Tatterhood

Margrete Lamond was born in Norway and came to
Australia with her family at the age of eight. She grew up
on a farm outside Sydney, then in her twenties moved
to Nimbin, to lead the ideal life. Fifteen years and
two children later, she has written three books of
non-fiction and many plays and articles for children.

She now lives in Sydney with her daughter and
works as an editor for a children's magazine.

In her spare time, she likes to read, stare at the
ceiling, grub in the garden and dance flamenco.

Margrete's other books for Allen & Unwin are
Going for It!: Success Stories of Women in Sport
and
Plague and Pestilence
.

Copyright © text, Margrete Lamond 1999

© illustrations, Peter Sheehan 1999

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

First published in 1999 by

Allen & Unwin

9 Atchison Street

St Leonards NSW 1590

Australia

Phone: (612) 8425 0100

Fax: (612) 9906 2218

E-mail: [email protected]

Web:
http://www.allen-unwin.com.au

National Library of Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Lamond, Margrete.

Tatterhood and other feisty folk tales.

ISBN 1 86448 960 X.

1. Folk literature – Juvenile literature. 2. Tales – Juvenile literature.

3. Tales – Norway – Juvenile literature.

I. Asbjørnsen, Peter Christen, 1812–1885. Norske folke-eventyr.

II. Sheehan, Peter, 1964–. III. Title: Norske folke-eventyr.

398.20981

Designed by Sandra Nobes

Cover illustration by Peter Sheehan

Set in Fry's Baskerville by Tou-Can Design

Printed in Australia by Australian Print Group, Maryborough, Vic.

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Neither Naked nor Clad

Tatterhood

Bold, But Not Too Bold

Ma's Girl and Pa's Girl

Splintersmock

The Goosegirl

When the Hen Went into the Hill

Whitebear

The Squire's Bride

Author's Note

for my mother

Sarah A. L. Askham

and for my father

Haakon Kierulf

Long before now – and longer than that – there was a prince who liked a girl and thought he'd marry her. But no sooner were they friends, and knew this and that about each other, than he thought she wasn't grand enough for him, and he wanted to be rid of her again.

Well, she wouldn't go. And when she still wouldn't, he said he'd marry her after all, on certain conditions. She must come to him not walking or sliding or driving or riding; not fasting and not full; not naked, not clad; and neither by day nor by night. For he thought she'd never do it, and when she failed he'd be free.

Well, the girl went off. She found three barleycorns to chew on, and so she wasn't fasting and wasn't full. She threw a net around herself, and so she wasn't naked and wasn't dressed. She took a ram to sit on and, in the pale of dawn with her feet scuffing the dirt – not driving, not riding, not walking, not sliding – she shuffled forth to meet the prince.

But when she reached the gates and begged to see him, the girl looked so outrageous that they wouldn't let her through. When still they wouldn't, she shuffled round to the prince's window, reefed the ram's horn clean off its head, stood up on its back and hammered on the shutters with the horn till the prince woke up.

Well, the prince came to the window and leaned out. He saw how it was, and guessed the girl had outfoxed him, so he opened the doors, let her in and made a princess of her after all.

Which is how things were done in those days.

Once, before now, there was a queen who had no children. She was long in the face and red of eye, and barely knew a happy hour. Day after day her complaints echoed through the empty rooms.

‘There is nothing so desolate or grim as a childless queen,' she moaned.

And indeed there wasn't.

Well, times changed. The king and queen fostered a girl and they raised her as their own for a while. The walls no longer seemed so bare; the queen learned how to scold and had her share of worry and care at last.

One day, this foster-daughter went down to the roadside in front of the house to play with her golden apple. As she was rolling it back and forth, a beggar-woman and her child loitered by. The two children eyed each other, first up and then down. The beggar-child raised her brows and the princess shrugged. Then they smiled, and it wasn't long before the ragamuffin was on her knees in the dust with the princess, punting the apple to and fro.

The queen, who was watching by the window, saw the girls playing and rapped on the glass. But when her child went up, the urchin went with her and they came into the queen's room holding hands – one rough and one smooth – like the fast and firm friends they surely were.

‘Princesses don't play with guttersnipes,' the queen explained, and to the beggar-child she said, ‘Shoo!'

‘Well,' said the urchin, calm as a block, ‘if the queen knew what my ma could do, she wouldn't treat me so.'

The queen wondered what she meant.

‘What can a beggar-woman do for a queen,' she demanded, ‘that a queen can't just as well do for herself?'

‘Grant the queen children,' said the child.

‘Pish!' said the queen.

But the girl stood firm. ‘It's true, every word,' she said. ‘If only the queen were to fetch my ma, she would see for herself.'

So the queen sent after the beggar-woman, who was found, fetched up and served both sweets and wine.

Sure enough, the urchin was right.

‘I dare say there is something the queen could do,' the beggar-woman said at last, ‘if the queen wished for a child of her own. She could have two vessels of water brought to her room one evening. She could wash herself in them, and then she could sling that same water under the bed. If the queen were to do that, there'd be two flowers under there when she looked in the morning – one beautiful, the other ugly. The queen could then eat the beautiful flower but, if she didn't want the fright of her life, the queen would let the other stand.'

By and by, the queen did as the woman advised. She had the water brought up, washed herself in both tubs and slung their contents under the bed. When she looked in the morning, there were the two flowers, just as promised.

One was ugly and horrible to see, with ragged black petals and a hairy stem. But the other was so luminous and bright, so light and shimmery and altogether inviting, that the queen swallowed it without another thought.

Then, because the first had tasted so right, she ate the black flower as well.

‘It surely can't matter,' she said to herself, ‘one way or the other.'

It wasn't long before the queen gave birth to a girl of her very own. But this girl was so ugly and foul, and had such a knowing look in her eye, that the queen couldn't bear the sight of her.

‘If I am your mother,' cried the queen, ‘may the gods comfort and carry me!'

Not only was the baby ugly, shaggy and frightful to see but, instead of playing with golden apples, riding a hobbyhorse and dressing in braid and linen, she clutched a kitchen dipper in her fist, rode about the house on a black billy-goat and wore a hooded cloak that hung in tatters about her head.

They called her Tatterhood.

‘Don't worry,' said Tatterhood to her mother, ‘the one who comes after me will be more pleasant.'

In a while, the queen had another little girl. This baby was so lovely and sweet, so blithe and shimmery and delightful, that the queen could scarcely bear to be parted from her.

Neither could Tatterhood. Wherever the younger was, there Tatterhood also wanted to be. No matter how they tried to hide the ugly child away, Tatterhood and her sister couldn't be separated. The queen had to put up with it, whether she liked it or not.

One midwinter night, when the girls were both nearly grown, there was a sudden hullabaloo on the gallery outside the queen's room.

‘What's that rumbling?' Tatterhood wondered.

‘Don't ask,' replied the queen.

But Tatterhood wanted to know, and didn't stop asking till the queen gave in.

‘It's troll-hags,' she said at last, ‘playing winter games out there.'

‘Well, then,' said Tatterhood, brandishing her dipper, ‘let's chase them off!'

Her sister and the queen begged her not to.