Reason to Beat Your Missus

What is the purpose of taking a traditional story from one culture and positioning it in another? I have noticed that many storytellers do this and some even claim that the story they are telling is from their own culture. There are a number of issues to explore here, including ethics and professionalism. 

It is possible to set the tale of Stone Soup anywhere and in any time because of its archetypal nature. However, I don't believe that all folktales adapt to the country to which they have been brought to, and more to the point, I don't think that they should. I like the idea that people can bring their own traditional tales to another country and tell them as they are without having to adapt them to the dominant culture.

 As to claiming that a particular story is from your own culture and you know that its not, then this is simply appropriation, or cultural theft; an act that is all too common in the history of many indigenous people's. We now live in a time where we have access to the stories of many cultures and traditions and the internet has made it possible to research story sources hitherto only available through particular libraries. One of the joys of storytelling for me is to discover the provenance of folktales and acknowledge their origins and travels. 

Do I still tell tales that I have 'Australianised'? I do tell Stone Soup, but very different versions to my swagmen one, because my philosophy about the role of the trickster has changed. There are two versions that I now tell, and neither is about a swagman or set in Australia. One is in my book, Tell Me: Storytelling as a Global Language  and the other is on a previous blog. My trickster is still a teacher and a survivor, but now teaches compassion and community building for survival.

I still tell an Egyptian folktale in an Australian setting and in the dialect I grew up with because I always imagined it as a story from my own family. Unfortunately wife beating knows no national or cultural borders so this tale could easily originate in any culture. 

REASON TO BEAT YOUR MISSUS 

Theo Thomas was a bad bastard. Every morning he'd get out of bed and give his dogs a hiding. Just to make sure they did as they were told for the rest of the day. Fond of the bottle too, he was, and when he'd had a few, fancied himself a bit of a philosopher. He'd stand at the bar and let fly. 

'If you wanna get the best out of 'em, there's three things you gotta beat regular,' and he’d take a swig of beer then continue 'your dog, your missus and your walnut tree'. 

And some blokes, they'd laugh and egg him on with another drink, and some, they'd nod their heads and keep drinkin' in silence. 

One day, Theo's brother Tommy, joins his brother at the bar for a quiet one. And Theo turns round to him and says, 

'You give your missus a good thrashin' yet Tom Tom?' 

Well Tommy gives him this puzzled look and he says, 

'No Theo. She aint done nothin' wrong.'

So Theo roars laughin' and tells him, 

'Whatta ya mean nothin' wrong? You gotta belt a woman so's they know who's wearin' the pants.' 

Well Tommy he looks down at his moleskins, all confused like, but promises Theo he'll think about it. 

So a few weeks later the pair meets up again. Theo's three sheets in the wind and he says to Tommy, 

'Didya give that wife o'yours a hidin' yet?' 

And Tommy starts shakin' his head, 

'I'll be buggered if I can think of a reason to Theo. She does everythin' right.' 

Well Theo nearly falls off his stool, he's laughin' so hard. 

'I'll give you a good reason to,' he says, waggin' his finger. 'I got six trout in the Ute. Take 'em home to the missus and tell her I'm comin' for tea, but whatever you do, don't tell her how to cook 'em. An' when teatime comes, tell her you didn' want 'em done like that see. An' there's your reason to give her a hidin'.' 

So Tommy goes home and does exactly what his brother tells him to. 

'Molly,' he says, throwin' the fish down on the table. 'Theo's comin' for tea tonight, so cook up these fellers will ya?' 

And he bolts out the door barely givin' her the time of day. 

Now Molly's a decent sort, even if she did marry a Thomas. Mind you, young Tommy's the pick of the bunch by a long shot. More of a silly bastard than a bad bastard, if you take my meanin'. Anyways, Molly's left standin' there, starin' at the trout and not knowin' how her old man wants 'em cooked. Then she gets this idea see. She'll bake two, fry two and whack the other two in a casserole. Molly’s smart. No flies on her. Half the afternoon she spends cookin' tea. Choppin' up onions and tomatoes for the casserole and pickin' fresh herbs and peelin' vegetables. And all the while she's got the little bloke to look after as well. At the crawlin' stage he was, and into everything. Poor little tacker had a terrible bad case a nappy rash. So she lets him get round bare- bummed for a while. It's gettin' on to five and Tommy's comin' in the door any minute. And she twigs. The little bloke's gone real quiet see. So she looks under the table and fetches him outa there quick smart. Before he starts playin' in the mess. She plonks him on the couch and gets a nappy on him. Just about to start on the floor she is, and in they come. Now she knows her old man likes his dinner on the table soon as he's home, so she grabs a pudding bowl, whacks it over the 

mess and then goes straight to the stove. Well the men sit down and Theo gives Tommy a wink. Molly brings over the fryin' pan and sets it down in the middle a the table. Tommy's starin' at it and Theo gives him a nudge. 

