Category Archives: Stories

Those I’ve seen/heard

To those who complain fairy/folk tales are unrealistic

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The point of folk/fairy tales isn’t to be  über-original, or show a balanced view of humans, in all their contradictions and shades of good and evil.

The point of these tales is to look at the good and the evil (as represented by the characters), and then to decide what to do with them.

Whether we will encounter evil in this life is not the question.  The question is, What will we do with the evil we find?  Will we fear it?  Flee it?  Fight it?  Surrender to it?

This is what these tales explore.

Leave the fine distinctions of good in the heart of goblins or evil wizards to those writing for a more “modern” purpose, and let the folk tales do what they’ve done for millennia: personify good and evil, and let us watch how they interact.

Two Recommended Picture Books

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First, A Splendid Friend, Indeed by Suzanne Bloom.

As a mother who likes to read and write and think (the beleaguered polar bear’s interrupted activities), this book is wonderful means of conveying both my frustration at being interrupted and the value still attached to my relationship with the interrupter.

I found it a couple years ago, but it was just this year that I saw its perfectness for our house and bought it for Elisha’s 3rd birthday.  The goose is oblivious to the polar bear’s expressions of frustration, but my girls have noticed them and we are able to talk about things like polite interrupting and interpreting body language.

Second is the potentially-disturbing Heckedy Peg by Audrey Wood.

This was the answer for my (mentioned) desire for a wicked-witch story.

Hansel and Gretel will eventually be one, but I want to wait on that, being very careful about the stories I introduce to my children (and their timing).

For any newbies (or for a refresher) here is the progression I’m trying to use when teaching my children about evil:

  • Saint George and the Dragon: Evil exists and brave people must fight it.
  • Heckety Peg: Evil exists in human form, and can effect children
    • disobedience makes us more vulnerable
  • Hansel and Gretel: Evil exists in human form and sometimes children must deal with it.

This last step is something I’m waiting another two or three years for.  In the meantime, Heckedy Peg emphasizes some good things.

  • Hard work is both necessary, natural (rare in any children’s books) and rewarded
  • Disobedience is dangerous
  • Mother protects her children– both with warnings and action
    • In the end the rescue is effected by how well the mother knows the individualities of her brood (of seven!)
  • Mother won’t give up fighting for her children

For this stage the power and action of the mother is the most important. Most picture books and stories emphasize the autonomy and discoveries of the child(ren), but in this case the goal is not to put the onus on the child to do the saving.

It is utterly appropriate for children to depend on their mother for saving, and that natural expectation is fulfilled, reinforcing the security of the children snuggled in and listening.

Thinking in these terms now I see this is what I saw in Wiley and the Hairy Man, which I would place between Heckedy Peg and H&G in my progression: Wiley has to deal with the Hairy Man himself, but he also has the advice of his far-sighted mother to guide him and herself to (later) protect him.

No clever conclusion here, just the observation that these two books have been very useful beyond simply entertaining my kids.  It’s books like these that I love to discover.

An example where a fairy tale helped me

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My first child’s birth was a blur. Roughly 12 hours from the first contractions till I held her.

My second’s birth was 3 hours, start-to-finish, with approximately 4-times the intensity of the first one.

Facing my next delivery less than two years after that unpleasant surprise (the labor, not the baby) I felt an understandable measure of anxiety about the impending birth.

Like many Christians I quoted Philippians 4:13 to myself, and focused on the certainty that I could trust God’s provision for every need I may have.  This took care of my rational self, but not my emotional self .

For that part I fell back to the time-tested principles of distraction and deflection when possibilities of fear or discomfort offered their presence.

Then, at some point during this pregnancy I was doing some tale-searching and came across The Princess on the Glass Hill, a story I read years ago but had forgotten the details of.  The part that stuck with me was the Cinderlad enduring each increasingly bone-rattling earthquake with a simple observation.

“Well, if it gets no worse than that, I can manage to stand it.”

