Fairy Tale Tuesday No.109 – The Woman Who Flummoxed the Fairies

This Scottish fairy tale is taken from Sorche Nic Leodhas’ collection Thistle and Thyme and its protagonist is the master baker of seven counties, a woman so talented that every event of significance for miles around is considered incomplete without one of her cakes. Those who can afford it are charged a fair rate, but approached by someone too poor to pay for anything more than the tiniest treat, the baker is quite likely to whip up a sugary extravaganza and send it as a gift. LET THEM EAT CAKE.

Her cooking draws the attention of the local Fair Folk, who have covetous sweet teeth and are prone to filching a slice or two wherever they can. They are extremely fond of this particular baker’s creations but rarely get a taste as any cake of hers disappears in about ten seconds flat, leaving nothing to steal. Their solution is to kidnap the woman herself and keep her under the fairy hill as their personal baker. All they require the right opportunity.

It isn’t long in coming. The baker gets a hefty commission at a local lord’s castle and she spends the whole day baking, only setting out for home after night has fallen. As she passes the fairy hill they ambush her. Mistaking the flittering throng for fireflies, and the fern seed they blow in her eyes to make her sleepy as just the long day catching up to her, she lies down on the hill for a quick nap. The next thing she knows, she’s waking up in Fairyland. Her kidnappers tell her what they want – essentially, ‘give us the cake and no one gets hurt’.

The baker has no intention of staying under the hill for the rest of her life, or even for the rest of the night, but she beams cheerily anyway. “Why, you poor wee things! To think of me baking cakes for everyone else, and not a one for you!” The fairies have no baking supplies, so she sends them out on errand after errand until she has all the necessary ingredients. Then she finds out they have no appropriately sized mixing bowls, and they have to go get hers, plus her spoons and whisk and all the odds and ends that come with making a cake.

Finally everything is assembled and the baker starts work. “‘Tis no use!” she declares, stopping abruptly. “I can’t ever seem to mix a cake without my cat beside me, purring.” The cat is fetched, and is so easygoing about the whole thing that it actually does start purring, but that’s not enough. The baker wants her dog’s snoring too. And her teething baby, because she can’t measure properly when she’s worried about him…The baby no sooner sees her than he starts wailing, expecting to be picked up and held, so the fairies have to go get his father. The baker’s husband has noticed that everything in his house keeps disappearing and is actually very glad to find out why. He trusts that his wife has a plan.

The baby keeps screaming. His mother slips him a wooden spoon and he starts whacking it about; then she leans over to her husband and tells him to pinch the dog, who of course starts barking indignantly. “Tread on the tail of the cat!” the baker mutters, adding the poor creature’s shriek to the hellish din.

The fairies are not at all used to this sort of thing. The noise goes on and on, unbearably loud, until the baker decides to conclude matters. She pacifies the baby with a lump of sugar and takes the spoon away, nods to her husband to stop pestering their pets and turns calmly to the fairies to ask where their oven is. They don’t have one – they really did not think this plan through. “Well then,” the baker says practically, “you’ll just have to be taking me and the cake home to bake it in my own oven, and bring me back later when the cake’s all done.” The fairies look at her entourage and decide she’s way too high maintenance for them. They’re too exhausted to even take her home.

The baker feels rather sorry for them, and promises to bring the cake when it’s baked. What’s more, she’ll make them one every weekend. With that she takes the batter and leaves, her husband carrying the baby and the cat and dog trailing behind until they finally reach home. True to her word, she puts the cake into her oven to bake. The house fills with the quiet sounds of purring and snoring, a clock ticking and the kettle singing, forming a peaceful hush the fairies would never believe possible. “It doesn’t seem fair on the rest of the men,” observes the baker’s husband, “that I should have the master baker and the cleverest woman in the world all in one wife.”

Her cleverness is how she escaped; her kindness brings a different reward. When she brings the promised cake to the fairy hill, she finds a little bag full of gold pieces. Every time she delivers a cake she is very generously compensated and though she never sees the fairies again, it’s fair to assume both sides are very happy with this arrangement.

