Then suddenly White Corn Maiden became ill, and within three days she died. Deer Hunter’s grief had no bounds. He refused to speak or eat, preferring to keep watch beside his wife’s body until she was buried early the next day.
For four days after death, every soul wanders in and around its village and seeks forgiveness from those whom it may have wronged in life. It is a time of unease for the living, since the soul may appear in the form of a wind, a disembodied voice, a dream, or even in human shape. To prevent such a visitation, the villagers go to the dead person before burial and utter a soft prayer of forgiveness. And on the fourth day after death, the relatives gather to perform a ceremony releasing the soul into the spirit world, from which it will never return.
But Deer Hunter was unable to accept his wife’s death. Knowing that he might see her during the four-day interlude, he began to wander around the edge of the village. Soon he drifted farther out into the fields, and it was here at sundown of the fourth day, even while his relatives were gathering for the ceremony of release, that he spotted a small fire near a clump of bushes.
Deer Hunter drew closer and found his wife, as beautiful as she was in life and dressed in all her finery, combing her long hair with a cactus brush in preparation for the last journey. He fell weeping at her feet, imploring her not to leave but to return with him to the village before the releasing rite was consummated. White Corn Maiden begged her husband to let her go, because she no longer belonged to the world of the living. Her return would anger the spirits, she said, and anyhow, soon she would no longer be beautiful, and Deer Hunter would shun her.
He brushed her pleas aside by pledging his undying love and promising that he would let nothing part them. Eventually she relented, saying that she would hold him to his promise. They entered the village just as their relatives were marching to the shrine with the food offering that would release the soul of White Corn Maiden. They were horrified when they saw her, and again they and the village elders begged Deer Hunter to let her go. He ignored them, and an air of grim expectancy settled over the village.
The couple returned to their home, but before many days had passed, Deer Hunter noticed that his wife was beginning to have an unpleasant odor. Then he saw that her beautiful face had grown ashen and her skin dry. At first he only turned his back on her as they slept. Later he began to sit up on the roof all night, but White Corn Maiden always joined him. In time the villagers became used to the sight of Deer Hunter racing among the houses and through the fields with White Corn Maiden, now not much more than skin and bones, in hot pursuit.
Things continued in this way, until one misty morning a tall and imposing figure apeared in the small dance court at the center of the village. He was dressed in spotless white buckskin robes and carried the biggest bow anyone had ever seen. On his back was slung a great quiver with the two largest arrows anyone had ever seen. He remained standing at the center of the village and called, in a voice that carried into every home, for Deer Hunter and White Corn Maiden. Such was its authority that the couple stepped forward meekly and stood facing him.
The awe-inspiring figure told the couple that he had been sent from the spirit world because they, Deer Hunter and White Corn Maiden, had violated their people’s traditions and angered the spirits; that because they had been so selfish, they had brought grief and near-disaster to the village. “Since you insist on being together,” he said, “you shall have your wish. You will chase one another forever across the sky, as visible reminders that your people must live according to tradition if they are to survive.” With this he set Deer Hunter on one arrow and shot him low into the western sky. Putting White Corn Maiden on the other arrow, he placed her just behind her husband.
That evening the villagers saw two new stars in the west. The first, large and very bright, began to move east across the heavens. The second, a smaller, flickering star, followed close behind. So it is to this day, according to the Tewa; the brighter one is Deer Hunter, placed there in the prime of his life. The dimmer star is White Corn Maiden, set there after she had died; yet she will forever chase her husband across the heavens.