And in that simple line I “found my peace.”

The line became a mental summary reconciling my emotional state with reality: See, it *hasn’t* been too much; I’m still here.

Therein is the power of story. Truth that couldn’t bang through the frantic defenses of my fears opened the door with a simple key.  And who but God could have orchestrated the finding of just the right story at just the right time?

Every good and perfect gift is from above, and I pray that someday more of those gifts will be more accessible to hurting children, without the stigma hanging over them of what some people incorrectly think fairy tales mean.

People don’t understand fairy tales anymore

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Here is yet another example of “fairy tales” being misunderstood.

From a local non-profit’s brochure:

If life were a fairy tale, no child would be abused.  The cold reality is that many children in Alaska are abused.

…

The team…helps provide the support and intervention the child victim and their family need in order… to have a chance to live happily ever after.

No offense intended to this well-meaning agency, but I don’t think anybody who knows traditional tales could claim that a fairy tale world is a safe place.  I’m always frustrated when I see this misconception perpetuated.

I don’t feel personally hurt so much as I feel these agencies (for example) and disillusioned individuals are closing the door on something that could be useful for the wounded children they are seeking to aid, or even themselves.

If humans are convinced they have to work without the power of Christ, I think they shouldn’t rule out any man-made help.  For all that the words of men will never substitute for the work of Christ, I think we can all agree there are words with greater and lesser usefulness. (If only because we have all encountered the less-effective stuff.)

To constantly mock and degrade the concept of fairy tale neutralizes its potential effectiveness.

Where is the harm in letting a beaten or neglected child see herself in the story of Cinderella?  Yes, there is the out-of-vogue reference to being rescued by a male consort, but viewed in the larger circle of folklore one could learn it is relationship, along with faithfulness and perseverance working as the means of freedom– not just finding the “right” guy or being the sweet milksop.

Aren’t those noble elements what we wish for our wounded self or wounded others?  Aren’t those the healthy elements we delight to see the wounded learn?

Eventually I will finish Bettelheim’s The Uses of Enchantment and learn if he’s got an actually useful suggestion for using traditional tales in therapy (it will take someone less-controversial than him, but more dedicated than me to create something systematically usable and coherent).

Tomorrow I’ll share an example of a fairy tale giving me just what I needed.

Everything in this World Comes from Something.

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I have tried at least three times to start Elizabeth George’s book Write Away.  I have been interested enough every time, but never gotten very far before being distracted by life.

I used to read only non-fiction primarily for that reason: you can quit at any point and (honestly) not be missing anything.  After all, I made it this far in life without the information, and so I should continue to do at least as well when I go on.

The one thing I latched on to from her book (and I do adore this) is the abbreviation THAD for Talking Head Avoidance Device.  That is, anything– a fist fight, a walk, a crying baby to settle– that breaks up a conversation with some measure of action to keep it from being nothing but a talking-heads scene.

Because of that I think in terms of THADs.  I need to convey information here.  What can I use for this scene’s THAD?

I love writing arguments– maybe because I avoid them in real life, or maybe because I get to feel clever no matter who wins because I’m writing both sides.  But creating an argument with a believable THAD is a challenge– and I feel like I’m running out of new ones.

I have two (unwritten) scenes that I’ve cut from the outline because, despite the engaging argument itching to happen, I have no THAD to hand.

~ ~ ~

What follows is a near stream-of-consciousness exploration into a very emotional event where I felt both threatened and in-control– and that’s sort of my definition for a scene that is engaging (never mind what it might say about me.  It works for now).

~ ~ ~

When I was 18 I worked after school in an elementary school library.

I was more oblivious than I am now, and still wonder if the young adult guy who worked there thought he was flirting with me.  All I can remember, honestly, is that the fellow was alternately fun and creepy.

On one of the creepy days he was hanging around the workroom where I was repairing books (read: my back is to the room, and therefore him).

In his defense, this was where the extra computers were, so at least he had a purpose to be there.