This fairy tale gets points for being so fundamentally good-natured and also for containing actual fairies, which is much rarer than you might believe. I can’t approve of antagonising pets like that, but as the other choice was indentured kitchen service, it was a cunningly passive-aggressive plan. It’s also an entirely appropriate Fairy Tale Tuesday for a week of celebration in my family. Here’s to cake and cleverness and true love!

In Dire Need of Dynamite: Feminism in Fairy Tales Part 3

Dress suitably in short skirts and strong boots, leave your jewels in the bank and buy a revolver.

- Countess Constance Markievicz, Irish suffragette and revolutionary

Here’s the thing: princesses in fairy tales are not weak, they’re deeply unlucky.

If a princess is the heroine of her own story, the odds are very high that someone will attempt to either abduct or murder her; in some cases they actually succeed with the latter and through morbid magic she’ll manage to tell her story from beyond the grave, which is not what I consider a happy ending. If she’s a side character, she doubtless exists to be married off to the hero, and is very likely to be kidnapped anyway, so that he can rescue her. We don’t tend to tell stories about happy people. Something has to go wrong in order for there to be a plot, and often it is a girl’s life falling apart.

Is this a problematic device? Hell yes. Does its existence automatically condemn the characters involved? I say it does not.

Many popular criticisms of fairy tales frustrate me. Fantastic female protagonists are forgotten or ignored while the famous heroines are belittled and dismissed; older women are held to an impossible double standard while their male counterparts are accepted as default settings. In an attempt to subvert these tropes, many modern retellings go as far in the opposite direction as possible, and that can be a glorious thing. It is deeply satisfying to give a princess a sword, let her break free and find her own fortune.

Unfortunately this is humanity we’re dealing with, and humanity has an unhealthy obsession with binaries.

That is to say, instead of celebrating these heroines on their own considerable merits, it’s becoming expected that all heroines will behave the same way. That it’s always possible to escape on your own; that it’s your fault if you can’t succeed without help. Why don’t you keep a stockpile of dynamite on your person at all times so that when you are unexpectedly kidnapped and locked in a tower without doors or windows, you can just blow your way out? That’s what a real princess would do.

I have a thing to say about that. No, actually, I have two things to say:

1) Keeping a stash of dynamite on hand, should you be transported to the world of fairy tales and manage to get hold of the stuff, is actually an excellent idea. Bringing it with you when you are kidnapped would, however, be rather difficult logistically.

2) Never blame the victim. Just don’t.

And a third thing: there are many ways of saving yourself.

There are young women in these stories who are controlled by transformative magic, who are locked inside all manner of prisons, who desperately need the aid of a valiant swordsman with a getaway horse. These women have usually seen others fail in the attempt to save them. They have endured the gloating of a captor, the humiliations and isolation of imprisonment. So they come up with plans. And if their would-be saviour wants to succeed, he’d better pay close attention.

In ‘The Troll’s Little Daughter’, the hero would have had no chance of setting his love free if she had not given him detailed instructions. It’s a pattern that can be seen in many other tales, including ‘The Giant Who Had No Heart in His Body’, ‘Jekovoy’, ‘The Little Tailor and the Three Dogs’, and ‘The Artful Soldier and the Czar’s Three Daughters’, to name only a few. In at least one version of ‘Rapunzel’, the prince brings her silk to weave a ladder. Though she depends on him to bring her resources (why could he not have just brought a ready made rope ladder and saved everybody a lot of trouble?) she is actively participating in her own rescue. In ‘The Wild Swans’, Elise’s brothers swoop to rescue her from a witch’s pyre, but they can only succeed because she has worked to break their enchantment.