The figure of the trickster can be found in every folklore tradition. The trickster as hero or as god plays an important role: Anansi in Africa is sometimes heroic, sometimes foolish, with definite supernatural powers. Likewise his famous Native American counterparts, Coyote and Rabbit, act as both fooler and fooled. The trickster as wise man finds his way into Near Eastern tradition, especially in the Jewish stories of resourceful rabbis and the Turkish tales of the Hodja. In Mexico the trickster supreme is Quevedo, who in history was Don Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas, a seventeenth-century Spanish poet and satirist who became a legendary figure starring in a cycle of stories well known throughout the Spanish-speaking world. The German Tyll Ulenspiegel, a popular peasant jester, actually lived in the fourteenth century, but within another two centuries had become a legend around whose name volumes of anecdotes and jests had accumulated. Many of the stories told about these particular tricksters or culture heroes harken back to other tales and other times.
Whether the trickster is an animal such as Brer Rabbit or Raven or the wily fox, or supremely human like the German master thief, he plays his tricks out to the end. And sometimes it is a bloody and awful ending. Anansi dies in “Being Greedy Chokes Anansi” after first having dispatched any number of unnamed animals. The thief must cut off his partner’s head in “Crack and Crook.” If we dwell on such gory abominations, however, we miss the point of these tricksters: they represent chaos in the ordered life. As Alan Garner writes in The Guizer, the trickster is “the advocate of uncertainty.” The very amorality of the trickster—who recognizes neither good nor evil—re-emphasizes our own cherished morality. The trickster can also poke fun at our illusions: the desire for a handsome son-in-law is upended in the Japanese tale “The Ugly Son.” The wish to live forever is given its due in two stories carrying the same motif: “Peik” and “The Story of Campriano.”
Sometimes the trickster himself is tricked, either dying in the end like Anansi or being tied up in a sack like a fox in “The King’s Son Goes Bear Hunting.” Sometimes he wins himself life (“The Rabbi and the Inquisitor”) or the king’s daughter (“Peik”). But win or lose, the stories always make us smile at the ingenuity of the hero or shake our heads fondly at his chutzpah, that sly gutsiness of the trickster who has outwitted us all in the end.
TYLL ULENSPIEGEL’S MERRY PRANK
Germany
When Tyll was in Poland, King Casimir ruled, and a merry monarch he was. Instead of having one court jester, he had two, and when he heard Tyll was in the land he invited him also to his palace.
Now, the king was proud of his jesters and knew a trick or three himself. Often they argued, and Tyll was always ready with a quick answer, particularly when it came to answering the jesters. So one day the king decided to test which was the cleverest of the three.
There was a great gathering of nobles in the court when the king offered twenty gold pieces and a fine new coat to the one of the three who could make the greatest wish. All the court applauded the generosity of their ruler.
“And,” added he, “the wish must be made right now before me and all the court.”
Said the first jester, “I wish the heaven above us were nothing but paper and the sea nothing but ink so that I could write the figures of how much money should be mine.”
Spoke the second, “I want as many towers and castles as there are stars in heaven so that I might keep all the money that my fellow court jesters here would have.”
It was now Tyll’s turn. He opened his mouth and spoke, “I would want the two here to make out their wills, leaving their money to me, and that you, Your Majesty, would order them to the gallows right after.”
The king and all his court laughed merrily at this, and Tyll won the coat and the money.
Now you know how a quick and merry answer can bring one fame and fortune.
THE HODJA AND THE CAULDRON
Turkey
Being once in need of a cauldron, the Hodja went to one of his neighbors and borrowed a large copper cauldron, which answered his requirements so well that he had no wish to part with it. Instead of returning the borrowed utensil on the promised day, he went to his neighbor and handed him in a somewhat dejected manner a much smaller cauldron resembling in shape the one which he had borrowed.
The owner looked at it suspiciously and asked, “What is this?” Whereupon the Hodja answered, “Your cauldron has given birth to a little one and is far too unwell for me to return it today. Take its offspring instead, I beseech you.”
The owner of the cauldron was much surprised, but he was at the same time not a little gratified at this unexpected fertility, and when his wife soundly abused him for having thus allowed himself to be put upon, he testily advised the good dame to have patience and not to ask any questions for a day or two.