He came up behind me and snapped a pair of scissors open and shut behind my ponytail.  I turned and snatched the scissors from him, doubtless with fire in my eyes.  My heart was beating like crazy and I can’t remember if I wanted to hit him or run for my dad (who worked just down the hall).

To his credit the fellow backed off, but he was full of “lighten up” and “What’s the problem?” responses.

What he couldn’t have known (and I don’t think I told him) was that earlier in the day I’d been in Government class where I sat several times a week with my high school bullies: a collection of girls who spent the between-classes times attacking my personhood.

Which on one level was eye-rolling in its immaturity, and on another frustrating because I hated how effective their attacks were.

That morning I was (as usual) in my own little world, trying to ignore the rude girls.

And then I heard scissors behind me.  Just as I *knew* R wouldn’t have the nerve to actually cut at my hair, I believed these girls would take my whole ponytail.

I spent the 90-minute period trying to pay attention, take notes, and pretend chewing on the end of my hair was a way of concentrating and not a defensive act.

Having a second, identical  “attack” in the same day, from a person I knew how to confront (I have always found it easier to confront males than females), I was completely primed and he got the brunt of it.

~ ~ ~

So there’s the story behind the latest THAD I’ll be playing with for my novel:  I think somebody’s going to lose some hair.

Of Blood and Accidents

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Purple Moose mentioned a finger-cutting incident that reminded me of a story I haven’t told here before.

The summer that Natasha was 2, I was shaving the fat off some cuts of meat (toward my hand.  Duh.  Everyone knows you don’t do that, but everybody also knows you’ve got better control that way) when the blade slipped and sliced my index finger across the first knuckle and into the cuticle.

My knives tend to very sharp, so it wasn’t painful, per se; a very clean cut.  But I was angry.  I stomped the floor *hard* (this is my “emotional” response to pain or frustration.  I don’t really scream or swear– in the traditional sense).

On some level I was concerned for my girl– vaguely aware that this could be one of those really formative moments in her young life– and I was determined *not* to have a little girl that was afraid of blood (no offense).  I rinsed my cut finger under the faucet while I ripped off a paper towel to wrap it in.

Now, before all this began I’d been explaining safe food-handing practices to my 2-year-old.

(Yes, it’s okay to laugh.  I thought it was funny.  Especially the quiet, serious look she maintained while I talked about washing and germs and not cross-contaminating used surfaces).

When I cut myself, precipitating the rapid string of actions that followed, Natasha kept piping, (younger than Elisha is now, though I can still hear it in his voice), “Sick? Sick?”

Still I stomped, wondering the best response to her concerned inquiry.  To myself, head spinning just slightly, I was hissing, “I never cut myself by accident.  I never cut myself by accident.”

Which is true.  I knew better than to cut toward my own hand, so this wasn’t a true accident.

And all of a sudden the image of an oblivious adolescent was in my mind’s eye, and she was saying, “I don’t know *how* I got pregnant!”

I laughed, and my head cleared.

Turning to Natasha I showed her my clean and blotted finger.  Bending the knuckle caused the cut to begin leaking again and she studied the color.

“This is blood,” I said in the same voice I’d used to talk about why we cut off fat, and why we wash our hands.  “If you ever see this you’re allowed to scream, and you get a band-aid.”

Can’t be all bad, right?

While searching for a suitable fairytale to read at a party for a 6-year-old

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With three 4-year-olds from other households present I’ve been feeling touchy about what to do for our read-aloud.

“What about Snow White?” asked one of the girls, holding up the story illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman.

Now, I happen to think this is a very smart book.  It allows the girl to be 7  when she’s driven away, but shows her growing old enough to marry by the time the prince finds her.  Very clever illustrations.  But the story is true to the Grimm original, with the asking for the heart to eat, and dancing to death in hot iron shoes.

I read around those parts in the beginning, and actually haven’t read it for some time now, since Natasha is able to read along with me.