This is co-operative rescue, a balance of knowledge and opportunity, and it works the other way around too – trapped male royals have been known to seek out the assistance of capable young women. The enchanted prince of ‘The Nine Doves’, for instance, the reckless protagonist of ‘Yellow Lily’, the talking bear from ‘Snow White and Rose Red’. Strength should not be gendered; all acts of self-defence should be celebrated, whether they take place with an explosion or a whisper. For this reason, co-operative rescue is one of my favourite fairy tale tropes. It subtly inverts your expectations, turning the protagonists into a team, each playing off the other’s skill set.

It takes courage, and trust, and determination.

It takes heroism. There’s more of that around than you might think.

Fairy Tale Tuesday No.108 – The Giant Who Had No Heart In His Body

In this Norse story, taken from Ruth Manning-Sanders’ collection A Book of Giants, a king with seven sons gets suddenly terribly anxious about their marital prospects and sends the elder six off in a grand procession to seek brides. They strike gold with unexpected ease when they encounter the six daughters of another king, who is equally delighted at settling the sisters so conveniently. So swept away with their good fortune are the princes that they forget their father’s instruction, to bring back a bride for their youngest brother Halvor, who remained at home to keep the king company.

The six couples are on their way back to the princes’ kingdom when they come to a high black hill, wherein resides a giant who has a literally petrifying glare. One glower from him and the whole procession are turned to stone. Is it wrong that my first reaction is to ship him with Medusa?

Anyway, time passes and the princes’ father grows ever more anxious. Halvor wants to go look for them and at last the king has no choice but to let him go. As the older princes took all the best horses, the only one left is elderly and Halvor travels at a very restrained pace, slow enough to notice a grounded raven on the road. “Oh, dear prince,” the bird calls out, “I’m starving! Pray give me some food, and in your greatest need I will come to your aid.” Halvor doubts this, but offers his bag of supplies and the raven eats the lot.

Some way down the road Halvor encounters a salmon struggling on the riverbank. “Lift me up and put me in the water,” she gasps, “and in your utmost need I’ll come to your aid.” The prince obliges.

It turns out the horse was much too old for the trip; it falls dead and the prince has to leave its body by the roadside as he continues on foot. In this way he meets a wolf so ravenous it is pitiful as opposed to terrifying. When it asks for food, the prince has to explain he gave away everything he had to a raven, but then he remembers his dead mount. It’s terribly sad for the poor horse, but lucky for the wolf, who eats his fill then bounds back to the prince with renewed energy to offer himself as alternative transport.

With startling speed, they reach the giant’s hill and the fossilised pageant. Set into the hill is a door, through which the wolf insists the prince enter. Once inside, Halvor passes many empty rooms before eventually reaching one in which a beautiful girl is sitting. She is a princess, kidnapped by the giant, and appalled at the sight of her visitor. “You may be brave,” she says, “and think you will kill the giant, but no one can kill him, for he has no heart in his body!” When Halvor refuses to leave without rescuing his brothers and her too, the princess douses him in perfume so the giant won’t catch his scent, has him slide under her bed and covers him up with robes for good measure.

Soon after the giant comes in and the princess dances and sings for him, putting him into an amenable temper. “You have already given me everything I want,” she says, laying it on thick. “But there is just one question I should like to ask you – if I dared. Where do you keep your heart?” He tells her it’s under the doorstep. Of course, when the prince and princess dig into the doorstep with a pickaxe, there’s nothing to be found, so the princess come up with a different plan. They tidy the scene to hide traces of their search and she piles flowers all around. When the giant comes back, she tells him the flowers are in honour of his heart’s hiding place.

“Ho, you silly little bit of summer sunshine,” the giant chuckles, pinching her cheek and being generally patronising. He admits his heart is not under the doorstep; it’s in the cupboard. As soon as he’s gone the next morning, the two plotters rummage through piles of stored lumber, only to prove the giant was lying again. “I could sit down and cry!” the princess sighs, but sit she does not, nor does she cry – she shows Halvor how to make flower garlands instead and enlists his help in festooning the cupboard. “How could I help but deck the place where your heart lies hidden?” she flutters at the giant that evening. He tells her it’s not really there but is very reluctant to share its actual location, because he may be a creep but his instincts are good. The princess is more than a match for him, though. Decked out in her most beautiful clothes, she dances and plays the harp and showers her captor in praise until he’s so drunk on flattery he swears her to secrecy and tells her the truth.

