The beautiful Princess locked in a tower, waiting for her Prince.

The handsome, sword-wielding Prince, who lusts after the Princess.

The evil witch with an insanely annoying laugh and a dumb animal sidekick.

Above mentioned dumb animal sidekick. But cute and furry nonetheless.

The feminist princess who escapes the tower, slays a dragon, and passionately takes the Prince.

The comic relief. Enjoys running into trees, getting stomped on by dragons… hey, it’s a life.

The sexually frustrated King, who secretly lusts after the neighboring kingdom’s Princess.

Generate your own fairy tale friends here.

Once upon a time, a girl named September grew very tired indeed of her father’s house, where she washed the same pink and yellow teacups and matching gravy boats every day, slept on the same embroidered pillow, and played with the same small and amiable dog. Because she had been born in May, and because she had a mole on her left cheek, and because her feet were very large and ungainly, the Green Wind took pity on her, and flew to her window one evening just after her eleventh birthday. He was dressed in a green smoking jacket, and a green carriage-driver’s cloak, and green jodhpurs, and green snowshoes. It is very cold above the clouds, in the shanty-towns where the Six Winds live.

Catherynne M Valente Adult novel Palimpsest
features a novel within it - The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, which Catherynne is now making freely available on her website, in chapters updated weekly (Right now we’re at chapter 17), with book readings of most of the chapters.

The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making

As pointed out by Raish, there’s Pink Floyd’s Matilda Mother

There was a king who ruled the land.
His majesty was in command.
With silver eyes the scarlet eagle
Showers silver on the people.
Oh Mother, tell me more…

Then there’s Marcy Playground’s Dungeons and Dragons/Fantasy/Fairy Tale A Cloak of Elvenkind

A cloaking robe of elvenkind
Hangs in my wardrobe behind
All the thing that mother said
Were proper for a boy
And I know I could not say why
On this summer evening
Sixteen books of magic spells
Stacked below the cloak of elves
And sixteen books on magic spells
So elegantly bound…

But what else is out there in the way of fairy tale related music? What songs do you know about Little Red Riding Hood or Sleeping Beauty?

Tell us about fairy tales – do you love them or hate them?

My parents used to buy me Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books (you know, yellow, crimson, olive, etc) as a child. I still have them and re-read them. I fell in love with them all over again as an adult, especially when I researched the earlier versions of some of the fairy tales (the fifteenth-century version of Red Riding Hood, or the early Chinese version of Cinderella.) Dark, dangerous, brutally honest – I do see them in some ways as encrypted messages to women and children about the hidden dangers of their families and their cultures, even about themselves.

How do fairy tales influence your work?

It’s not an influence – it’s more like the fairy tales seize me and then a bunch of poems appear. For instance, when I saw the terrific anime movie, “Jin Roh,” which used a narration of the Perrault version of Little Red Riding Hood to illustrate the love story of a terrorist and a member of the secret police in an alternate-history version of Japan, it just opened up so many possibilities for me in terms of re-tellings of the characters and storyline for poems. “When Red Becomes the Wolf” and “Red Riding Hood at the Car Dealer” were two poems that I ended up writing from that experience. I tend to be inspired by pop-cultural references to the old folk tales, the interesting juxtapositions you can make.

What’s your favourite fairy tale?

Some of my favorite fairy tales are the more obscure – and, probably, most disturbing. “The White Cat” was one of my favorites as a child, in which a prince on a quest encounters an kingdom of people who have been enchanted into cat-form, and he ends up cutting off the cat-princess’ head. Of course there’s a happy ending after that, but still – ick, right? I also really loved the German fairy tale “Allerleirauh” (although it has a whole bunch of really creepy undertones I wouldn’t have recognized as a young person) because of the idea of hiding out as in animal skins seemed appealing to me, as well as those cool enchanted dresses (shining as the sun, pale as the moon, etc.) and the way she uses her wits to escape various dangers and get her prince. “Jorinde and Joringel” is another of my favorites, as well as “The Six Swans.” The legend of Melusine is pretty interesting too, a tale from the 1300s connected to French Bretagne and Luxembourg, about a woman who married a count and taught the people of her village architecture, farming honey and haricots verts, and other useful skills. Of course, they believed she was a witch.

Many of the poems in “Becoming the Villainess” are clearly inspired by pop culture – “The Slayer Asks for a Night Off” comes to mind. How does this process start? And does it mean you get to watch a lot of tv, read a lot, and be able to tell others that yes, you actually are working? (This is one of my favourite parts of being a writer/editor!)

