Not all of the women evaporated when they climbed a palm tree, but the parents of the offender were cautioned and cleansing rituals were performed to appease the gods for her misdeed. A she-goat and a hen had to be sacrificed, and kola nut, yams, and alligator pepper were placed on shrines. The people of this village did not eat meat, and to sacrifice an animal, one had to find a goat willing to offer itself for sacrifice. You can imagine how hard that must be.
Well, there was a young woman named Yaya, your great-grandmother. Most people dismissed her as an eccentric. She was married to a young conservative man whose job was to talk sense into families who were having internal disputes. He had a respectable reputation. Everyone loved him, since he had saved marriages, friendships, and family relationships. But his woman, well, she was a different story. She wrote for the town newspaper but that wasn’t the problem. Her problem was her mouth.
She’d argue with anyone who was game. And as she was smart, and she was beautiful, so all the men in the village liked to engage her in discussion. The problem was she’d mastered the art of arguing and the men would either grow infuriated or stalk away exasperated. Rumor had it that the only argument she lost was with the man she married.
Yaya was a free spirit and when she wasn’t arguing, she was laughing loudly and joking with her husband. But one day Yaya was arguing with Old Man Rum Cake, the village chief elder. Cake was over a hundred years old and he liked to watch Yaya flit about the village. She both annoyed and intrigued him.
This was the reason for his comment about the glass of palm wine she was sipping: “You know women aren’t even supposed to climb palm trees, let alone drink it when it is sweet,” he said.
At the time, Yaya only humphed at his comment, and went on with their argument about whether garri was better than farina with stew. Nevertheless, Yaya’s mind filed the comment away, to chew on later. It didn’t take much to get Yaya’s gears going.
That very evening, she ravished her husband into exhaustion, and while he slept his deepest sleep, she dressed and snuck out of the house. Under the mask of night, she crept toward the three palm trees that grew in the center of town, wrapped a rope around her waist and shimmied up the trunk of one of the trees. She took her knife out of her pocket and carved a circle about a foot in diameter, her people’s sign for female: a moon. Then she cut three huge leaves and brought them down with her, setting them at the trunk of the tree.
The next morning was chaos. Men looked confused. Some women wailed. What was to become of their desecrated village? The chief called a town meeting—the culprit had to be located and punished. But who would do such a thing? What woman could survive such an encounter? Yaya almost died with laughter, pinching her nose and feigning several sneezes and coughs. Cake proposed that the woman who did it had most likely evaporated. “And good riddance to bad rubbish,” he said.
The next week she struck again, this time tapping palm wine from one of the trees and leaving the jug at the trunk of the tree. Next to the moon she carved a heart, the sign for Erzulie, the village’s Mother symbol. This time, it was mostly the men who were in an uproar. The women were quiet, some of them even smiling to themselves. A month later, Yaya struck a third time. This time, however, she almost got caught. Three men had been assigned to walk the village streets at night. For the entire month Yaya had watched them, pretending to enjoy sitting near the window reading. She thought she had adequately memorized their night watch patterns. Still, there she was in the palm tree just as one of the men came strolling up. Yaya froze, her cloak fluttering in the breeze, her hands dripping with tapped wine. Her heart was doing acrobatics. The young man looked up directly at Yaya. Then he looked away and turned around, heading back up the street, reaching into his pocket for a piece of gum. Yaya just sat there, leaning against her rope. He hadn’t seen her. He’d looked right through her. She glanced at the heart she had carved in the tree next to the moon. She gasped and then giggled, a mixture of relief and awe. The carving pulsed and Yaya knew if she touched it, it would be pleasantly warm.
When she got home, there was a green jug in front of her bed. She glanced at her snoozing husband and quietly picked it up and brought it to her lips. It was the sweetest palm wine she’d ever tasted, as if only a split second ago it had dripped from the tree. She plopped into bed next to her husband, more inebriated than she’d ever been in her life.
