to hear her talk that way, for she was their only child and they loved her dearly. “Do not go,” they begged.

  But Janet had always had a mind of her own, even as a wee girl. The villagers all said she would never be wed, not with that temperament, even though her father was the chief of the clan. When Burd Janet said, “I will go to Carterhaugh,” no one doubted it was all but done.

  THE YEARS PASSED and Burd Janet turned sixteen, coming into her inheritance. Downstairs her family and friends had gathered to wish her well. A fiddle was scratching away, and a piper played the old tunes of glory. Burd Janet twisted her red-gold hair into a braid and fastened it atop her head. She put on her birthday gown, green as young willow. She pinned on a great length of her clan’s tartan. Then off she went down the backstairs, without being seen, and headed to Carterhaugh, leaving the singing, dancing guests behind.

  The night drew in soft around her, but the road grew rocky the closer she came to the river Yarrow. At the last she left the road, kirtled her long skirts above her knees, and bounded over the heathery hills toward the tumbledown towers of Carterhaugh. She had only the moon to light her way.

  When she got to the old castle, it was fully dark. Night birds called from the trees. The shadows of briars seemed sharper than the briars themselves. And the only spot of color there, besides Burd Janet herself, was a single red rose blooming from a thorny bush by the door.

  Burd Janet was afraid, but she would not show it. “Hullo, the house!” she called out in greeting. “Tonight I have come into my inheritance. By law I claim what is mine. This house and land belonged to my father’s father’s father, though it was stolen from him by the wickedness of the Fair Folk.”