“Over yonder lies a lake,” he explains, “and in that lake lies an island; on the island stands a church, and in that church there is a well; in that well there swims a duck; in that duck there is an egg; and in that egg lies my heart.” If those directions sound vaguely familiar, they are. The giant in ‘The Sun Princess and the Prince’ tried a similar trick. Giants, it would appear, have removable hearts as a rule, and like to place their trust in ducks.

The princess does not have the break her word, because Halvor was listening. Travelling on wolfback, he reaches the ‘yonder’ lake with tremendous speed. The wolf swims across still carrying the prince, but when they arrive at the church they find it locked, with the key hung in a high tower. No problem – the prince cashes in his favour with the raven, who retrieves it. He then reaches into the well, but as he picks up the duck it drops the egg, and Halvor has to call on the salmon to retrieve it.

“Now give the egg a squeeze,” the wolf prods, and Halvor does. From far away they hear the giant screaming, begging for his life. It seems that by holding his heart Halvor can communicate across great distances, or maybe he just shouts really, really loudly – either way, he dictates his terms and before long the procession are restored to life. Now the wolf wants Halvor to break the egg in half. The prince thinks this is dishonourable, which is absolutely true, but the wolf points out the giant will just go around turning other people to stone if he lives, which is sadly also true. He snatches the egg from Halvor’s hand and bites it. The giant doesn’t just die, he bursts.

Returning to the black hill, Halvor greets his brothers and their brides, then goes inside the giant’s house to look for the princess. He leads her out proudly, announcing, “Here is my bride!” He has no horse to carry her home, but who needs a horse when your bestie is an obliging wolf? The king is overjoyed at the return of all his children, and holds a seven-way wedding at once. The wolf and raven both attend, and the salmon receives an invitation too, though it’s not practical for her to accept. Halvor’s not a bad friend himself.

This is what I describe as co-operative rescue – neither the prince nor princess are capable of achieving their plans alone, but work together to overcome their common enemy. I feel quite sorry for the giant, who might not have been able to help turning people into stone if he could do it with just a glare, but he also kidnapped a princess and she had to humiliate herself flattering him to get away, so…yeah, under the circumstances, my sympathy is limited.

Review No.123 – The Wicked Wood

Tales from the Tower Volume Two: The Wicked Wood – Isobelle Carmody and Nan McNab (ed.)

Allen&Unwin, 2011

In this collection, fairy tales grow between cracks in the mundane surface of a city, a suburb, a small town. From the sinister presence of a wildly ambitious artist to the wolf hidden in plain sight, the mermaid who would trade anything for another life to the uncontrollable craving of two sisters to get theirs back, these are stories of hunger and betrayal, longing and hope.

This anthology is a companion volume to The Wilful Eye, which I read as a part of last year’s AWW Challenge, but has a noticeably different approach. All of these retellings take place in contemporary settings and the fantasy elements tend to be more understated – in a few, there are none at all. There is a similar tone to many of these stories that I personally would have preferred broken up by a wider range settings, but the slants each writer chose to take were interesting and for the most part effective. I particularly appreciated ‘Seventy-Two Derwents’ by Cate Kennedy and ‘The Ugly Sisters’ by Maureen McCarthy. Some of the original sources for this anthology are also slightly more obscure, such as ‘The Wolf and the Seven Kids’ and ‘The Fairy’s Midwife’. It’s good to see retellings that explore beyond familiar ground.

Fairy Tale Tuesday No.107 – Hans the Hedgehog

I was introduced to this Grimm fairy tale by the Jim Henson TV series The Storyteller and therefore mentally fill in all the gaps with sorrowful puppetry. It begins with a wealthy farmer whose horrible friends are always laughing at his childlessness and eventually he snaps, shouting, “I will have a child and it shall be a hedgehog.” That’ll…show them?