Yes, as a child of the seventies, television was definitely a surrogate parent for me and my little brother, so I grew up reading a lot but was also very knowledgeable about obscure television shows and movies. (We also ate a lot of Twinkies and Doritos. It was the seventies, before organic children’s snacks were cool and artificial coloring was demonized.)
Although I do enjoy being out in nature quite a bit (I’ve lived in some areas of great natural beauty such as Oak Ridge, Tennessee and Port Townsend, Washington, along with my current home in Carlsbad, California) it doesn’t seem to inspire much poetry for me.
Instead, stubbornly, I seem to write more about the more subterranean pursuits – comic books, television shows. I’ve even had a Manga shop appear in a poem! I can’t explain this except to say that popular culture does seem, to me, to reflect certain subconscious truths about contemporary society, and that fascinates me. I’m also fascinated by ancient mythologies and folk tales from other cultures; Jung’s ideas about the collective unconscious and archetypes have been helpful for me as a writer, as well. Typical “fun” reading for me is a book like The Japanese Psyche: Major Motifs in the Fairy Tales of Japan by Hayao Kawai. Then I’ll go watch a Miyazaki movie or “Death Note” or something. I think I read Terri Windling’s fairy-tale-themed collection The Armless Maiden right before watching “Jin Roh,” come to think of it.  The cross-fertilization of so-called “high culture” and “low culture” is a good thing for my writing.

Looking at the collection – it’s broken into five sections, each named according to its place in a narrative arc. And some of the poems, particularly the superhero and Persephone ones, feel linear when read together. Did you write them as narratives? Or did they come in pieces, and just sort of fit together?

I wrote some of the “linear” storylines – the Philomel poems, for instance – over ten years. I wasn’t thinking of a narrative when I started them. In fact, I didn’t realize I had written so many poems on the same theme until someone suggested I put a chapbook together, and I sent “Female Comic Book Superheroes” to Pudding House Press. Then I really started examining what I had been writing about, and it seemed there were a couple of main characters. That’s when the collection that became Becoming the Villainess started to come together. Actually, I tried to write the collection with a more positive spin – starting from Philomel and the villainess characters and moving towards the more positive female superheroes. That’s how I sent it out, and it had various titles. My husband was reading the book over my shoulder one night and said, “That’s not really the way you’ve written the arc.” He was the one who came up with the idea that the speakers were become corrupted, becoming the villainess, because of the forces at work against them. It’s definitely a darker concept than I had originally intended, but I think it fit the poems better. And then I had the idea to use comic book principles (Origins, Superpower, Character Arc, Final Frame) to organize the book. The first publisher I sent the book to after that was Steel Toe Books, and they decided they wanted to publish it.

When you hear/read Cinderella, what do you think of? Does the story have any particular meaning to you?

I think it has some resonance to me; my mother tells me it was the first book I learned to “read,” although I actually memorized it as a kid and pretended to “read” it out loud to her. My family structure may also have made the story more interesting to me; after all, my mother married my father, who was a widower with two young sons, and then had me and my little brother. So in a way I had some extra sympathy for the “wicked Stepmother” because of her.
When I was younger I hated the violent parts of the Grimm’s version – the doves pecking out eyes, the cutting off of various parts of the foot by the stepsisters trying to fit into the shoe. But now, I see those things as metaphors – the cutting off of the foot as a way women are willing to damage themselves to be attractive to men, for instance.
I have to admit to being partial to the singing mice in the Disney version of the story.

You have several Cinderella works, each quite different. “Little Cinder”, crackles with life, while “Cinderella at the Car Dealership” is harder to read, harder to sympathise with. How did you come to two so very different renderings of the same tale?

Well, in “Little Cinder,” I really wanted to create an alternate version of Cinderella, someone who wouldn’t be at odds with all the violence in the tale, who might, in fact, actually welcome it. She’s had a hard life and has become hard as a result of it. I wanted to create a girl that the stepmother should actually be afraid of.
“Cinderella at the Car Dealership” was written at the same time as “Red Riding Hood at the Car Dealer,” that I mentioned earlier. The idea was to transplant these tough, possibly dangerous female fairy tale characters into a modern situation and see what happened. Car dealers have got to be some of the most pushy, frustrating people I’ve ever encountered, so I set Red and Cinderella loose to see what they would do with them. I think it’s important to look at the aspects of power that can be unpleasant, that women might avoid because society tells them to. Why is a woman demonized when she becomes powerful? (See Hillary Clinton, Sarah Palin.) If power corrupts men, it makes sense that it would corrupt women, too. And what would that look like? (See my poem “The Snow Queen Explains” for a portrayal of an absolutely corrupt, powerful woman.)
I think it’s a shame so many women in today’s society still end up victims – a leading cause of death of pregnant women is murder by the husband or boyfriend, and the domestic violence shelters I’ve been to weren’t exactly empty the last time I checked. There a glamorization of victimhood in movies and stories that I address in “Okay, Ophelia” and “The Dead Girl Speaks” that I am absolutely against. There’s no glamour in being the dead girl in the newspaper story, or the suicidal love-interest of the hero. But often popular culture doesn’t offer women alternative roles. Hooker with a heart of gold, dead girl, femme fatale. It’s a pretty boring set of roles, actually. I’m ready to see more alternatives.

