Feminist Fairy Tales

by Barbara G. Walker

  “Surely,” Questa said to herself, “I am favored by the fairy queen, who came to me in person. How can I not obey her instruction?”

  Later that evening Questa made a bundle of her few shabby clothes, took food and a knife from the kitchen, stole a warm cloak that one of the knights had carelessly thrown aside, and crept unseen out of the castle.

  The full moon lighted the roadway before her. She ran as fast as she could until she was deep into the forest, then she slowed to catch her breath. She walked all night in the direction of the seacoast. At dawn she lay down behind a haystack in an open field and slept.

  During subsequent nights she traveled on foot in the same way, hiding during daylight hours, avoiding passersby, towns, and lighted dwellings. Her feet blistered, bled, and eventually toughened. When she ran out of food, she stole fruit from orchards, eggs from henhouses, bacon from smokehouses, and other provisions from sleeping farmsteads. Her solitary gypsy life made her alert and resourceful, but she was lonely and always afraid of being discovered and dragged back to face her father’s wrath.

  When she came to the seacoast, she listened to her cowrie shell. It said, “Here…here…here.” She sat down on the beach, leaned against a fishing boat drawn up above the tide line, and fell asleep.

  The next thing she knew, a hand was shaking her shoulder. She looked up and saw a handsome, curly haired young man with a coil of rope over his shoulder and a boat hook in his hand.

  “You’re sleeping on my boat,” he said. “I have to launch now. Go home and be lazy there.”

  “I have no home,” she murmured.

  “Where did you come from?” he asked.

  “From somewhere inland,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know much, do you?” he snorted. “Well, maybe I can use you. Are you any good with nets? My net needs mending, and I can’t handle everything by myself.”

  “I can sew and weave rope,” said Princess Questa.

  “All right, see what you can do with this.” He pulled a large net from the boat and spread it on the sand. “If it’s well mended when I come back ashore, I’ll give you a good fish dinner.”

  The young fisherman launched his boat and rowed away toward the horizon, leaving Questa to pull together the broken meshes of his net. Though she was weary from walking, she worked all day under the hot sun. By late afternoon her fingers were stiff and she was hungry, thirsty, and gritty with sand.

  The fisherman returned with a small net full of fish, saying that he needed his large net to catch more. He seemed pleased with Questa’s repair work. True to his word, he took her to his little cottage behind the dunes and cooked her a fine meal of fresh fish, oat bread, and apple pudding. She ate ravenously.

  Watching her, the fisherman asked, “You haven’t had much to eat lately, have you?”

  “No,” Questa answered, gobbling the last spoonful of pudding.

  “If you have no home, you could stay with me,” he offered. “I can give you food and a roof over your head. You can keep my house, mend my nets, and maybe even warm my bed for me.” He gave her an impish grin that made his cheeks dimple and his eyes sparkle attractively. “You’re not bad-looking, you know.”

  Questa felt drawn to him. “You’re not bad-looking either,” she said. “Maybe I’ll stay for a while.”

  She lived with the young fisherman and soon convinced herself that she loved him. For a while they were a happy couple, rejoicing in each other’s company. Princess Questa thought she had never been so content in her castle as she was in the fisherman’s cottage. But then things began to go wrong.

  Autumn storms were unusually violent, and the schools of fish deserted their regular feeding grounds. Day after day, the young fisherman went out to sea for longer and longer hours, returning with only a sparse catch. There were fewer fish to eat and fewer to sell. Still the king’s tax collectors came regularly for their accustomed tribute and would take nothing less. Questa and her fisherman had to sell some furniture and dishes to meet their demands. The cottage became less comfortable. “If I were on the throne instead of my greedy father,” Questa thought to herself, “I would have more mercy on the poor people.”

  The young fisherman no longer laughed and smiled with her. All the merriment went out of him. He toiled grimly but fell more and more into debt. Questa suggested that he give up fishing and try some other line of work. At this he flew into a rage and slapped her, shouting that he was and would always be a fisherman, like his father and his father’s father before him.

