Angela Carter's Book Of Fairy Tales

by Angela Carter

  The last-born then climbed up the shade tree, picked up the baskets which the girl was stitching, and said, ‘Now bring me an axe.’

  The girl shouted once more:

  ‘Mother, come back!

  Mother, here is a man cutting our shade tree.

  Mother, come back!

  Mother, here is a man cutting our shade tree.

  Cut! Here is the tree falling in which I eat.

  Here it is falling.’

  The mother dropped down among the crowd:

  ‘Many as you are, I shall stitch you with the big needle.

  Stitch! Stitch!’

  But there was the troop already dragging the girl. They had tied her with their umbilical cords, yes, with their umbilical cords. The mother went on with her incantation:

  ‘Many as you are, I shall stitch you with the big needle.

  Stitch! Stitch!’

  In vain! The troop was already in the fields and the ngururu went up as far as God’s abode, and soon the children were in the town.

  As they reached it, the mother said, ‘Since you have carried away my child, I must tell you something. She is not to pound in the mortar, nor to go to fetch water at night. If you send her to do one of these things, mind you! I shall know where to find you.’

  Then the mother went back to her abode in the bush.

  The following day the king said, ‘Let us go hunting.’ And to his mother he said, ‘My wife must not pound in the mortar. All that she can do is to stitch baskets.’

  While the husband was away there in the open flat, the other wives as well as the mother-in-law said, ‘Why should not she also pound in the mortar?’

  When the girl was told to pound in the mortar, she said, ‘No.’

  A basket of kafir corn was brought to her.

  The mother-in-law herself took away the meal from the mortar, and then the other women in their turn brought corn and put it all there.

  So the girl pounded, singing at the same time:

  ‘Pound! At home I do not pound,

  Here I pound to celebrate my wedding.

  Yepu! Yepu!

  If I pound, I go to God’s.’

  She began to sink into the ground but she went on singing:

  ‘Pound! At home I do not pound,

  Here I pound to celebrate my wedding.

  Yepu! Yepu!

  If I pound, I go to God’s.’

  She was now in the ground as far as her hips, then as far as her chest.

  ‘Pound! At home I do not pound,

  Here I pound to celebrate my wedding.

  Yepu! Yepu!

  If I pound, I go to God’s.’

  Soon she was down as far as her neck. Now the mortar went on by itself pounding the grain on the ground, pounding on the ground. Finally the girl disappeared altogether.

  When nothing more was seen of her, the mortar still pounded as before on the ground.

  The women then said, ‘Now what shall we do?’

  They went and called a crane, and said, ‘Go and break the news to her mother. But, first, let us know, what will you say?’

  The crane said, ‘Wawani! Wawani!’

  They said, ‘That has no meaning, go back. Let us send for the crow.’

  The crow was called: ‘Now what will you say?’

  The crow said, ‘Kwa! Kwa! Kwa!’

  ‘The crow does not know how to call. Go, quail. How will you do?’

  The quail said, ‘Kwalulu! Kwalulu!’

  ‘The quail does not know how to do it either. Let us call the doves.’

  They said, ‘Let us hear, doves, what will you call to her mother?’

  Then they heard:

  ‘Kuku! Ku!

  She-who-nurses-the-sun is gone,

  She-who-nurses-the sun.

  You who dig,

  She-who-nurses-the-sun is gone,

  She-who-nurses-the-sun.’

  They said, ‘Go, you know how to do it, you.’

  The mother went when she heard the doves. There she was going toward the town. She carried medicines on a potsherd, also tails of animals with which she beat the air.

  While she was on the road, she met a zebra:

  ‘Zebra, what are you doing?

  – Nsenkenene.

  The wife of my father is dead.

  – Nsenkenene.

  O mother! You shall die.

  – Nsenkenene.’

  The zebra died. The woman went on, went on, went on, and then found people digging:

  ‘You who dig, what are you doing?

  – Nsenkenene.

  The wife of my father is dead.

  – Nsenkenene.

  O mother! You shall die.

  – Nsenkenene.’