Soon enough, his wife does indeed give birth. Their son is an ordinary boy from the waist down, but a hedgehog from the waist up, because in fairy tales wishing for something you don’t really want guarantees you’ll get it.

The farmer’s wife is, unsurprisingly, a bit freaked out. The baby’s spikes preclude his occupying an ordinary cradle, so his parents make a bed of straw behind the kitchen stove and for eight years Hans the Hedgehog sleeps there. His father hates the sight of his mistake so much he wishes his son would die – but still asks the boy what he wants from market when going on a shopping trip, and brings back the requested bagpipes, which seems a pretty kind gesture. It’s confusing. As soon as Hans has the bagpipes, he asks for a rooster, has it fitted with a bridle and rides away on its back into the forest. With him, he takes a boar and a donkey.

For many years, Hans lives alone, tending his beasts and playing his bagpipes. One day, a king lost in the forest follows the sound of his music and asks for help returning to his kingdom. Hans agrees to give directions, if the king will give whatever first greets him upon his return. He actually has the king sign a contract, so he can’t backflip on the terms. You have to admire the forethought.

Of course, it’s the king’s daughter who first greets him, and it turns out the king double-crossed Hans after all – banking on the fact that a feral half-hedgehog man would be unable to read, he wrote that Hans would not have the first thing to greet him. The king explains the whole business to his daughter, who is very pleased at his quick thinking.

Some time later another king gets lost in the forest and encounters Hans. He gets returned to his kingdom after an identical bargain, only he writes what he’s told. Like his predecessor, he’s greeted by his daughter, and is grieved but resigned to the idea he’ll have to hand her over when Hans comes calling. She is likewise composed, if unhappy about it.

Hans takes his time in following up both deals. He’s amassed such an enormous herd of pigs that he sends them to be slaughtered in his father’s village, which makes the farmer sad and not at all for the right reasons – he assumed his son dead long ago and is disappointed at being proved wrong. Hans doesn’t linger, simply has his rooster rebridled before riding off to collect his promised princesses.

The first king has prepared his guardsmen: if anyone comes riding up on a rooster, playing the bagpipes, he’s to be killed on sight. That doesn’t work out so well, as the rooster simply flies in through a window. Hans makes his terms clear: either the girl is handed over, or he kills both her and her father. Left with no choice, she joins Hans in a royal carriage, with all the dowry her miserable father can put together at short notice. They have not driven far when Hans pulls off her shawl and pricks her cruelly with his spikes. “That is your reward for falsehood! Go away! I will have nothing to do with you!”

So according to this story, menacing a young woman into marriage in return for a basic courtesy is A-OK, but trying to escape aforesaid marriage is the height of wickedness. You can probably guess how I feel about that.

Hans is not done yet; he continues straight on to the second kingdom, where he’s allowed inside without protest. Despite her fear, this princess is not fighting her fate. She marries him the same day and Hans gives some orders of his own – when he goes to bed tonight, he’ll shuck off his hedgehog skin, and the king’s men must be ready to take and burn it. All is done exactly as he says. With the skin turned to ashes, Hans becomes fully human. He marries the princess for the second time the next day, to make his transformation official, and shortly afterwards the kingdom is passed over into his care.

A few years later he returns to the farmer’s house and introduces himself as his son. The farmer insists he has no child – that once he had one covered in spikes like a hedgehog, but he disappeared long ago. Hans then tells him the whole story, they celebrate, and the farmer comes to live in his kingdom.

Promises are important in fairy tales, and those who renege on their word are courting disaster, or at least villain status. According to this fairy tale, the second king is the better man, but give me the one who tried to protect his daughter any day.

Also, I still like The Storyteller’s version better.