  As time went on, he became more surly and morose. On several other occasions he struck Questa, blaming her for his bad luck, hinting that she might have cast an evil spell on the fishing. “That’s ridiculous,” she protested. “I’m not responsible for your troubles. The king’s oppressive government is.”

  But because the fisherman dared not strike out or shout at the armed men who came for the tribute, he took out his rage on poor Questa. Soon she was living in fear again, slavishly hoping each day that he would catch enough fish to keep him from beating her when he returned from the sea.

  Sometimes when he was gone she went out to walk the dunes in the wintry wind, weeping and bewailing her fate. One misty morning in the dunes she saw again the lady in the silver gown.

  “Why do you weep?” the lady asked.

  “Alas,” said Questa, “I’m worse off than before. Now I am the servant of a man who has no gentlemanly manners at all and who abuses me whenever life frustrates him. How much lower can I fall?”

  “Then you must run away,” the lady said.

  “I can’t live on the open road in winter,” Questa cried. “If I don’t freeze, I’ll starve.”

  “Trust your destiny,” said the lady. “Listen to your amulet. This is your second trial.” Then she disappeared into the mist.

  Questa went back to the cottage and put her cowrie shell up to her ear. It whispered, “South…south…south.” So, before the fisherman could return and stop her, she gathered up her clothing, her knife, some provisions, all the money she could find, and a good pair of boots. She left the cottage, heading southward along the coast.

  Fortunately, the weather was not bitter cold. She was able to find shelter in empty barns, sheds, or shepherds’ huts. After traveling a long way, she came to a town where large ships put in at busy docks. Her weary feet brought her to a waterfront inn. She found the warm, welcoming firelight and the smell of hot food irresistibly alluring.

  The innkeeper looked at her shabby clothes and snapped, “No beggars allowed in here.”

  “I’m not a beggar,” Questa said indignantly. “I have money.” She displayed a few coins, and the man grudgingly gave her a piece of bread and a bowl of hot, thick soup. It seemed the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.

  When she finished, she asked the innkeeper if he knew anyone in need of a willing worker. “You want to work?” he said. “We need a maid right here. A penny a day, free lodging, and all the soup you can eat. But you’d better not be afraid of hard work.”

  Princess Questa assured him she was not afraid of hard work and took the job at the inn. She was given an apron, a broom, and a tiny bedroom up under the eaves. All that winter she worked long days, serving customers, making and remaking beds, cleaning rooms, doing laundry, scrubbing floors, washing dishes, helping the cook, and running errands. Her once-pretty hands became rough and raw with chilblains. Her back and legs often ached, and when she fell into her narrow bed every night she was exhausted. But she was content to be supporting herself. Frequently, men sought her favors and hinted that they would relieve her of drudgery, but she rebuffed them all, wishing only to be left alone.

  One flower-scented evening in spring, however, there came to the inn a young man who aroused Questa’s interest. He was a musician. He played his guitar and sang sweet, plaintive ballads for the customers, who came from miles around to hear him. The innkeeper was delighted by such volume of business and invited the musician to
stay on and give regular performances for a while. The musician agreed and was lodged on the floor below Questa’s garret. Sometimes at night she could hear him quietly practicing.

  Questa came to know the musician as an easygoing person, with a ready smile and a gentle manner. She succumbed to his soft charm, telling herself that a man so sweet-natured would never turn brutish and violent, as the fisherman had. She undertook to do the musician special favors: to wash and press his costumes, polish his boots, darn his socks, and save him tidbits from the kitchen, all out of what she thought was love.

  When the musician decided to move on, she went with him. They were happy together, free as birds, traveling from town to town, earning money through their music. Questa learned to play the guitar and to sing duets with him. They performed together for weddings, birthday parties, country fairs, well dressings, and festivals. They were invited to stay at inns, manor houses, farms, and community centers.

