Folktales as Inspiration

These prose pieces were inspired by a Wolof folktale from the Gambia with themes of pride and immaturity choosing a mate, a theme one finds in tales all over the world. I wrote and published two versions inspired by the same tale. “And the Horse that you Rode In On” was first published in the journal Phantom Drift #2 https://www.phantomdrift.org/untitled-sitepage_2 “The Girl Who Left the Village” was first published in Western Humanities Review, Summer 2011. https://www.westernhumanitiesreview.com/

And the Horse that You Rode In On

. . .  was not really a horse at all, but rather a mountain with a cave at its center and you were a magic snake with seven facile tongues: you rode disguised as a wealthy suitor, an equestrian with no scars or wrinkles on your body, and so you proved the perfection of your body as you removed your shirt and unzipped your pants before my buzzing flies who did my bidding — my kind father, a town elder, wrung his hands at my mating preferences, for I had declared I would not marry at all, save a man with a flawless body:  “Warriors bruise and scar,” he warned.

 I remember the day of my wedding and the joy of my departure: your entourage attending us, the villagers lining the main street. I wore a tiara and sat high on a golden saddle, as I rode proudly behind you on the horse that you rode in on. Goodbye to small-town life. Goodbye. Goodbye.  Each sweet kiss, oh now I taste a bitter berry.

       You took me to a barren spot and slithered away to find food, and the horse that you rode in on was a tall mountain that drew me to its hollow center, and I remembered the gay laughter of my village home and the gossip that I had always before found petty.  I thought of my father’s kindness and of his worried voice and of the busy life in his kitchen. I could neither cook nor eat the rancid meat, the torn human flesh, which you brought me. I cursed you and the horse that you rode in on. And I repented. To repent one turns from the North to the South, to repent one turns from the East to the West. I longed for the magic to change the mountain into a frisky steed, into the horse that you rode in on, into a horse that I could ride off on.

      This story has many endings, and in each one, all other endings reverberate. The one in which Mr. Mabbo, whose imperfections I once scorned, saves me is untrue. He did not pull the seven tongues from the seven heads of a serpent and tie them to his belt. I did not return to the village. I did not bear his sons nor the sons of his twin brother. I do not squat down outside my father’s rooms in the evenings to hear the red-winged blackbird sing,  Once upon a time a maiden asked the impossible. I do not listen to the swamp burros bray as if even in my return the story of my departure lingers. Pride in a maiden predicts a fall. I can tell you that I often turn to face the cardinal directions: eagle and mouse; bison and bear. I can tell you that I listen to the muted whispers of evening and that I attend to the stillness of dawn.  I can tell you that I find great comfort in all of the seasons: even the season of fierce winds that blow the pollen that I need as I grow thistles for their flowers and for their seeds.  In my repentance, I have become a thistle farmer. My fingers often bleed.  I do not think of you changing the smooth skins of your belly in the cool cave of a tall mountain.  My body grows old. I no longer dream of perfect bodies, of bodies without bruises or wrinkles or scars. And the horse that you rode in on? I no longer remember it. My puckered lips are silent. They do not speak of it.

The Girl Who Left the Village

There was a story …

Our legs are crossed …

It happened here …

It happened there …

It was so …

It was not so …

Suppose there’s a magic snake who knows your heart’s secrets. He lives in a tree in a desolate place far from your village. You are Kumba, a village girl with high ambitions. One who has explored her options. Marriage figures high on the list. A way out of here, a way out of there. A way out of the village of petty gossip, set ways. So, you tell Father, “I’ll marry only a man with no scar on his body.” Father is skeptical.  What grown man of the village has not been marked? Everybody knows brave men acquire many scars.  But probably you are thinking along the lines of an intellectual, a foreign scholar. A film director as opposed to a boxer. Brains instead of brawn.

Here is what happens. Many suitors show up on your doorstep, knocking. Before you let them in, you send them downstairs to undress. They strip before buzzing flies. None passes the test. A fly always reports back, “Ha, ha, that one has a scar on his body!”  A scar of one type or another on one of his 2,001 body parts:  a wild cat’s scratch on the cheek, a splash of boiling grease to the wrist. An appendicitis or a circumcision? Not to mention spear wounds. Broken noses.  “Please. Give us a break. Cut us some slack,” the suitors say. But you say, No.

Meanwhile the magic snake turns into a man. It can do that as fast as a monkey twitches its red ass.  Handsome. Intelligent. Most important of all, no scars. Magic.  He taps the tree where he lives, changing it into a horse to ride.  He travels far. He travels wide. And each tree he passes turns into another horse with a rider atop. All the leaves turn to money. Villagers watch as he approaches, rich and important, a whole entourage of horsemen following him. He sings his song, I am coming. I am coming to marry. I do not have any scars on my body.

Still there’s the test. He does not want the buzzing flies to do your bidding. “Look yourself,” he tells you as he unbuckles his belt. “Look, so there can be no mistake.”  Yes.

Do you remember the day of your marriage? And the joy of your parting?  The fine steeds and attendants. The villagers lined up on the street. You in your turban and high-waisted dress, riding proud behind your perfect groom. Goodbye to the village. Goodbye. Goodbye. You wave, but soon you will cry, pretty girl. Oh, each lovely kiss, soon a bitter tomato.

At exactly what moment do you first suspect? Is it when his followers begin to disappear? One after another: horse and rider back to tree. Gold coin to green leaf. “Ah, Uncle,” you ask, “What is happening to all our companions?”  “Ah, Uncle,” you ask, “Why are we alone in this barren place?”

“Because,” he answers, “I am the only one who doesn’t have scars. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Finally, his own horse turns to a large tree with a hollow core — a baobab tree. “Open up,” says Uncle Snake. The baobab tree opens up and draws you in. The snake speaks, “I am your husband. You stay inside while I look for something to eat.” And with these words your husband slithers away.

The next day he brings home a human corpse. This confirms your mounting suspicions. “No, I will not cook it. I will not eat it.” The days continue in a similar vein: his slayings; your refusals.  Remember the village?  Does it seem a place of happy chatter now? Remember your father’s compound? Better by far than a tree for a home and a snake for a husband.

This story has at least two endings. One ending has Mbonat, a man from your village, come to rescue you. He is brave with many scars. He sets a trap with kereny fruit for the snake. He kills it. You return to the village.  You marry Mbonat. You bear his sons. You have learned your lessons–  bitter as tomatoes.  You will live your life the way a village woman should.  So ends your story. But in this ending other endings echo. You hear them sometimes in the evenings as you squat down outside your compound. Hark! So sings the blackbird. A young girl once left her village.  So bray the donkeys of Jolof. Even in your return, the story of departure lingers.

Another ending now, less traditional, less acceptable. You run away one day while your snake-husband is out hunting. You leave the baobab tree. You cross a river. But you do not return to the village. The snake crawls after you. He calls, Kumba, but, you, of course, never answer. All he hears is Ummm. Ummm. Soon he gives up and goes home to spend his life curled up in his tree. You live your life alone, incognito, half way between the snake and the village. From time to time, you tell your story to strangers. Some call you a liar. Some say, “Well, you wanted a man without a scar. You only got what you asked for and what you truly deserve.” A few strange-farmers commiserate. At first, you cry a lot. A mad woman. But as the years pass, you cry less often. You find meaningful occupation weaving baskets or planting peanuts.  The sun rises in the morning. Sets in the evening. You learn to appreciate this. You also like the seasons. The rainy season. And the season of dry winds. What can anyone say? You have found a way to live your life.

And so the tale passes in one form or another. It enters the sea.