  They also died. The woman went on and went on, then she found a man beating a skin:

  ‘You who beat, what are you doing?

  – Nsenkenene.

  The wife of my father is dead.

  – Nsenkenene.

  O mother! You shall die.

  – Nsenkenene.’

  When she reached the town there:

  ‘Let me gather, let me gather

  The herd of my mother.

  Mwinsa, get up.

  Let me gather the herd.

  ‘Let me gather, let me gather

  The herd of my father.

  Mwinsa, get up.

  Let me gather the herd.’

  She then heard the mortar still sounding right above the child.

  So she sprayed one medicine, then another.

  There was the child already pounding from under the ground. Little by little the head came out. Then the neck, and the song was heard again:

  ‘Pound! At home I do not pound,

  Here I pound to celebrate my wedding.

  Yepu! Yepu!

  If I pound, I go to God’s.’

  The child was now in full view. Finally she stepped outside.

  I have finished.

  THE PRINCESS IN THE SUIT OF LEATHER

  (EGYPTIAN)

  either here nor elsewhere lived a king who had a wife whom he loved with all his heart and a daughter who was the light of his eyes. The princess had hardly reached womanhood when the queen fell ill and died. For one whole year the king kept vigil, sitting with bowed head beside her tomb. Then he summoned the matchmakers, elderly women wise in the ways of living, and said, ‘I wish to marry again. Here is my poor queen’s anklet. Find me the girl, rich or poor, humble or well-born, whose foot this anklet will fit. For I promised the queen as she lay dying that I would marry that girl and no other.’

  The matchmakers traveled up and down the kingdom looking for the king’s new bride. But search and search as they would, they could not find a single girl around whose ankle the jewel would close. The queen had been such that there was no woman like her. Then one old woman said, ‘We have entered the house of every maiden in the land except the house of the king’s own daughter. Let us go to the palace.’

  When they slipped the anklet on to the princess’s foot, it suited as if it had been made to her measure. Out of the seraglio went the women at a run, straight into the king’s presence, and said, ‘We have visited every maiden in your kingdom, but none was able to squeeze her foot into the late queen’s anklet. None, that is, except the princess your daughter. She wears it as easily as if it were her own.’ A wrinkled matron spoke up: ‘Why not marry the princess? Why give her to a stranger and deprive yourself?’ The words were hardly spoken when the king summoned the qadi to pen the papers for the marriage. To the princess he made no mention of his plan.

  Now there was a bustle in the palace as the jewelers, the clothiers, and the furnishers came to outfit the bride. The princess was pleased to know that she was to be wed. But who her husband was she had no inkling. As late as the ‘night of the entering’, when the groom first sees the bride, she remained in ignorance even though the servants with their whispers were busy around her, combing and pinning and making her beautiful. At last the minister’
s daughter, who had come to admire her in her finery, said, ‘Why are you frowning? Were not women created for marriage with men? And is there any man whose standing is higher than the king’s?’

  ‘What is the meaning of such talk?’ cried the princess. ‘I won’t tell you,’ said the girl, ‘unless you give me your golden bangle to keep.’ The princess pulled off the bracelet, and the girl explained how everything had come about so that the bridegroom was no other than the princess’s own father.

  The princess turned whiter than the cloth on her head and trembled like one who is sick with the forty-day fever. She rose to her feet and sent away all who were with her. Then, knowing only that she must escape, she ran on to the terrace and leaped over the palace wall, landing in a tanner’s yard which lay below. She pressed a handful of gold into the tanner’s palm and said, ‘Can you make me a suit of leather to hide me from head to heels, showing nothing but my eyes? I want it by tomorrow’s dawn.’

  The poor man was overjoyed to earn the coins. He set to work with his wife and children. Cutting and stitching through the night they had the suit ready, before it was light enough to know a white thread from a dark. Wait a little! and here comes our lady, the princess. She put on the suit – such a strange spectacle that anyone looking at her would think he was seeing nothing but a pile of hides. In this disguise she left the tanner and lay down beside the city gate, waiting for the day.