'I wanted 'em baked, not fried,' he says. 

Theo gives him the nod and Molly whisks the pan off the table and goes back to the stove. She opens the oven door and brings over the bakin' dish. Well Tommy's eyes nearly pop outa his head. And Theo kicks him under the table. 

'I mean...I wanted 'em... in a casserole,' he says, lookin' at his brother. 

So Molly, she takes away that dish and puts it on the sink. Then she goes back to the stove and brings the big boiler over. Lifts off the lid she does, and the smell wafts right under their noses. Well, you shoulda seen the look on Tommy's face. And there's Theo's givin' him another boot to the shin and Tommy, poor bugger, doesn't know whether he's Arthur or Martha. 

'That's not what I wanted,' he says, all flabbergasted, 'I wanted um... I want... er,' and he's stuck for words so bad, he says, 'I want... shit!' 

Talk about quick. That Molly, she dives under the table and scoops up the puddin' bowl and plonks it right down in front a Tommy. 

'You want shit for tea,' she says, 'you can have it! But I'm havin' fish.' 

And that was the end of that. And you know what? Tommy never did beat his wife. And there wasn’t a happier man ever lived. As for Theo, well that’s a whole different kettle a fish. His dog ran away, his walnut tree died and there never was a woman foolish enough to marry the bastard. Serves him right too.

Sources:

The Second Virago Book of Feminist Fairytales edited by Angela Carter illustrated by Corinna Sargood, Virago Press London 1993. 

Angela Carter cited her source as an Egyptian story from Folktales of Egypt by El Shamy, 1980, published by University of Chicago, US.

Indian Fairytales by Joseph Jacobs

http://www.authorama.com/book/indian-fairy-tales.html

Photograph by Roman W. Schatz

The Lute Player

There was once a beautiful and talented young princess who was courted by a handsome and noble young prince. In due course they were married and became King and Queen, and they reigned in peace over the forest lands for one score year or more.

My tale begins with the news of a barbaric ruler who invaded the countries to the north and east of the great forest lands. Though as ruthless as his marauding hordes and intent on conquest as far as the eye could see, the formidable mountain range that skirted the forest lands prevented any immediate plans of attack.

 But the king felt the forest lands were vulnerable. When word of the barbarian's exploits reached his ear, he bade the queen take her leave and summoned his advisers to a council of war in his chambers. They debated long into the night and by sunrise, agreed that the only way to stop the barbarians encroaching on their lands, was to amass a great army, and march out to battle.

When the queen heard the plan she spoke against it. But she held no sway over the young men who saw war as an adventure and their fathers who saw it as a duty. Farmers became soldiers downing scythes and donning swords. They rallied under the king's banner, and marched through the forests and across the mountain ranges, until they came to the edge of the sea. Here the two armies met.

It was late spring when the battle began. The air was heavy with the scent of blossoms and blood as both spilt in the fray. The King envisaged a short and victorious battle. His vision could not have been further from the truth.

 The barbarians were seasoned fighters, skilled in mortal combat. They descended on the peasant army, slaying them like beasts. Only the King's life was spared. He was taken prisoner and transported to the barbarian's stronghold across the sea.

A year had passed since the king and his army left the forest lands, and still no news of what befell them, reached the queen. During her husband's absence she was kept busy not only with royal duties, but overseeing the management of the village farms. The women of the villages were used to working in the fields, planting and gathering the crops, but with their men away they worked even harder. And it was not a rare sight to see the queen among the people, pitching in to help.

At night she retired to her chambers and, after noting down the food supplies and treasury stores, took out her lute. As a princess she had played at the courts of kings. They were entranced by the nimbleness of her fingers, the sweet clarity of her voice and her angelic beauty. She had plucked her husband's heart strings in this manner. But when she became queen, it was not considered seemly for her to engage in such girlish pastimes as musicianship. The lute was forsaken for the sceptre.