Review No.122 – A Tale of Two Castles

A Tale of Two Castles – Gail Carson Levine

Harper, 2011

When twelve-year-old Elodie leaves home to apprentice herself in the town of Two Castles, she is determined to learn the art of performance and become a mansioner. Her arrival, however, does not go according to plan and she soon finds herself embroiled in the intrigues of a temperamental dragon, an unpopular king and an ostracised ogre. A fiendish plot is afoot and everyone has their secrets. Who can Elodie really trust?

Gail Carson Levine has a matter-of-fact style that’s easy to read, especially for the younger audience this book is aimed at, and puts a spin entirely her own on this very loose retelling of ‘Puss in Boots’. Elodie is a capable protagonist and the supporting characters are charmingly unconventional (mild spoiler: my favourite is the gender non-conformist, wannabe detective dragon). Carson Levine’s other books include Ella Enchanted and Fairest.

Fairy Tale Tuesday No.106 – The Nine Doves

Monarchs with beautiful daughters have an unfortunate history of going overboard on security and one such is the king in this Greek story, taken from Ruth Manning-Sanders’ collection A Book of Dragons. He’s so obsessed with his daughter’s safety that he shuts her up in a glass tower – not just glass, either, opaque glass so she can’t see any of the ugly things in the world. Even the meat she eats must have the bones removed before it’s served to her, in case she chokes. Finally she’s had enough of being coddled and orders the servants to bring her ordinary food, which she manages to eat perfectly well without killing herself. She then throws the leftover bone at the glass wall, creating a DIY window.

The first thing she sees is a flock of doves flying past. Eight of the number are black and fly straight past, but the ninth is white and circles the tower a couple of times before fluttering inside. The princess immediately, and fruitlessly, tries to catch it. In the process a ring falls from her finger and the dove catches it up before flying away.

The next day the same thing happens, only this time the princess drops a bracelet and the dove steals that instead. On the third day, the kleptomaniacal bird takes her handkerchief. On the fourth day, her dad shows up to ruin her fun. “It must be repaired,” he says at once, when he sees the window. “But it is very special glass. It came from the east; it may take months to get another piece. And I can’t let you stay here until it is mended. Why – anything might come in!”

Thus the princess is sent to stay with her godmother in the country, which is actually great, because her godmother could not care less what she gets up to. The height of her concern is warning the princess it would be better not to leave the garden. So the princess just stands at the gate and chats with all the passersby.

At this point we’re going to take a diversion into the life of a local boy, described in the book as a ‘simpleton’, though he seems no easier to fool than anyone else. He makes a living cutting wood in the forest with his donkey and one day it gets loose, trotting blithely away through the wood and vanishing through a door in a tree trunk. On the other side is a stair ascending into a vast chamber. Having followed his donkey this far, the boy is astonished to see the animal suddenly disappear. The door vanishes at the same time, leaving him no choice but to investigate the room for other options.

At the far end is a fireplace. The boy sees partridges cooking in the cauldron hung over it and takes one, prudently hiding in a nearby cupboard to eat. He’s barely finished his meal when nine doves come flying through the wall and shake off their feathers. The white one becomes a man. The eight black ones become dragons. The boy starts regretting all his life decisions.

The dragons depart, leaving the young man behind. He claps his hands and a maid comes in to serve up the remaining bird. Perplexed as she is by the disappearance of half his dinner, the young man himself doesn’t seem to care and the boy in the cupboard feels insulted on the food’s behalf, but keeps watching. When the dishes have been cleared away, the young man takes out a handkerchief, a bracelet and a ring, kissing each then starting to cry. “Oh my princess!” he cries. “What has become of you? I fly past your tower. I fly through the window. I fly and I seek you, but I cannot find you!”

He’s sobbing against the table when the sound of the dragons coming back snaps him out of it. He has just enough time to sweep the keepsakes into a pocket before the dragons return to the room, resume the shape of doves and fly away, taking the transformed young man with them. Left alone again, the boy emerges and rediscovers both the door and his donkey. It calmly leads him out into the forest, where he has nothing else to do except go back to chopping wood. When he goes to add the new logs to his sack, he finds his donkey tied up exactly where he left it before the whole doors and dragons adventure began. You might consider that a little odd, and you would be right, but the boy accepts things as they are because he has plans for the afternoon. Like everyone else within gossip radius, he’s heard that there’s a princess in town who likes conversation and he’s determined to meet her.