“I think it might be too scary for some of the younger kids,” I said dismissively.

“But it has a good ending!” Melody protested.

The End of Zohak

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Oops.  Forgot to finish this one.  Anybody still hanging, or have you googled it already?
The book’s unavailable, so this ending will have to be all my words (and month-old memory).

As you may recall, when we last saw Zohak he was in a state of fearful anticipation, having created (in his attempt to protect his future) the man who would make it his life’s work to destroy Zohak.

Kava, for all that he gave the first 17 of his 18 sons to be the brainfood of Zahok’s shoulder serpents, had known for many years without telling that secret which Zohak wanted most to know: the location of the young warrior Feridun.

With his leather-apron banner and all who would join him in resisting Zohak following, Kava led the way to the hidden fortress.  Feridun saw the eager men before him and decided the time was right.  Leading the way he began the desperate advance: expecting to be confronted at many points along the way, but meeting no one who would stand against them.  Even as he reached the gates of Zohak’s city, where he expected the fiercest resistance and Zohak himself, he found instead the gates open to him, for Zohak was away, collecting more oathtakers in his growing fear.

The chamberlain left in charge (“who wished to retain his post, no matter who wore the crown”) did all blandly to make the young conqueror comfortable before slipping away to inform Zohak of the new state of things.

So great was Zohak’s fear of the young man’s coming, he did not at first seek to return and set things to right.  The chamberlain gave an account of all Feridun had done: Set himself on Zohak’s grand throne, killed Zohak’s elite demon guards, set Zohak’s great crown upon his own head.

Each time Zohak merely laughed and said that it was the duty of a good host to put up with much folly and foolishness from one’s guests.

“Even when the guest enters the women’s quarters and takes the daughters of [the king you defeated] into his own arms?”

And this, at last, was enough to rouse Zohak’s anger: that his unwilling wives would welcome the arrival of a strange man and call him husband.  He was near insanity in his fury, and went alone to his palace, scaling the wall to his garden and looking into it, planning with what subterfuge he would retake his city.  But there, when he saw his younger wife sitting in the garden with Feridun, the hotness of his rage overwhelmed his plans and he rushed the intruder with sword and snakes.

But Feridun overcame him and was about to slay him when a messenger from the source of all that is good came and made it know Zohak was not to die.  Ever.  He would be bound, and left for all eternity in a forgotten cave with only his serpents.

This as a reminder to all of the reward of wickedness.

The Beginning of the End of Zohak

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More from Tales of Ancient Persia, retold by Barbara Leonie Picard (a story introduced here).

As frequently it seems to happen, Zohak’s power, evil, and the extent of his control continued to grow.

As the strongest of a group of under-kings his peers came to him, begging him to lead their armies in the overthrow of their current lord, which Zohak did, becoming the new King-of-kings.  It was too late that the other rulers realized they had replaced self-centered vanity with overt evil, but now Zohak was too powerful to oppose, and all bent to his will.

Zohak took as his unwilling wives the two daughters of the king he overthrew, and continued every day in killing two strong men in order to feed their brains to the snakes on his shoulders.

Then came the night, as it always should happen, when Zohak dreamed of the one who would overthrow him.  He dreamed the name: Feridun, and feared it so much he sent out emissaries to seek the name and kill anyone who bore it.

Now, of course, there was only one with that name.  He was the youngest of three sons, and when the Zohak’s men heard of him they went to the house to kill him.  But his father denied them entrance long enough for his mother to escape with all three boys.

Feridun’s father was killed, and the boy grew to manhood with the one goal of someday avenging his father’s death.

Now, even as the youth was growing in strength, Zohak was growing in fear.

Too late he realized that loyalty was earned, not forced, and he sought to ingratiate himself to his under-kings and the people.  He had a type of contract drawn up, and urged those wishing to be known as loyal to sign it.  As they were overswearing their loyalty, Kava, a master smith, came to Zohak to beg for the life of his youngest son.