  Now to return to my lord the king. When he entered the bridal chamber and found the princess gone, he sent his army into the city to search for her. Time and again a soldier would stumble upon the princess lying at the gate and ask, ‘Have you seen the king’s daughter?’ And she would reply:

  My name is Juleidah for my coat of skins,

  My eyes are weak, my sight is dim,

  My ears are deaf, I cannot hear.

  I care for no one far or near.

  When it was day and the city gate was unbarred, she shuffled out until she was beyond the walls. Then she turned her face away from her father’s city and fled.

  Walking and running, one foot lifting her and one foot setting her down, there was a day when, with the setting of the sun, the princess came to another city. Too weary to travel a step farther, she fell to the ground. Now her resting place was in the shadow of the wall of the women’s quarters, the harem of the sultan’s palace. A slave girl, leaning from the window to toss out the crumbs from the royal table, noticed the heap of skins on the ground and thought nothing of it. But when she saw two bright eyes staring out at her from the middle of the hides, she sprang back in terror and said to the queen, ‘My lady, there is something monstrous crouching under our window. I have seen it, and it looks like nothing less than an Afreet!’ ‘Bring it up for me to see and judge,’ said the queen.

  The slave girl went down shivering with fear, not knowing which was the easier thing to face, the monster outside or her mistress’s rage should she fail to do her bidding. But the princess in her suit made no sound when the slave girl tugged at a corner of the leather. The girl took courage and dragged her all the way into the presence of the sultan’s wife.

  Never had such an astonishing creature been seen in that country. Lifting both palms in amazement, the queen asked her servant, ‘What is it?’ and then turned to the monster and asked, ‘Who are you?’ When the heap of skins answered –

  My name is Juleidah for my coat of skins,

  My eyes are weak, my sight is dim,

  My ears are deaf, I cannot hear.

  I care for no one far or near.

  – how the queen laughed at the quaint reply! ‘Go bring food and drink for our guest,’ she said, holding her side. ‘We shall keep her to amuse us.’ When Juleidah had eaten, the queen said, ‘Tell us what you can do, so that we may put you to work about the palace.’ ‘Anything you ask me to do, I am ready to try,’ said Juleidah. Then the queen called, ‘Mistress cook! Take this broken-winged soul into your kitchen. Maybe for her sake God will reward us with His blessings.’

  So now our fine princess was a kitchen skivvy, feeding the fires and raking out the ashes. And whenever the queen lacked company and felt bored, she called Juleidah and laughed at her prattle.

  One day the wazir sent word that all the sultan’s harem was invited to a night’s entertainment in his house. All day long there was a stir of excitement in the women’s quarters. As the queen prepared to set out in the evening, she stopped by Juleidah and said, ‘Won’t you come with us tonight? All the servants and slaves are invited. Aren’t you afraid to stay alone?’ But Juleidah only repeated her refrain:

  My ears are deaf, I cannot hear.

  I care for no one far or near.

  One of the serving girls sniffed and said, ‘What is there to make her afraid? She is blind and deaf and wouldn’t notice an Afreet even if he were to jump on top of her in the dark!’ So they left.

  In the women’s reception hall of the wazir’s house there was dining and feasting and music and much merriment. Suddenly, at the height of the talk and enjoyment, such a one entered that they all stopped in the middle of the word they were speaking. Tall as a cypress, with a face like a rose and the silks and jewels of a king’s bride, she seemed to fill the room with light. Who was it? Juleidah, who had shaken off her coat of leather as soon as the sultan’s harem had gone. She had followed them to the wazir’s, and now the ladies who had been so merry began to quarrel, each wanting to sit beside the newcomer.

  When dawn was near, Juleidah took a handful of gold sequins from the fold of her sash and scattered them on the floor. The ladies scrambled to pick up the bright treasure. And while they were occupied, Juleidah left the hall. Quickly, quickly she raced back to the palace kitchen and put on the coat of leather. Soon the others returned. Seeing the heap of hides on the kitchen floor, the queen poked it with the toe of her red slipper and said, ‘Truly, I wish you had been with us to admire the lady who was at the entertainment.’ But Juleidah only mumbled, ‘My eyes are weak, I cannot see . . .’ and they all went to their own beds to sleep.