In the morning, her husband smelled the sweetness on her and was reluctant to go to work. Later on people smelled her in the newsroom, too. Many of her coworkers bought chocolates and cakes that day to soothe a mysterious craving. They began calling the mysterious woman who could survived climbing palm trees the Palm Tree Bandit and eventually, as it always happened in villages, a story began to gel around her.
The Palm Tree Bandit was not human. She was a polluting spirit whose only reason for existing was to cause trouble. If there was a night without moon—such nights were thought to be the time of evil—she would strike. The chief, who was also the village priest, burned sacrificial leaves, hoping to appease whatever god was punishing the village with such an evil presence.
However, the women developed another story amongst themselves. The Palm Tree Bandit was a nameless wandering woman with no man or children. And she had powers. And if a woman prayed hard enough to her, she’d answer their call because she understood their problems. Legend had it that she had legs roped with muscle that could walk up a palm tree without using her hands, and her hair grew in the shape of palm leaves. Her skin was shiny from the palm oil she rubbed into it and her clothes were made of palm fibers.
Soon, Yaya realized she didn’t have to keep shimmying up palm trees. One moonless night she had contemplated going out to cause some mischief but decided to snuggle against her husband instead. Nevertheless, when she woke up, she found another jug of palm wine wrapped in green fresh palm tree leaves inside her basket full of underwear. There were oily red footprints leading from the basket to the window next to it. Yaya grinned as she quickly ran to get a soapy washcloth to scrub the oil from the floor before her husband saw it. That day, the village was alive with chatter again. And the Palm Tree Bandit’s mischievousness spread to other villages, kingdoms away. Instead of an uproar, it became a typical occurrence. And the palm wine tapped was as sweet as ever and the leaves grew wide and tough. Only the chief and his ensemble were upset by it anymore. Otherwise, it was just something more to argue and giggle about.
Eventually, women were allowed to climb palm trees for whatever reason. But they had to offer sacrifices to the Palm Tree Bandit first. Shrines were built honoring her and women often left her bottles of sweet fresh palm wine and coconut meat. No matter where the shrine was, when morning came, these items were always gone. So your great-grandmother was a powerful woman, yes, she was. Just as squirmy as you, girl.
My story is done, and so is your hair. Here you are, Yaya number four. Of this story, there’s no more. Run along now.
ELEANOR ARNASON
The Grammarian’s Five Daughters
Eleanor Arnason is an American writer. Her short fiction can be found in New Worlds, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, among others. Her latest collection is Big Mama Stories. Because much her work deals with cultural and societal change, she has often been compared to Ursula K. Le Guin. Arnason was the recipient of the first James Tiptree, Jr. Award. Her fiction has also won the Mythopoeic Award, the Spectrum Award, and the HOMer Award. In this original fairytale, a mother sends her five daughters off to conquer the world in their own ways. “The Grammarian’s Five Daughters” was first published in Realms of Fantasy in 1999.
Once there was a grammarian who lived in a great city that no longer exists, so we don’t have to name it. Although she was learned and industrious and had a house full of books, she did not prosper. To make the situation worse, she had five daughters. Her husband, a diligent scholar with no head for business, died soon after the fifth daughter was born, an
d the grammarian had to raise them alone. It was a struggle, but she managed to give each an adequate education, though a dowry—essential in the grammarian’s culture—was impossible. There was no way for her daughters to marry. They would become old maids, eking (their mother thought) a miserable living as scribes in the city market. The grammarian fretted and worried, until the oldest daughter was fifteen years old.
Then the girl came to her mother and said, “You can’t possibly support me, along with my sisters. Give me what you can, and I’ll go out and seek my fortune. No matter what happens, you’ll have one less mouth to feed.”
The mother thought for a while, then produced a bag. “In here are nouns, which I consider the solid core and treasure of language. I give them to you because you’re the oldest. Take them and do what you can with them.”
The oldest daughter thanked her mother and kissed her sisters and trudged away, the bag of nouns on her back.