He had once had 18 sons, and the first 17 had all been taken to feed Zohak’s snakes.

Hastily Zohak praised Kava for his past loyalty and ordered that the smith’s youngest son was to be spared and restored to him; and Kava bowed down to him in joy and thankfulness.

Thinking such a time appropriate to gain another loyal subject, Zohak then urged Kava to sign the oath that he had prepared against the arrival of Feridun.

But when Kava heard the oath in which those who swore to it declared their loyalty to Zohak and maintained that he had ever been a just and merciful ruler and worthy of their loyalty and love, his honest heart rebelled, and he could not bring himself to swear to such a lie.

He snatched the tablet on which the proclamation was engraved and flung it to the ground so that it shattered, setting his foot upon it and crying out, “Are all the men here cowards, that they are so swift to swear themselves slaves to one who is a slave of Ahriman [king of demons, the source of all evil]?  And are they wanting in their wits, that they pronounce him good and just?  Or is it that they are all as evil as he is?  Never will I swear to such a lie, or declare myself loyal to such a slave of Ahriman.”

Then, while everyone, speechless, stared at him— Zohak in anger and all the others in a kind of fearful admiration— Kava strode from the hall of audience, hurrying his terrified son before him.

As soon as he reached home, Kava took his leather smith’s apron and attached it like a standard to the top of a spear.  With it he marched to the marketplace, urging all who would oppose Zohak to follow him and join the army of Feridun.

(to be continued…)

Images of Evil

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One thing I struggle with as a writer is how much evil to show.  Yeah, I’m someone who wants your skin to crawl with the right image of evil, but I don’t feel gore is the means to that end.

And it’s not my intent to be merely creepy.

So I’ve been trying to remember times when I reacted intensely to a character and thought of two examples:

  • The mother in the His Dark Materials series (though not the focus of this post), especially
    • Her first appearance in The Golden Compass and
    • her calm torturing scene (in the second book, I think it is)
  • Zohak (an early king from an Iranian epic poem), and how he became evil
    • This I wanted to present here (almost in the old TT format) because it’s so striking and I guess there are reletively few who’ve heard it.

~

There was not yet any meat-eating in the world, and a demon spirit wanted to change that.  In disguise he became Zohak’s cook, and began to cook him eggs, until Zohak was so enamored with the specialty he would eat nothing else.

The glib cook brushed off the praise and insisted he had even better things to offer if the king wished it, and began serving him a new dish each day: quail and pheasant, lamb and chicken, then veal, cooked in wine and spices.

After greedily devouring this last meal Zohak bade the demon ask a favor.  Still in his disguise the demon asked permision to kiss the young king on his two shoulders, which the king granted.  The demon vanished as soon as he had kissed the young man.

[Zohak] had barely recovered his wits after the astonishment of seeing his cook disappear… when he became aware of an unaccustomed sensation on his shoulders.  He looked, and there, on either shoulder, where the demon’s lips had touched his skin, the heads of two black serpents were appearing.  Zohak watched, appalled, as the serpents grew larger and larger until each was the size a large snake would have been if its tail and half its length had been hidden within the flesh and bones of his shoulder.  Then, at last, the black bodies ceased to grow and remained, swaying gently from side to side, hissing and darting forked tongues in and out.

From Tales of Ancient Persia retold by Barbara Leonie Picard

Nothing would remove the serpents, and cutting them off did not keep them from re-growing.  Eventually the demon returned in another guise to offer counsel.  He suggested that if the serpents were fed according to their desire, they may grow satiated and fall asleep, leaving Zohak to live his own life.

When asked, the demon informed the young king that the serpents each required the brain of a strong man daily.  In this way the workers of evil ensured there would be two less men in the world each day.

From then on, with each day that passed, as the black serpents grew stronger, nourished by their ghastly food, so Zohak grew ever more hardened, becoming more cruel and ambitious.