  For a while Questa enjoyed the life. She didn’t mind having to do all the practical work while her gentle musician did nothing but sing, or sat drinking wine and telling stories to his admirers.

  As time went on, however, she became increasingly irritated by his happy-go-lucky ways. He was never ill-tempered or impatient, but sometimes he was too indolent or too drunk to bother fulfilling one or another of his engagements. The word got around that he was not reliable. People became less eager for his services.

  Questa worked harder and harder, creating new costumes, arranging bookings, collecting a crowd, making excuses for him when he was too drunk to perform. Sometimes she had to do an entire show by herself. She wasn’t as accomplished a singer as he, so her audiences were disappointed. In addition, people had less and less money to spend on frivolities like music, due to the ever heavier taxes imposed by the king to support his wars.

  In vain Questa tried to keep the musician away from wine and to hearten him to work more. He only smiled sweetly, kissed her, and went off to the tavern. He drank up most of their profits. Questa was especially concerned because she knew that she would soon become a mother. The responsibility of caring for a child seemed to make no impression whatever on her idle musician.

  He was drunk when her baby son was born, and he was drunk most of the time afterward. He liked to play with the baby and sing lullabies, but he never helped with parental chores. Now that Questa was preoccupied with looking after her child, she couldn’t look after the musician’s career as she had before. Their audiences grew thinner and thinner.

  The musician didn’t seem to care whether he performed or not. He spent hours each day doing nothing at all. Questa grew angry and berated him for his indolence. He didn’t mind. He only smiled, petted her, whispered soothing love words, and fell asleep.

  They were living in a tent on the outskirts of a town where the musician had already worn out his welcome. Nevertheless, he went often to the tavern and left Questa alone with her baby. She sometimes wrapped up the child against the chill and went forth to walk the roads, begging a few coins from passersby and keeping herself warm by moving briskly.

  One day, on a lonely roadside, she found herself weeping uncontrollably into her baby’s hood. When she looked up, she saw the silver-gowned lady standing before her.

  “Why do you weep?” the lady asked.

  “I am penniless,” said Questa, “and though the musician is gentle and kind, he is as irresponsible as this child here. I can’t live like this.”

  “Then you must run away,” the lady said.

  “How can I care for my child as a homeless beggar?” Questa cried. “At least now he has a roof over his head, even if it is only a tent.”

  “You have passed through your third trial,” the lady said. “It’s time for you to remember that you are a princess. You have learned enough about your people. You know how weary they are of oppression and warfare. Instead of singing to them, you must tell them the things they need to hear.” Then she disappeared.

  Questa went back to the tent and listened to her cowrie shell. It whispered, “Speak…speak…speak.”

  She packed up all her belongings and went to the next town. There she used the skills she had learned to gather a crowd with music and song. Instead of entertaining, however, she made a speech. She told the people who she was and how she thought the government should be run. They cheered her seditious words.

  Afterward, a tall rangy man in forester’s clothing came to see her. He said he could gather an army of outlaws who were eager to overthrow the king but needed a legitimate heir to enthrone in his place. He proposed that Questa place herself at the head of his army and help prepare a people’s revolution.

  Questa agreed. She accompanied a growing ragtag army around the countryside, preaching her vision of a peaceful, equitable people’s government. She became known to all as Queen Questa. She created a flag, showing a golden cowrie shell on a background of royal blue. Peasants flocked to her standard.

  As it happened, the king had become ill and could no longer look after his affairs. Thinking that he had no heir, his rowdy knights were fighting among themselves for a chance at the succession. The government was neglected and corrupt, worse than ever. For such reasons, peasants and villagers were glad to join Queen Questa’s army in the hope of better living conditions for themselves and their families.