Yes, she’s back in the story! She’s made it a policy to ask all passersby at her godmother’s gate whether they’ve seen her lost possessions, as this may lead her to the white dove, and at last it pays off when the boy relates the full story of his bizarre day. The princess demands he take her to the woods and show her the door. At first he refuses, uncomfortable at the idea of walking around with royalty, but she talks him into it and they return to the hidden room. The princess settles in to wait, shutting herself in the cupboard. As before, the doves fly through the wall, one turns into a man and the man starts crying over his stolen mementoes – only this time the princess throws open the cupboard doors and declares her presence. True love is in the house!

It turns out the young man is a prince, stolen from his cradle by the eight dragons because they wanted a son – a dragon son, specifically, but as their spells have only succeeded as far as a bird that’s simply had to suffice. “How can I ask the hand of a princess, even though I love her with my whole soul,” he cries, “when half my time I am a dove, and only half my time a prince?”

The princess is not unsympathetic to his problem, but is more interested in escaping before the dragons get back. They run all the way to the glass tower, which cannot be as far away as I assumed, and take refuge there. Distance is not much protection, however. When the dragons resume the shape of doves, the prince is forced to the do the same. The princess takes the tearful bird in her hands and introduces him to her father, explaining the difficult circumstances.

“But this is a very astonishing and awkward thing,” the king protests, “that you should want to marry a dove!” “He isn’t always a dove,” the princess repeats patiently. The dragons fly around her tower, but as there is no longer a hole in the wall they can’t get in and must return to their lair to think up a different plan. The moment they become dragons again, the dove turns into a prince, and the king gets what’s going on. He agrees they’d better marry at once, while the groom is still human.

See, that’s why I write Fairy Tale Tuesdays, I love getting to say things like that.

While the glass tower is much more enjoyable with company, both prince and princess are soon tired of it and risk a walk in the garden. Sadly, this is a trap. The eight black doves fly past and the prince, now a dove once more, is obliged to fly with them. The princess dashes to her father with very precise architectural instructions, and given that’s the foundation of their relationship he is quick to oblige. In due time a house is built for her, surrounded on all sides by a high iron wall with only one gate, and the princess goes to live there. She sends her maid to the woodcutter boy, asking him to take a letter to the room in the forest, and the maid charms him into agreeing. The letter being delivered, and the prince having agreed to his wife’s plan, she waits for her chance.

One day the nine doves come flying past her house. The princess lets the white dove in, then slams the solid iron gate shut and even when the other doves take the shapes of dragons, they can’t break it down. In their helpless rage, they spontaneously combust, which I suppose is a pretty creditable cause of death for fire-breathing lizards.

The prince is not yet safe. The dragons put three pins through his head before they set out, trapping him in the shape of a bird and leaving him in great pain. Kissing her dove, the princess touches something sharp and realises what’s happened. When she pulls out the pins, the prince takes his human form permanently, and they can start their happy ever after officially. It won’t be in a glass tower.

After all his help, the woodcutter boy is summoned to name an appropriate reward. His first thought is a pretty apron for his mother, which is granted, but the king wants to give something grander. The boy racks his brains. His second request is half a bucket of oats for his donkey, and lastly, a silver feather to wear in his hat. Perhaps that’s not as extravagant a gift as the king was prepared to give, but the boy is happy and that’s all that matters.

I admit, I feel a bit cheated. DRAGON FOSTER PARENTS, people. While it certainly seems they weren’t good parents, it’s a concept that deserves proper exploration! Another aspect of this story that needs explanation is the mysterious donkey. How did it get loose, then get tied up again? How did it disappear and reappear at will? How did it climb stairs, for pity’s sake? It’s a good thing the boy remembered those oats, is all I can say.