Then, of course, there’s “Conversations with the Stepmother, at the Wedding”. Tell us a little about it.

One of the reasons I really like writing in persona is to get the opportunity to try and empathize with fictional characters who’ve been given really short shrift, historically. Trying to write from the point of view of someone doing terrible things does make me exercise my imagination and empathy muscles. Everybody’s down on the wicked stepmother, but if you look at the Snow White and Cinderella stories (not to mention Hansel and Gretel) you can see how the stepmother is put into a difficult situation from day 1 – a husband who still worships a deceased first wife, a la Rebecca, and little kids who might be hostile to your presence. They’re not given very sympathetic storylines, really, so I thought they deserved to have a voice.
And, as I said earlier, my mother (though not wicked) was a stepmother to my two older brothers. So that dynamic was always interesting to me.

Is writing – is poetry – a learned or an innate ability?

So much of good writing in any genre – poetry, journalism, or anything else – is practice and hard work. I believe that some people may be born with innate talent, but if that person doesn’t read, write, get passionate about their subject matter – well, their writing is going to suffer. A lot of people say writing can’t be taught. But a lot of writing is learning the tools – avoiding clichés, or writing coherent dialogue, or becoming familiar with the body of work on your subject that already exists.  In a way, writers write in a vacuum. No one can help them, make them write a poem or story, or tell them exactly what to do. But writers are also part of a greater community, not just of writers alive today, but writers from other times and places. They need to be part of that community.
Loving poetry is the first step to being a poet. I started memorizing poems when I was ten. If you write poetry but you don’t read it, it’s going to affect your work.

How much of your work is personal? Do you find the meaning you feel in your work is the same as the meaning others glean from it?

I think people would be surprised to find out which poems are personal, and come from my actual life, and which are totally imaginary. I do write mainly in the first and second person, but the speakers come from so many different stories and places. I keep it hard to pin down on purpose. Any part of my own life that appears in my poems, of course, is also partially fictionalized; the little brother who appears in “My Little Brother in Parts” is in some ways based on my actual little brother, and in other ways, not. Growing up in Oak Ridge, Tennessee means it shows up partly as a mythical place in my poems. I’m fascinated with the villainess characters. But I definitely identify more with monsters, with Melusines and magical creatures. But in order to get to a voice in a persona poem, you had to work to identify with them. So I’d say a little bit of me shows up in all the poems.
I did find it interesting in people’s comments about the book which poems they thought were directly from my life; they were usually wrong. Someone mentioned online that “Her Nerves” was a great poem about my personal life, but it’s actually in the voice of T.S. Eliot’s first wife (who I think has been wrongly cast as a victim and a villainess.) “Job Requirements: A Supervillain’s Advice” probably reveals more personal details about me than people would imagine.

Where do you write? Coffee shop or home? Pen or keyboard?

I’ve been writing on a computer since I was about six. TRS-80, then Apple, then IBM, Mac, then various PC laptops. I currently have a pink Sony Vaio. I have terrible handwriting, so notebooks just aren’t practical. I like to write at home, but also write in places I know I’ll have time on my hands – doctor’s offices, for instance.

What would you call your autobiography?

“Fearfully and Wonderfully Made.”

Book you’d hide if someone just dropped ‘round?
It’s not a book, but I have a very frightening magazine addiction. Fashion, cooking, travel, writing, British versions of American magazines…well, it can become a little crazy. I do write freelance magazine articles once in a while, which is how I justify this addiction.

Read a book or watch the movie?
I’m not a big snob about it; surprisingly, sometimes watching the movie is a better experience. The first Harry Potter movie was much less annoying than the first Harry Potter book. And I never cared for Wuthering Heights very much until I saw that movie version with Ralph Fiennes. Twilight is terrible either way.

Last book you bought ? “The Elegance of the Hedgehog.” A terrific French novel.

Ever read the last page of a book first? If it’s poetry, no. But in fiction? Almost every time.

These poems first appeared in Becoming the Villainess, published by Steel Toe Books.

Little Cinder

Girl, they can’t understand you.
You rise from the ash-heap in a blaze
and only then do they recognize you
as their one true love.

While you pray beneath your mother’s
tree you carve a phoenix into your palm
with a hazel twig and coal;
every night she devours more of you.

You used to believe in angels.
Now you believe in the makeover;
if you can’t get the grime off your face
and your foot into a size six heel

who will ever bother to notice you?
The kettle and the broom sear in your grasp,
snap into fragments. The turtledoves sing,
“There’s blood within the shoe.”

You deserve the palace, you think, as you signal
the pigeons to attack, approve the barrel filled
with red-hot nails. The great hearth beckons,
and the prince’s flag rises crimson as the angry sun.

He will love you for the heat you generate,
for the flames you ignite around you,
though he encase your tiny feet in glass
to keep them from scorching the ground.

Conversation with the Stepmother, at the Wedding

I did the best that I could
and she turned out okay, didn’t she?
It could have been a lot worse.
These shoes are killing me.