The Hodja’s need of the cauldron having come to an end, he brought it back and said, “Here, take your cauldron back again, for now it is quite well.” The neighbor and his family rejoiced, and the fame of the Hodja was much increased.
Some days later the Hodja again required the cauldron, and this time his neighbor was so pleased to lend it to him that he even helped to carry it to the Hodja’s house. After a considerable time had elapsed without any baby cauldron appearing on the scene, the neighbor called on Nasr-ed-Din Hodja to inquire when he might expect his cauldron to return. He as polite and profusely apologetic, but he said that his wife wanted it.
The Hodja seemed very much surprised that his neighbor had not heard the news—the sad news that the cauldron had died. The manner and tone of the obliging neighbor now underwent an instant change, and he remonstrated loudly. Indeed, he created such an uproar that a crowd speedily assembled round the house; but, so far as the Hodja was concerned, the large cauldron was dead for all time, and he advised his neighbor to return home quietly, and break the news to the baby cauldron which he had claimed as his. “For it stands to reason,” quoth Nasr-ed-Din Hodja, “that anything or anyone that can give birth to young can also die.”
The crowd agreed and said that verily he spake well and truly. It was hak [just].
BEING GREEDY CHOKES ANANSI
Jamaica
One time, Anansi lived in a country that had a queen who was also a witch. And she decreed that whoever used the word five would fall down dead, because that was her secret name, and she didn’t want anyone using it.
Now, Buh Anansi was a clever fellow, and a hungry one too. Things were especially bad because there was a famine, so Anansi made a little house for himself by the side of the river near where everyone came to get water. And when anybody came to get water, he would call out to them, “I beg you to tell me how many yam hills I have here. I can’t count very well.” So, one by one he thought they would come up and say, “One, two, three, four, five,” and they would fall down dead. Then Anansi would take them and corn them in his barrel and eat them, and that way he would have lots of food in hungry times and in times of plenty.
So, time went on and he got his house built and his yams planted, and along came Guinea Fowl. Anansi said, “I beg you, missus, tell me how many yam hills I have here.” So Guinea Fowl went and sat on one of those hills and said, “One, two, three, four, and the one I’m sitting on!” Anansi said, “Cho!” [sucking his teeth], “you can’t count right.” And Guinea Fowl moved to another hill and said, “One, two, three, four, and the one I’m sitting on!” “Cho! you don’t count right at all!” “How do you count, then?” Guinea Fowl said, a little vexed at Anansi. “Why this way: one, two, three, four, FIVE!” He fell dead. And Guinea Fowl ate him up.
This story shows that what they say is right: “Being greedy chokes the puppy.”
QUEVEDO AND THE KING
Mexico
While Quevedo was in France, the king received notice of the complaints against him, that he was very obscene in his ways. So he called him and said, “Either you leave my country or I’ll have you hanged, because the things you have been doing here are not polite.”
“No, Majesty, I will try to behave. Please give me another chance.”
He says, “Very well, look. I will give you another chance just to show you I am a conscientious king. I give you license to play a trick on me, any trick that you wish, as long as your apology is grosser than the trick. I give you a period of three days. If within those three days you do not play a trick on me and excuse it with an apology grosser than the trick itself, you must leave the country or hang.”
“Very well, Majesty. Give me those three days, and I will be here.”
The first day passed, the second, and the third. And he couldn’t find a solution for the fix he was in. Finally he has to come to the king’s reception hall, and he still hasn’t thought of a trick to play on the king and what apology to give, so he could stay longer in France, because he liked it there very much.
He hid behind some curtains. The moment arrived when the king gave audience, to receive all the notables of the town, listen to complaints or give advice or so many things of those times. When the king was passing by the curtains, Quevedo sticks out his hand and grabs him by the private parts.
Then the king says, astonished, “Quevedo! What are you doing?”
Quevedo says, “Pardon, Majesty. I thought it was the queen.”