  When the queen woke up next day, the sun was high in the sky. As was his habit, the sultan’s son came in to kiss his mother’s hand and bid her good morning. But she could talk only of the visitor at the wazir’s feast. ‘O my son,’ she sighed, ‘it was a woman with such a face and such a neck and such a form that all who saw her said, “She is the daughter of neither a king nor a sultan, but of someone greater yet!”’ On and on the queen poured out her praises of the woman, until the prince’s heart was on fire. Finally his mother concluded, ‘I wish I had asked her father’s name so that I could engage her to be your bride.’ And the sultan’s son replied, ‘When you return tonight to continue your entertainment, I shall stand outside the wazir’s door and wait until she leaves. I’ll ask her then about her father and her station.’

  At sunset the women dressed themselves once more. With the folds of their robes smelling of orange blossom and incense and their bracelets chinking on their arms, they passed by Juleidah lying on the kitchen floor and said, ‘Will you come with us tonight?’ But Juleidah only turned her back on them. Then as soon as they were safely gone, she threw off her suit of leather and hurried after them.

  In the wazir’s hall the guests pressed close around Juleidah, wanting to see her and ask where she came from. But to all their questions she gave no answer, whether yes or no, although she sat with them until the dawning of the day. Then she threw a fistful of pearls on the marble tiles, and while the women pushed one another to catch them, she slipped away as easily as a hair is pulled out of the dough.

  Now who was standing at the door? The prince, of course. He had been waiting for this moment. Blocking her path, he grasped her arm and asked who her father was and from what land she came. But the princess had to be back in her kitchen or her secret would be known. So she fought to get away, and in the scuffle, she pulled the prince’s ring clean off his hand. ‘At least tell me where you come from!’ he shouted after her as she ran. ‘By Allah,
tell me where!’ And she replied, ‘I live in a land of paddles and ladles.’ Then she fled into the palace and hid in her coat of hides.

  In came the others, talking and laughing. The prince told his mother what had taken place and announced that he intended to make a journey. ‘I must go to the land of the paddles and ladles,’ he said. ‘Be patient, my son,’ said the queen. ‘Give me time to prepare your provisions.’ Eager as he was, the prince agreed to delay his departure for two days – ‘But not one hour more!’

  Now the kitchen became the busiest corner of the palace. The grinding and sieving, the kneading and the baking began and Juleidah stood watching. ‘Away with you,’ cried the cook, ‘this is no work for you!’ ‘I want to serve the prince our master like the rest!’ said Juleidah. Willing and not willing to let her help, the cook gave her a piece of dough to shape. Juleidah began to make a cake, and when no one was watching, she pushed the prince’s ring inside it. And when the food was packed Juleidah placed her own little cake on top of the rest.

  Early on the third morning the rations were strapped into the saddlebags, and the prince set off with his servants and his men. He rode without slackening until the sun grew hot. Then he said, ‘Let us rest the horses while we ourselves eat a mouthful.’ A servant, seeing Juleidah’s tiny loaf lying on top of all the rest, flung it to one side. ‘Why did you throw that one away?’ asked the prince. ‘It was the work of the creature Juleidah; I saw her make it,’ said the servant. ‘It is as misshapen as she is.’ The prince felt pity for the strange half-wit and asked the servant to bring back her cake. When he tore open the loaf, look, his own ring was inside! The ring he lost the night of the wazir’s entertainment. Understanding now where lay the land of ladles and paddles, the prince gave orders to turn back.

  When the king and queen had greeted him, the prince said, ‘Mother, send me my supper with Juleidah.’ ‘She can barely see or even hear,’ said the queen. ‘How can she bring your supper to you?’ ‘I shall not eat unless Juleidah brings the food,’ said the prince. So when the time came, the cooks arranged the dishes on a tray and helped Juleidah lift it on to her head. Up the stairs she went, but before she reached the prince’s room she tipped the dishes and sent them crashing to the floor. ‘I told you she cannot see,’ the queen said to her son. ‘And I will only eat what Juleidah brings,’ said the prince.