On a whim, the queen opened the chest where her instrument had lain in silence throughout the years of her marriage. She took off its velvet cloth and cradled the lute in her arms, remembering the pleasures it  brought in her youth. The queen found comfort in its familiarity and within the time it took for the moon to wax and wane she rediscovered her passion and her proficiency for making it sing. A well played instrument often desires company. But the queen no longer sang the innocent love sonnets of her youth. Her ballads were richer, bolder, earthier, like the timbre of her voice. And no one criticised the queen's music, for she played in the seclusion of her chambers.

On the last full moon in Spring a messenger arrived at the palace, with an urgent dispatch for the queen. It was a ransom note from the king. He demanded that half the treasury's gold be taken to the barbarian, in exchange for his release. The queen wept with relief to know her husband still lived, and sorrow for his terrible plight. But she knew that grief was a luxury she could ill afford. Her husband's freedom was dependent on her action.

The ransom would never reach its destination unless taken by her alone. Gold, especially in large amounts, corrupted the most honest of men. And yet, if she took it herself, the barbarian, who she suspected was not a man of honour, would keep the gold, force her to be one of his wives and keep her husband imprisoned.

As first light approached, the queen had an idea. She took the pair of large shears from their place in the chest and lay them on the dresser in front of her. She sat before her looking glass and stared at her countenance. Worry lines etched upon her brow, dark rings encircling her eyes and drawn down lips. No longer was she a beautiful, young girl. But then a wise woman knows the transience of beauty in the face of Time, and cultivates wisdom in its stead. She held the shears in her hand and said farewell to her crowning glory. Her hair once golden as the sun's first rays, was now streaked with the grey light of dawn. In two strong snips it fell into a lifeless heap upon the floor. She kept cutting until she had cropped it short, in the style of a boy.

 She clasped a moth eaten, cloak around her shoulders, slipped on leggings and a pair of calfskin boots, then smeared kohl on her cheeks. She hid the lute under her cloak and stole down the back steps of the palace.

In the guise of a minstrel boy, she traded songs for food, shelter and wagon rides, until eventually she came to a village by the harbour. Here she learned of the dreadful battle the previous spring, and the people's relief as the barbarians were forced to return to another war across the sea. That evening the queen secured a passage aboard a merchant vessel and sailed to the barbarians castle.

Once outside the castle the minstrel boy began to sing. The songs were so poignant that even the birds stopped to listen. Word of the wondrous music soon reached the ears of the barbarian king, who summoned the minstrel boy to entertain him.

 That evening the minstrel boy found herself the guest of honour at the king's feast. The king was so taken with the boy's songs of courage and loss, treachery and passion that he bade him stay three days and play for him. At the end he could have his heart's desire.

When the minstrel's task was complete the barbarian king lay baskets of jewels and precious stones before him. The minstrel boy shook his head and smiled. His only wish was for company on the road. For the life of a traveler could be a lonely one. Was there not a prisoner in the king's dungeon who could be released to accompany him on his travels? The king roared with laughter and escorted the minstrel into the bowels of the castle.

'Take your pick,' he said, with a wave of his hand.

Before the minstrel were scores of emaciated, bedraggled men. Her eyes scoured the prisoners until she found her husband and pointed to him. The king was led away from the other prisoners and stood beside the minstrel.

'The road beckons,' declared the minstrel. 'We leave with the moon to light our way. Farewell your highness. Be sure that your deeds will make fine songs.'

The minstrel and the prisoner left the castle at a brisk pace and before dawn they'd boarded a ship and were sailing over the ocean. The queen did not reason the time was right to reveal her identity. Instead she listened to the man beside her speak of his deprivations. She studied the ravages of imprisonment upon his face and the wariness in his eyes. All the while waiting for a hint of recognition from him. None came.

It wasn't until they were walking in the forest lands that the prisoner stopped and looked around him. He grew in stature as he stared at the trunks of the trees and the shape of the hills.

'Stop minstrel,' he said. 'This is my land. The forest lands, where I am king. I did not reveal who I was before, but now we are safe, I can. Come with me to my palace and I will repay you for your kindness.'

'Sorry, my friend. I am a traveler. Perhaps one day I will visit your court. Farewell.'