WHY THE HARE RUNS AWAY
Africa (Ewe)
This is a story of the hare and the other animals.
The dry weather was drying up the earth into hardness. There was no dew. Even the creatures of the water suffered from thirst. Famine soon followed, and the animals, having nothing to eat, assembled in council.
“What shall we do,” said they, “to keep ourselves from dying of hunger and thirst?” And they deliberated a long time.
At last it was decided that each animal should cut off the tips of its ears, and extract the fat from them. Then all the fat would be collected and sold, and with the money they would get for it, they would buy a hoe and dig a well, so as to get some water.
And all cried, “It is well. Let us cut off the tips of our ears.”
They did so, but when it came the hare’s turn he refused.
The other animals were astonished, but they said nothing. They took up the ears, extracted the fat, went and sold all, and bought a hoe with the money.
They brought back the hoe and began to dig a well in the dry bed of a lagoon, until at last they found water. They said, “Ha! At last we can slake our thirst a little.”
The hare was not there, but when the sun was in the middle of the sky, he took a calabash and went towards the well.
As he walked along, the calabash dragged on the ground and made a great noise. It said, “Chan-gan-gan-gan, chan-gan-gan-gan.”
The animals, who were watching by the lagoon, heard this terrible noise and were frightened. They asked each other, “What is it?” Then, as the noise kept coming nearer, they ran away. Reaching home, they said something terrible at the lagoon had put them to flight.
When all the animals were gone, the hare could draw up water from the lagoon without interference. Then he went down into the well and bathed, so that the water was muddied.
When the next day came, all the animals ran to get water, and they found it muddied.
“Oh,” they cried, “who has spoiled our well?”
Saying this, they went and took a dummy-image. They made birdlime and spread it over the image.
Then, when the sun was again in the middle of the sky, all the animals went and hid in the bush near the well.
Soon the hare came, his calabash crying, “Chan-gan-gan-gan, chan-gan-gan-gan.” He approached the image. He never suspected that all the animals were hidden in the bush.
The hare saluted the image. The image said nothing. He saluted again, and still the image said nothing.
“Take care,” said the hare, “or I will give you sla
p.”
He gave it a slap, and his right hand was stuck fast in the birdlime. He slapped with his left hand, and that was held fast, too.
“Oh! oh!” cried he, “I’ll kick with my feet,” and he did, but his feet became fixed, and he could not get away.
Then the animals ran out of the bush and came to see the hare and his calabash.
“Shame, shame, oh, hare!” they cried together. “Did you not agree with us to cut off the tips of your ears, and, when it came to your turn, did you not refuse? What! You refused, and yet you come to muddy our water?”
They took whips, they fell upon the hare, and they beat him. They beat him so that they nearly killed him.
“We ought to kill you, accursed hare,” they said. “But no—run.”
They let him go, and the hare fled. Since then, he does not leave the grass.
COYOTE FIGHTS A LUMP OF PITCH
American Indian (Apache)
Even long ago, when our tribe and animals and birds lived together near white people, Coyote was always in trouble. He would visit among the camps, staying in one for a while and then moving on, and when he stayed at Bear’s camp, he used to go over at night to a white man’s field and steal the ears off the wheat.
When the white man who owned the farm found out what Coyote was up to, he trailed him long enough to locate his path into the field. Then he called all the white men to a council, and they made a figure of pitch just like a man and placed it in Coyote’s path.
That night when Coyote went back to steal wheat again, he saw the pitch man standing there. Thinking it was a real person, he said, “Gray eyes”—he always talked like a Chiricahua Apache—“Get to one side and let me by. I just want a little wheat. Get over, I tell you.” The pitch man stayed where he was. “If you don’t move,” Coyote said, “you’ll get my fist in your face. Wherever I go on this earth, if I hit a man with my fist, it kills him.” The pitch man never stirred. “All right, then I’m going to hit you.” Coyote struck out, but his fist stuck fast in the pitch, clear to his elbow.