You don’t understand how hard it was,
those greasy children
with their lentils, their field mice,
always playing with fire,

their clinging fingers wrapped
around locks of their mother’s hair
or magic tree branches,
their grubby fists full of crumbs.

Hard to shake them loose
no matter how I comb their hair,
how many apples I feed them,
how many times I send them into the woods.

They never blame their father
who brought me here, to a house
full of strangers, where even the servants
worship images of the dead.

I say, make room for the new.

When Red Becomes the Wolf

In my dream you brought me fried bologna sandwiches.
“But wait,” you said, “You don’t even like bologna.”
I wolfed them down without answering.

I have never owned a red cape, that’s asking
for trouble, I knew. I dyed auburn hair brown.
In the forest by your house,

I met someone gathering wood. “Nice axe,”
I said before wandering further.
I was obtaining samples for my botany class.

How many daisies make a statistic?
I thought of Persephone, her dark gash
that allowed Hades passage. Which flower?

I was hungry, and tired. I entered someone’s
cottage, it was dark, and there was an old woman.
I volunteered to take her to get her hair done.

I mentioned I was born under the sign
of Lupus. “No,” she corrected, “Lupae. ”
Later, eating sandwiches, we discussed you

and also whether I could wear her fur coat.
”It makes you look feral, with your green eyes,”
she said. Oh grandmother, what a big mouth you have.

Becoming the Villainess

A girl – lovelocked, alone – wanders into a forest
where lions and wolves lie in wait.
The girl feeds them caramels from the pockets of her paper dress.
They follow like dogs.

Each day she weaves for twelve brothers, twelve golden shirts
twelve pairs of slippers, twelve sets of golden mail.
She sleeps under olive trees, praying for rescue.
In her dreams doves fly in circles, crying out her name.

For a hundred years she is turned into a golden bird,
hung in a cage in a witch’s castle. Her brothers
are all turned to stone. She cannot save them,
no matter how many witches she burns.

She weeps tears that cannot be heard
but turn to rubies when they hit the ground.
She lifted her hand against the light
and it became a feathered wing.

She learns the songs of mockingbirds, parakeets, pheasants.
She wanders into the forest more herself.
She speaks of her twelve stone brothers.
There is a dragon curled around eggs. There is a princess

who is also a white cat, and a tiny dog
she carries in a walnut shell.
She befriends a reindeer who speaks wisdom.
They are all in her corner. It seems unlikely now

that she will ever return home, remember what
it was like, her mother and father, the promises.
She will adopt a new costume,
set up shop in a witch’s castle,

perhaps lure young princes and princesses
to herself, to cure what ails her -
her loneliness, her grandeur,
the way her heart has become a stone.

Jeannine was awarded a 2007 Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Prize for Poetry and a 2007 Washington State Artist Trust GAP grant. She has been nominated for a Rhysling Award and a Pushcart Prize. Her poems have appeared in The Iowa Review, The Columbia Poetry Review, and Mythic Delirium. She volunteers as an editorial consultant for Crab Creek Review and currently teaches at the MFA program at National University. You can learn more about her and her work at www.webbish6.com.

November 2008 issue

After a few delays, our “November” issue is now available. Click through the cover provided by the wonderfully talented Isabella and read our Cinderella issue – we have fiction, peotry and non-fiction articles discussing various aspects of the Cinderella story. We hope you enjoy it.

"Cinderella" Animation Concept Painting Original Art (Disney, 1950)

Isn’t it gorgeous? This is one of Mary Blair’s original concept paintings. From Peko_chan over at Flickr:

Mary Blair – “Cinderella” Animation Concept Painting Original Art (Disney, 1950). This exquisite concept painting by Mary Blair features Cinderella’s castle in all its regal glory lit up against a dark night. Rendered in tempera on heavy illustration board…

Pekochan’s also put together a wonderful Mary Blair gallery. Do any of these look familiar? (Note: all descriptions are from Peko_chan’s gallery.)

Bippity Boppity Boo! - More Cinderella Concept Art

Cinderella Flees the Ball - More Cinderella Concept Art

Concept piece of Wendy Darling and John Darling

Mary Blair was a very influential animation artist who provided concept art for a number of Disney works including Alice in Wonderland, Peter Pan, and, of course, Cinderella. She even influenced the design of the It’s a Small World attraction at Disney! She also worked as a children’s illustrator, working on such titles as I Can Fly by Ruth Krauss (The Carrot Seed) and was posthumously honoured as a Disney Legend in 1991.

Interested in seeing more of Mary Blair’s artwork?

Last year, Disney released a new picture book version of Cinderella – this time using Blair’s art. There’s also a Blair Alice in Wonderland book.