With that, the king continued on his way to the palace, and the minstrel, knowing a shortcut, raced off in the opposite direction.

When the queen reached the back entrance to the palace she crept through the secret passage and up the stairs into her chambers, where she immediately cast off her minstrel clothes and bathed her face. She heard the sounds of the king's return, but had not yet completed her dressing.

When the king entered the palace he was greeted with great rejoicing. His advisers were immediately by his side. But the king was looking high and low.

'Where is my queen?' he demanded.

'The advisers looked from one to the other before speaking.

'Upon receiving news of your imprisonment, the queen disappeared. We have not seen or heard of her since,' they replied.

Just then the queen in a beautiful ball gown descended the stairs.

'There you are,' said the king. 'Appearing as though nothing had ever happened, while I languished in the barbarian's dungeon. I waited for the ransom that never came. And you ran away as soon as you heard of my trouble. Now you've returned and I say be gone treacherous and faithless wife.'

The queen fled up the stairs and threw off her royal attire. She donned her minstrel clothes, picked up her lute and ran down the back steps and round to the front entrance of the castle. There she was met by the king' s guard, who escorted her to the king. He leapt up and welcomed the minstrel boy.

'Welcome my saviour,' the king announced, and slapped the minstrel on the back.' I would surely have perished if this loyal fellow hadn't chosen me as his companion.'

And the minstrel boy played the lute and sang a song of such touching sentiment that the king was moved to tears. Then the minstrel removed the hood from her head, unclasped the cloak and revealed her queenly self. The king could not believe his eyes as he stared at the woman before him.

'Your hair, your beautiful hair,' he gasped, and tears rolled down his cheeks. 'Forgive me my wise and spirited queen. Never again will I doubt your honour or your valour.'

 And true to his word, the king sought the queen's judgment in matters of state, and more often than not, he acted on her advice. Neither was it unusual to hear the queen's voice, rich as molasses, accompanying her lively lute playing. And yet it wasn't only the palace walls that resounded with the queen's music, the market place became her favourite spot to play in. And always within listening distance was her greatest admirer, the King. 

Sources:     “The Lute Player.” Chinen M.D., Allan B. Once Upon a Midlife: Classic Stories and Mythic Tales to Illuminate the Middle Years. New York: Jeremy P.I Tarcher/Perigree Books, ©1993

Fearless Girls, Wise Women, And Beloved Sisters: Heroines In Folktales From Around The World  by Kathleen Ragan  Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company 

 © 2000

The Virtues of the Mother – A Contemporary Fairytale

'My mother is different to everybody else's mother'. It's not an uncommon complaint among young women, embarrassed by their mothers' appearance, lifestyle and/or world view. As the mother of two girls I have felt beholden to follow in that long line of outrageous women whose sole purpose in life is to mortify their children. Quite possibly I will one day provide them with a model to adopt in causing embarrassment to their own children. If not, then perhaps I will have offered them a pathway to understanding and embracing difference. 

            Great celebrations accompanied the birth of the Princess, who, it was said, never left the confines of her mother's arms. So enamoured was the Queen with the child. The King proclaimed a public holiday and invited all his subjects to a feast in her honour. The people came in droves, if not to view the tiny Princess, to partake of the King's generosity. It was a joyous occasion for everyone concerned.

            Competition for the position of royal wet nurse was fierce, but the Queen refused all offers, preferring to feed Princess Sapling from her own ample breast...an act entirely without precedent in the royal household. Not only did she feed her, the Queen bathed and dressed her daughter, without the assistance of servants.

            Such an unorthodox approach to the rearing of royal children did not go unnoticed. The palace court wholeheartedly disapproved.

            The Queen's devotion to the infant is eccentric, common and unbecoming of her royal position. She is quite possibly afflicted with maternal madness!

            When the Queen heard this, she threw back her head and laughed. Then cradling her daughter deep in her arms she sang;

                        Flesh and blood milk and tears

                        Strong the bonds that banish fears.

            The Princess nestled into her mother's breast, closed her eyes and slept. The Queen smiled.

            When Princess Sapling grew beyond the boundaries of her mother's arms, the Queen hoisted her up onto her shoulders. The court was aghast.

            Not only is the manner in which the Queen transports the child undignified, it is decidedly dangerous. She is quite possibly jeopardizing the life of the Princess!