Time passed. She traveled as best she could, until she came to a country full of mist. Everything was shadowy and uncertain. The oldest daughter blundered along, never knowing exactly where she was, till she came to a place full of shadows that reminded her of houses.
A thin, distant voice cried out, “Oyez. The king of this land will give his son or daughter to whoever can dispel the mist.”
The oldest daughter thought a while, then opened her bag. Out came the nouns, sharp and definite. Sky leaped up and filled the grayness overhead. Sun leaped up and lit the sky. Grass spread over the dim gray ground. Oak and elm and poplar rose from grass. House followed, along with town and castle and king.
Now, in the sunlight, the daughter was able to see people. Singing her praise, they escorted her to the castle, where the grateful king gave his eldest son to her. Of course they married and lived happily, producing many sharp and definite children.
In time they ruled the country, which acquired a new name: Thingnesse. It became famous for bright skies, vivid landscapes, and solid, clear-thinking citizens who loved best what they could touch and hold.
Now the story turns to the second daughter. Like her sister, she went to the grammarian and said, “There is no way you can support the four of us. Give me what you can, and I will go off to seek my fortune. No matter what happens, you will have one less mouth to feed.”
The mother thought for a while, then produced a bag. “This contains verbs, which I consider the strength of language. I give them to you because you are my second child and the most fearless and bold. Take them and do what you can with them.”
The daughter thanked her mother and kissed her sisters and trudged away, the bag of verbs on her back.
Like her older sister, the second daughter made her way as best she could, coming at last to a country of baking heat. The sun blazed in the middle of a dull blue, dusty sky. Everything she saw seemed overcome with lassitude. Honeybees, usually the busiest of creatures, rested on their hives, too stupefied to fly in search of pollen. Plowmen dozed at their plows. The oxen in front of the plows dozed as well. In the little trading towns, the traders sat in their shops, far too weary to cry their wares.
The second daughter trudged on. The bag on her back grew ever heavier and the sun beat on her head, until she could barely move or think. Finally, in a town square, she came upon a man in the embroidered tunic of a royal herald. He sat on the rim of the village fountain, one hand trailing in water.
When she came up, he stirred a bit, but was too tired to lift his head. “Oy—” he said at last, his voice whispery and slow. “The queen of this country will give—give a child in marriage to whoever can dispel this stupor.”
The second daughter thought for a while, then opened her bag. Walk jumped out, then scamper and canter, run and jump and fly. Like bees, the verbs buzzed through the country. The true bees roused themselves in response. So did the country’s birds, farmers, oxen, housewives, and merchants. In every town, dogs began to bark. Only the cats stayed curled up, having their own schedule for sleeping and waking.
Blow blew from the bag, then gust. The country’s banners flapped. Like a cold wind from the north or an electric storm, the verbs hummed and crackled. The daughter, amazed, held the bag open until the last slow verb had crawled out and away.
Townsfolk danced around her. The country’s queen arrived on a milk-white racing camel. “Choose any of my children. You have earned a royal mate.”
The royal family lined up in front of her, handsome lads and lovely maidens, all twitching and jittering, due to the influence of the verbs.
All but one, the second daughter realized: a tall maid who held herself still, though with evident effort. While the other royal children had eyes like deer or camels, this one’s eyes—though dark—were keen. The grammarian’s daughter turned toward her.
The maiden said, “I am the crown princess. Marry me and you will be a queen’s consort. If you want children, one of my brothers will bed you. If we’re lucky, we’ll have a daughter to rule after I am gone. But no matter what happens, I will love you forever, for you have saved my country from inaction.”
Of course, the grammarian’s daughter chose this princess.
Weary of weariness and made restless by all the verbs, the people of the country became nomads, riding horses and following herds of great-horned cattle over a dusty plain. The grammarian’s second daughter bore her children in carts, saw them grow up on horseback, and lived happily to an energetic old age, always side by side with her spouse, the nomad queen. The country they ruled, which had no clear borders and no set capital, became known as Change.