John Canemaker has also written a marvellous illustrated biography, The Art and Flair of Mary Blair. The book even opens with an almost ‘Once upon a time’ feel…

“Let us begin,” writes Canemaker, “with a contemplative self-portrait of Mary Robinson Blair, a charming watercolor made soon after she married Lee Blair in 1934, when both were in their twenties…”

A Lion Among Men, by Gregory Maguire

The time came for her to die, and she would not die; so perhaps she might waste away, they thought, and she did waste, but not away; and the time came for her to receive final absolution, so they set candles upon her clavicle, but this she would not allow. She blasphemed with gusto, and she knocked the scented oils across the shroud they’re readied on a trestle nearby.

    –Gregory Maguire, A Lion Among Men, The Wicked Years, Book 3

Like what you just read? It’s the opening paragraph from Maguire’s new book, as typed up from the signed copy next to me, the soon-to-be-property of some lucky Fees reader.

So–entering is easy. Leave your email address in the comments thread below, and answer the following two questions:

In the book (not the movie) The Wizard of Oz, what colour is the road Dorothy travels along?

If you could have a conversation with one of the Oz characters in Maguire’s books, who would it be and why?

A winner will be chosen by a very complex process involving a hat, some paper, and a possibly irate ferret.

There are several tales about Koschei and other wizards who’ve hidden their souls away. For those interested in a more contemporary Koschei tale, check out William Sleator’s The Boy Who Couldn’t Die.

*

In a certain kingdom there lived a Prince Ivan. He had three sisters. The first was the Princess Marya, the second the Princess Olga, the third the Princess Anna. When their father and mother lay at the point of death, they had thus enjoined their son: `Give your sisters in marriage to the very first suitors who come to woo them. Don’t go keeping them by you!’

They died, and the Prince buried them, and then, to solace his grief, he went with his sisters into the garden green to stroll. Suddenly the sky was covered by a black cloud; a terrible storm arose.

`Let us go home, sisters!’ he cried.

Hardly had they got into the palace, when the thunder pealed, the ceiling split open, and into the room where they were came flying a falcon bright. The Falcon smote upon the ground, became a brave youth, and said:

`Hail, Prince Ivan! Before I came as a guest, but now I have come as a wooer! I wish to propose for your sister, the Princess Marya.’

`If you find favour in the eyes of my sister, I will not interfere with her wishes. Let her marry you, in God’s name!’

The Princess Marya gave her consent; the Falcon married her and bore her away into his own realm.

Days follow days, hours chase hours; a whole year goes by. One day Prince Ivan and his two sisters went out to stroll in the garden green. Again there arose a storm-cloud, with whirlwind and lightning.

`Let us go home, sisters!’ cries the Prince. Scarcely had they entered the palace when the thunder crashed, the roof burst into a blaze, the ceiling split in twain, and in flew an eagle. The Eagle smote upon the ground and became a brave youth.

`Hail, Prince Ivan! I Before I came as a guest, but now I have come as a wooer!’

And he asked for the hand of the Princess Olga. Prince Ivan replied:

`If you find favour in the eyes of the Princess Olga, then let her marry you. I will not interfere with her liberty of choice.’

The Princess Olga gave her consent and married the Eagle. The Eagle took her and carried her off to his own kingdom.

Another year went by. Prince Ivan said to his youngest sister:

`Let us go out and stroll in the garden green!’

They strolled about for a time. Again there arose a storm-cloud, with whirlwind and lightning.

`Let us return home, sister!’ said he.

They returned home, but they hadn’t had time to sit down when the thunder crashed, the ceiling split open, and in flew a raven. The Raven smote upon the floor and became a brave youth. The former youths had been handsome, but this one was handsomer still.

`Well, Prince Ivan! Before I came as a guest, but now I have come as a wooer! Give me the Princess Anna to wife.’

`I won’t interfere with my sister’s freedom. If you gain her affections, let her marry you.’

So the Princess Anna married the Raven, and he bore her away into his own realm. Prince Ivan was left alone. A whole year he lived without his sisters; then he grew weary, and said:

`I will set out in search of my sisters.’

He got ready for the journey, he rode and rode, and one day he saw a whole army lying dead on the plain. He cried aloud, `If there be a living man there, let him make answer! Who has slain this mighty host?’

There replied unto him a living man:

`All this mighty host has been slain by the fair Princess Marya Morevna.’

Prince Ivan rode further on, and came to a white tent, and forth came to meet him the fair Princess Marya Morevna.

`Hail, Prince!’ says she; `whither does God send you? and is it of your free will or against your will?’

Prince Ivan replied, `Not against their will do brave youths ride!’

`Well, if your business be not pressing, tarry awhile in my tent.’

Thereat was Prince Ivan glad. He spent two nights in the tent, and he found favour in the eyes of Marya Morevna, and she married him. The fair Princess, Marya Morevna, carried him off into her own realm.

They spent some time together, and then the Princess took it into her head to go a warring. So she handed over all the house- keeping affairs to Prince Ivan, and gave him these instructions:

`Go about everywhere, keep watch over everything; only do not venture to look into that closet there.’