  When the outlaws finally completed their preparations and marched on the king’s castle, the king was on his deathbed. The knights were demoralized by the sight of an army so huge that it seemed to spread to the horizon on every side. Some of the knights, who had been guilty of especially cruel oppressions and feared retaliation, crept out of the castle by secret gates and ran away. Others put up a token resistance, but in the end they were forced to surrender.

  Questa entered the castle in triumph and faced her dying father, who recognized her and declared that she was the long-lost legitimate heir. She showed him her infant son, who would reign after her, and the old king died somewhat comforted.

  Queen Questa had herself crowned twice: once at a splendid coronation ceremony in the castle, and once with a wreath of wildflowers in the old fairy grove. She established a shrine there and made regular oblations to the ancient standing stone.

  Soon after she ascended the throne, Questa carried out all the reforms she had promised. She was merciful to the warlike knights, but she took away their lands and castles and made them take up honest trades. She also established strict compulsory reform schools for men who beat women or children. She sent palace guards to seek out offenders and compel them to attend such schools until their habits were changed. A few threats, as of grievous personal injury for noncompliance, went far toward helping such men take their lessons seriously.

  Queen Questa was loved by her people. She reigned well for many years and trained the young prince to do likewise. She never took a husband and lived happily ever after.

  THREE

  The wicked stepmother is ubiquitous in European fairy tales, whereas any father figure is usually given a good character. Snow White’s stepmother seems to have been vilified because (a) she resented being less beautiful than Snow White, and (b) she practiced witchcraft.

  One might suspect that female beauty was really a larger issue for men than for women, because male sexual response depends to a considerable degree on visual cues. Placing each “fair lady” (or anything else) somewhere on an arbitrary hierarchical scale seems to be a male idea. Women may recognize a thousand different types of beauty without having to make them compete.

  As for witchcraft, the last bastion of female spiritual power fell when the church declared its all-out war on witches, the name they gave to rural midwives, healers, herbalists, counselors, and village wisewomen, inheritors of the unraveling cloak of the pre-Christian priestess. A queen who was also a witch would have been a formidable figure, adding political influence to spiritual mana. Snow White’s stepmother therefore seems to me a projection of male jealousies. As re-envisioned in this story, she ma
y seem more true to life.

  Snow Night screamed and thrashed in a panic…

  Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess with skin white as snow and hair black as night, so she was called Snow Night. Her mother died when she was a baby, and her father remarried. Snow Night’s stepmother was a noted sorceress, and also famous for her beauty, of a more mature type than that of the young princess. Everyone at court watched with interest as Snow Night grew up to be a charming young woman. Particularly interested was her father’s Master of the Hunt, who was called Lord Hunter. He aspired to improve his rank by marrying a royal princess. Moreover, he found Snow Night exceedingly desirable. Therefore he made every effort to woo her. He sent her the best flowers plucked from the royal gardens and very bad poems plucked from his own mind. He subjected her to long monologues about his hunting successes. He hovered at her elbow in every procession and tried to fill her dance card with his own name at every grand ball.

  Snow Night, however, did her best to avoid him. Though he was arrogant and fancied himself a very gallant gentleman, she found his attentions unwelcome. His touch made her shudder. Lord Hunter was heavy, coarse, and greasy-haired. His breath stank, his fingernails were dirty, and his speech unrefined. Snow Night thought him repulsive. “If my father tries to make me marry a hideous old toad like Hunter,” she confided to her maid, “I’ll run away.”

  Lord Hunter also tried to make himself agreeable to the queen, hoping to become her confidant. The queen called him her huntsman and tolerated him with good grace. She was amused by his constant flattery and diverted by his gossip. Before long, he came to think of himself as the queen’s intimate friend, not knowing that she held a rather different view of the matter.

  One day Lord Hunter found Snow Night alone in a remote part of the castle gardens, and he seized the moment. He swept off his hat, bowed, and knelt at her feet (bumping down rather heavily), holding up a long-stemmed rosebud as an offering.