Now the story turns back to the grammarian. By this time her third daughter had reached the age of fifteen.
“The house has been almost roomy since my sisters left,” she told her mother. “And we’ve had almost enough to eat. But that’s no reason for me to stay, when they have gone to seek their fortunes. Give me what you can, and I will take to the highway. No matter what happens, you’ll have one less mouth to feed.”
“You are the loveliest and most elegant of my daughters,” said the grammarian. “Therefore I will give you this bag of adjectives. Take them and do what you can with them. May luck and beauty go with you always.”
The daughter thanked her mother, kissed her sisters, and trudged away, the bag of adjectives on her back. It was a difficult load to carry. At one end were words like rosy and delicate, which weighed almost nothing and fluttered. At the other end, like stones, lay dark and grim and fearsome. There seemed no way to balance such a collection. The daughter did the best she could, trudging womanfully along until she came to a bleak desert land. Day came suddenly here, a white sun popping into a cloudless sky. The intense light bleached colors from the earth. There was little water. The local people lived in caves and canyons to be safe from the sun.
“Our lives are bare stone,” they told the grammarian’s third daughter, “and the sudden alternation of blazing day and pitchblack night. We are too poor to have a king or queen, but we will give our most respected person, our shaman, as spouse to anyone who can improve our situation.”
The third daughter thought for a while, then unslung her unwieldy bag, placed it on the bone-dry ground, and opened it. Out flew rosy and delicate like butterflies. Dim followed, looking like a moth.
“Our country will no longer be stark,” cried the people with joy. “We’ll have dawn and dusk, which have always been rumors.”
One by one the other adjectives followed: rich, subtle, beautiful, luxuriant. This last resembled a crab covered with shaggy vegetation. As it crept over the hard ground, plants fell off it—or maybe sprang up around it—so it left a trail of greenness.
Finally, the bag was empty except for nasty words. As slimy reached out a tentacle, the third daughter pulled the drawstring tight. Slimy shrieked in pain. Below it in the bag, the worst adjectives rumbled, “Unjust! Unfair!”
The shaman, a tall, handsome person, was nearby, trying on various adjectives. He/she/it was especially intereste
d in masculine, feminine, and androgynous. “I can’t make up my mind,” the shaman said. “This is the dark side of our new condition. Before, we had clear choices. Now, the new complexity puts all in doubt.”
The sound of complaining adjectives attracted the shaman. He, she, or it came over and looked at the bag, which still had a tentacle protruding and wiggling.
“This is wrong. We asked for an end to starkness, which is not the same as asking for prettiness. In there—at the bag’s bottom—are words we might need someday: sublime, awesome, terrific, and so on. Open it up and let them out.”
“Are you certain?” asked the third daughter.
“Yes,” said the shaman.
She opened the bag. Out crawled slimy and other words equally disgusting. The shaman nodded with approval as more and more unpleasant adjectives appeared. Last of all, after grim and gruesome and terrific, came sublime. The word shone like a diamond or a thundercloud in sunlight.
“You see,” said the shaman. “Isn’t that worth the rest?”
“You are a holy being,” said the daughter, “and may know things I don’t.”
Sublime crawled off toward the mountains. The third daughter rolled up her bag. “All gone,” she said. “Entirely empty.”
The people looked around. Their land was still a desert, but now clouds moved across the sky, making the sunlight on bluff and mesa change. In response to this, the desert colors turned subtle and various. In the mountains rain fell, misty gray, feeding clear streams that ran in the bottoms of canyons. The vegetation there, spread by the land-crab luxuriant and fed by the streams, was a dozen—two dozen—shades of green.
“Our land is beautiful!” the people cried. “And you shall marry our shaman!”
But the shaman was still trying on adjectives, unable to decide if she, he, or it wanted to be feminine or masculine or androgynous.
Sisters of the Revolution Page 6