He couldn’t help doing so. The moment Marya Morevna had gone he rushed to the closet, pulled open the door, and looked in– there hung Koshchei the Deathless, fettered by twelve chains. Then Koshchei entreated Prince Ivan, saying:

`Have pity upon me and give me to drink! Ten years long have I been here in torment, neither eating nor drinking; my throat is utterly dried up.’

The Prince gave him a bucketful of water; he drank it up and asked for more, saying:

`A single bucket of water will not quench my thirst; give me more!’

The Prince gave him a second bucketful. Koshchei drank it up and asked for a third, and when he had swallowed the third bucketful, he regained his former strength, gave his chains a shake, and broke all twelve at once.

`Thanks, Prince Ivan!’ cried Koshchei the Deathless, `now you will sooner see your own ears than Marya Morevna!’ and out of the window he flew in the shape of a terrible whirlwind. And he came up with the fair Princess Marya Morevna as she was going her way, laid hold of her and carried her off home with him. But Prince Ivan wept full sore, and he arrayed himself and set out a- wandering, saying to himself, `Whatever happens, I will go and look for Marya Morevna!’

One day passed, another day passed; at the dawn of the third day he saw a wondrous palace, and by the side of the palace stood an oak, and on the oak sat a falcon bright. Down flew the Falcon from the oak, smote upon the ground, turned into a brave youth, and cried aloud:

`Ha, dear brother-in-law! how deals the Lord with you?’

Out came running the Princess Marya, joyfully greeted her brother Ivan, and began inquiring after his health, and telling him all about herself. The Prince spent three days with them; then he said:

`I cannot abide with you; I must go in search of my wife, the fair Princess Marya Morevna.’

`Hard will it be for you to find her,’ answered the Falcon. `At all events leave with us your silver spoon. We will look at it and remember you.’ So Prince Ivan left his silver spoon at the Falcon’s, and went on his way again.

On he went one day, on he went another day, and by the dawn of the third day he saw a palace still grander than the former one and hard by the palace stood an oak, and on the oak sat an eagle. Down flew the Eagle from the oak, smote upon the ground, turned into a brave youth, and cried aloud:

`Rise up, Princess Olga! Hither comes our brother dear!’

The Princess Olga immediately ran to meet him, and began kissing him and embracing him, asking after his health, and telling him all about herself. With them Prince Ivan stopped three days; then he said:

`I cannot stay here any longer. I am going to look for my wife, the fair Princess Marya Morevna.’

`Hard will it be for you to find her,’ replied the Eagle. `Leave with us a silver fork. We will look at it and remember you.’

He left a silver fork behind, and went his way. He travelled one day, he travelled two days; at daybreak on the third day he saw a palace grander than the first two, and near the palace stood an oak, and on the oak sat a raven. Down flew the Raven from the oak, smote upon the ground, turned into a brave youth, and cried aloud:

`Princess Anna, come forth quickly I our brother is coming.’

Out ran the Princess Anna, greeted him joyfully, and began kissing and embracing him, asking after his health and telling him all about herself. Prince Ivan stayed with them three days; then he said:

`Farewell! I am going to look for my wife, the fair Princess Marya Morevna.’

`Hard will it be for you to find her,’ replied the Raven. `Anyhow, leave your silver snuff-box with us. We will look at it and remember you.’

The Prince handed over his silver snuff-box, took his leave, and went his way. One day he went, another day he went, and on the third day he came to where Marya Morevna was. She caught sight of her love, flung her arms around his neck, burst into tears, and exclaimed:

`Oh, Prince Ivan! why did you disobey me and go looking into the closet and letting out Koshchei the Deathless?’

`Forgive me, Marya Morevna! Remember not the past; much better fly with me while Koshchei the Deathless is out of sight. Perhaps he won’t catch us.’

So they got ready and fled. Now Koshchei was out hunting. Towards evening he was returning home, when his good steed stumbled beneath him.

`Why stumblest thou, sorry jade? Scentest thou some ill?’ The steed replied:

`Prince Ivan has come and carried off Marya Morevna.’ `Is it possible to catch them?’

`It is possible to sow wheat, to wait till it grows up, to reap it and thresh it, to grind it to flour, to make five pies of it, to eat those pies, and then to start in pursuit–and even then to be in time.’ Koshchei galloped off and caught up Prince Ivan.

`Now,’ says he, `this time I will forgive you, in return for your kindness in giving me water to drink. And a second time I will forgive you; but the third time beware! I will cut you to bits.’

Then he took Marya Morevna from him, and carried her off. But Prince Ivan sat down on a stone and burst into tears. He wept and wept–and then returned back again to Marya Morevna. Now Koshchei the Deathless happened not to be at home.

`Let us fly, Marya Morevna!’

`Ah, Prince Ivan! he will catch us.’

`Suppose he does catch us. At all events we shall have spent an hour or two together.’

So they got ready and fled. As Koshchei the Deathless was returning home, his good steed stumbled beneath him.