            When the Queen heard this, she shrieked with laughter. Clutching her daughter's ankles, she ran through the palace chanting;

                        Bird on the wing soar and fly,

                        Ride the wind touch the sky.

            The Princess squealed with delight, clapped her hands and demanded more. The Queen grinned.

            As the years passed, Princess Sapling grew in size and spirit. It was not unusual to see her perched upon the Queen's head, perfecting her extraordinary balancing abilities. The court was flabbergasted.

            Behaving in a manner unseemly to their sex and station, the pair are no better than fairground tumblers. They quite possibly constitute an act of treason!

            When the Queen heard this she raced to tell her daughter and together they fell about the palace floor in a fit of hysterics. After wiping the tears from her eyes, the Queen suggested a royal performance.

            From near and far, the people came to watch the show. Everyone applauded, although the lords and ladies of the court raised their eyebrows and tittered behind open fans. Talk of the performance lasted long into the night.

            The following Spring Princess Sapling waved a tearful farewell to her parents, before embarking on a great adventure. She journeyed to distant lands, engaged in battles of wit and honour and sat at the feet of fools and sages alike.

            In time she returned home, but not alone. Her companion was a young man without title or wealth, but possessed of qualities far dearer to the Princess than status or money. He was a Poet.

            The King and Queen approved the match. Princess Sapling and the Poet were married within the year and crowned as the new sovereigns. The court was outraged.

            Such flagrant disregard of tradition. A King without a drop of royal blood in him and a Queen even crazier than the last one. This was quite possibly reason for rebellion!

            When the old Queen heard this, she met with her husband, her daughter and the Poet. Though brimming with wedded bliss, Queen Sapling's joy was marred with the rumours of a court uprising.

            'What should I do?' she asked her mother.

            'Stand on your head for five minutes, then go to the village and set up the children's circus you've always dreamt of, go for an invigorating gallop on the creamy mare, feast on your favourite fare and take your husband for a moonlight swim in the river,' the old Queen replied.

            'I couldn't,' said Queen Sapling, 'it wouldn't be fitting, under the circumstances.'

            The old Queen smiled and winked at her husband.

            'No, perhaps you're right, my dear,' she said, 'cultivate a sense of decorum in preference to a sense of humour, sacrifice the self, confine the imagination and stifle the spirit. That's the path I chose.'

            Queen Sapling leapt off her chair and stood facing her mother, mouth gaping in amazement.

            'Mother what a barefaced liar you are,' she railed.

            'Amongst other things,' her father chimed in. 'Don't forget she is also eccentric, unseemly, crazy and treasonous, and without a doubt the finest Queen ever to rule in the entire history of the land.'

            The old Queen lowered her head, but not before the Poet saw the blush in her cheeks. He turned towards her and spoke.

            'As the oak is nourished by the earth, so it grows strong and tall; a haven for the homeless, a playground for the children, an artist's inspiration. It must shun the nick of the woodsman's axe, ignore the termite's taunts and stand fast against the storm. But know dear Queen, it does not grow alone.'

            Queen Sapling kissed the Poet, then immediately stood on her head. The old King and Queen took their leave to prepare for their great adventure. That afternoon they waved a tearful farewell and embarked on a journey to distant lands. Not until the birth of their twin grandchildren did they return home.

            Great celebrations accompanied the arrival of the Prince and Princess, and a feast was held in their honour. The people came in droves, if not to view the tiny heirs, to partake of the King's generosity. It was a joyous occasion for everyone concerned.

            Competition for the position of royal nanny was fierce, but the Queen refused all offers, preferring to share the care of the children with her husband. Such an unorthodox approach to the rearing of royal children did not go unnoticed. The palace court wholeheartedly disapproved.

            The care of infants is an improper task for a man, let alone a King. That, and the Queen's propensity for carrying them on horseback quite possibly endangers their lives!

            When the Queen heard this, she ran to share it with her mother. The old Queen smiled and nodded her head.

            'How will you address the gossip?' she asked.

            'I haven't time,' Queen Sapling replied, 'we're planning an overnight ride and circus camp for the village children and I need to try out the baby's new slings.'

            The old Queen threw back her head and laughed.

            'The tree's joy lies in bearing fruit and seeing its spirit in the seed,' she said.

            The tiny Princess, draped over her mother's shoulder, opened her eyes and smiled.

Picture by Roman Schatz: Mother and Daughters