`Why stumblest thou, sorry jade? Scentest thou some ill?’

`Prince Ivan has come and carried off Marya Morevna.’

`Is it possible to catch them?’

`It is possible to sow barley, to wait till it grows up, to reap it and thresh it, to brew beer, to drink ourselves drunk on it, to sleep our fill, and then to set off in pursuit–and yet to be in time.’

Koshchei galloped off, caught up Prince Ivan:

`Didn’t I tell you that you should not see Marya Morevna any more than your own ears?’

And he took her away and carried her off home with him.

Prince Ivan was left there alone. He wept and wept; then he went back again after Marya Morevna. Koshchei happened to be away from home at that moment.

`Let us fly, Marya Morevna!’

`Ah, Prince Ivan! he is sure to catch us and hew you in pieces.’

`Let him hew away! I cannot live without you.

So they got ready and fled.

Koshchei the Deathless was returning home when his good steed stumbled beneath him.

`Why stumblest thou? Scentest thou any ill?’

`Prince Ivan has come and has carried off Marya Morevna.’

Koshchei galloped off, caught Prince Ivan, chopped him into little pieces, put them into a barrel, smeared it with pitch and bound it with iron hoops, and flung it into the blue sea. But Marya Morevna he carried off home.

At that very time the silver articles turned black which Prince Ivan had left with his brothers-in-law.

`Ah!’ said they, `the evil is accomplished sure enough!’

Then the Eagle hurried to the blue sea, caught hold of the barrel, and dragged it ashore; the Falcon flew away for the Water of Life, and the Raven for the Water of Death.

Afterwards they all three met, broke open the barrel, took out the remains of Prince Ivan, washed them, and put them together in fitting order. The Raven sprinkled them with the Water of Death–the pieces joined together, the body became whole. The Falcon sprinkled it with the Water of Life–Prince Ivan shuddered, stood up, and said:

`Ah! what a time I’ve been sleeping!’

`You’d have gone on sleeping a good deal longer if it hadn’t been for us,’ replied his brothers-in-law. `Now come and pay us a visit.’

`Not so, brothers; I shall go and look for Marya Morevna.’

And when he had found her, he said to her:

`Find out from Koshchei the Deathless whence he got so good a steed.’

So Marya Morevna chose a favourable moment, and began asking Koshchei about it. Koshchei replied:

`Beyond thrice nine lands, in the thirtieth kingdom, on the other side of the fiery river, there lives a Baba Yaga. She has so good a mare that she flies right round the world on it every day. And she has many other splendid mares. I watched her herds for three days without losing a single mare, and in return for that the Baba Yaga gave me a foal.’

`But how did you get across the fiery river?’

`Why, I’ve a handkerchief of this kind–when I wave it thrice on the right hand, there springs up a very lofty bridge, and the fire cannot reach it.’

Marya Morevna listened to all this, and repeated it to Prince Ivan, and she carried off the handkerchief and gave it to him. So he managed to get across the fiery river, and then went on to the Baba Yaga’s. Long went he on without getting anything either to eat or to drink. At last he came across an outlandish bird and its young ones. Says Prince Ivan:

`I’ll eat one of these chickens.’

`Don’t eat it, Prince Ivan!’ begs the outlandish bird; `some time or other I’ll do you a good turn.’

He went on farther and saw a hive of bees in the forest.

`I’ll get a bit of honeycomb,’ says he.

`Don’t disturb my honey, Prince Ivan!’ exclaims the queen- bee; `some time or other I’ll do you a good turn.’

So he didn’t disturb it, but went on. Presently there met him a lioness with her cub.

`Anyhow, I’ll eat this lion cub,’ says he; `I’m so hungry I feel quite unwell!’

`Please let us alone, Prince Ivan!’ begs the lioness; `some time or other I’ll do you a good turn.’

`Very well; have it your own way,’ says he.

Hungry and faint he wandered on, walked farther and farther, and at last came to where stood the house of the Baba Yaga. Round the house were set twelve poles in a circle, and on each of eleven of these poles was stuck a human head; the twelfth alone remained unoccupied.

`Hail, granny!’

`Hail, Prince Ivan! wherefore have yon come? Is it of your own accord, or on compulsion?’

`I have come to earn from you an heroic steed.’

`So be it, Prince! You won’t have to serve a year with me, but just three days. If you take good care of my mares, I’ll give you an heroic steed. But if you don’t–why, then you mustn’t be annoyed at finding your head stuck on top of the last pole up there.’

Prince Ivan agreed to these terms. The Baba Yaga gave him food and drink, and bade him set about his business. But the moment he had driven the mares afield, they cocked up their tails, and away they tore across the meadows in all directions. Before the Prince had time to look round they were all out of sight. Thereupon he began to weep and to disquiet himself, and then he sat down upon a stone and went to sleep. But when the sun was near its setting the outlandish bird came flying up to him, and awakened him, saying:

`Arise, Prince Ivan! The mares are at home now.’

The Prince arose and returned home. There the Baba Yaga was storming and raging at her mares, and shrieking:

`Whatever did ye come home for?’

`How could we help coming home?’ said they. `There came flying birds from every part of the world, and all but pecked our eyes out.’

`Well, well! to-morrow don’t go galloping over the meadows, but disperse amid the thick forests.’

Prince Ivan slept all night. In the morning the Baba Yaga says to him:

`Mind, Prince! if you don’t take good care of the mares, if you lose merely one of them–your bold head will be stuck on that pole!’

He drove the mares afield. Immediately they cocked up their tails and dispersed among the thick forests. Again did the Prince sit down on the stone, weep and weep, and then go to sleep. The sun went down behind the forest. Up came running the lioness.

`Arise, Prince Ivan! The mares are all collected.’

Prince Ivan arose and went home. More than ever did the Baba Yaga storm at her mares and shriek:

`Whatever did ye come back home for?’

`How could we help coming back? Beasts of prey came running at us from all parts of the world, and all but tore us utterly to pieces.’

`Well, to-morrow run off into the blue sea.’

Again did Prince Ivan sleep through the night. Next morning the Baba Yaga sent him forth to watch the mares.

`If you don’t take good care of them,’ says she, `your bold head will be stuck on that pole!’

He drove the mares afield. Immediately they cocked up their tails, disappeared from sight, and fled into the blue sea. There they stood, up to their necks in water. Prince Ivan sat down on the stone, wept, and fell asleep. But when the sun had set behind the forest, up came flying a bee, and said:

`Arise, Prince! The mares are all collected. But when you get home, don’t let the Baba Yaga set eyes on you, but go into the stable and hide behind the mangers. There you will find a sorry colt rolling in the muck. Do you steal it, and at the dead of night ride away from the house.’

Prince Ivan arose, slipped into the stable, and lay down behind the mangers, while the Baba Yaga was storming away at her mares and shrieking:

`Why did ye come back?’

`How could we help coming back? There came flying bees in countless numbers from all parts of the world, and began stinging us on all sides till the blood came!’

The Baba Yaga went to sleep. In the dead of the night Prince Ivan stole the sorry colt, saddled it, jumped on its back, and galloped away to the fiery river. When he came to that river he waved the handkerchief three times on the right hand, and suddenly, springing goodness knows whence, there hung across the river, high in the air, a splendid bridge. The Prince rode across the bridge and waved the handkerchief twice only on the left hand; there remained across the river a thin, ever so thin a bridge!

When the Baba Yaga got up in the morning the sorry colt was not to be seen! Off she set in pursuit. At full speed did she fly in her iron mortar, urging it on with the pestle, sweeping away her traces with the broom. She dashed up to the fiery river, gave a glance, and said, `A capital bridge!’ She drove on to the bridge, but had only got half-way when the bridge broke in two, and the Baba Yaga went flop into the river. There truly did she meet with a cruel death!

Prince Ivan fattened up the colt in the green meadows, and it turned into a wondrous steed. Then he rode to where Marya Morevna was. She came running out, and flung herself on his neck, crying:

`By what means has God brought you back to life?’

`Thus and thus,’ says he. `Now come along with me.’

`I am afraid, Prince Ivan! If Koshchei catches us you will be cut in pieces again.’

`No, he won’t catch us! I have a splendid heroic steed now; it flies just like a bird.’ So they got on its back and rode away.

Koshchei the Deathless was returning home when his horse stumbled beneath him.

`What art thou stumbling for, sorry jade? Dost thou scent any ill?’

`Prince Ivan has come and carried off Marya Morevna.’

`Can we catch them?’

`God knows! Prince Ivan has a horse now which is better than I.’

`Well, I can’t stand it,’ says Koshchei the Deathless. `I will pursue.’

After a time he came up with Prince Ivan, lighted on the ground, and was going to chop him up with his sharp sword. But at that moment Prince Ivan’s horse smote Koshchei the Deathless full swing with its hoof, and cracked his skull, and the Prince made an end of him with a club. Afterwards the Prince heaped up a pile of wood, set fire to it, burnt Koshchei the Deathless on the pyre, and scattered his ashes to the wind. Then Marya Morevna mounted Koshchei’s horse and Prince Ivan got on his own, and they rode away to visit first the Raven, and then the Eagle, and then the Falcon. Wherever they went they met with a joyful greeting.

`Ah, Prince Ivan! why, we never expected to see you again. Well, it wasn’t for nothing that you gave yourself so much trouble. Such a beauty as Marya Morevna one might search for all the world over–and never find one like her!’

And so they visited, and they feasted; and afterwards they went off to their own realm.

From Andrew Lang’s Red Fairy Book.

Ballynoola – Maggie Stiefvater

The Kiss – Maggie Stiefvater

Mary, Young and Fair – Traditional (arranged by Maggie Stiefvater)

Enjoy!