The Mysterious Guest Read online

  • Contents •

  Introduction

  Origin Myths of the Grand Canyon

  illustrated by Robert Rath

  A Creole Cinderella

  illustrated by Kevin Menck

  John Onion and the Devil

  illustrated by Wenhai Ma

  The Mysterious Guest

  illustrated by Wenhai Ma

  Jack and the Bull

  illustrated by Jeff Crosby

  John Henry: Man vs. Machine

  illustrated by David Kooharian

  The Mine Owner and the New Hand

  illustrated by James Balkovek

  Charley Parkhurst’s Secret

  illustrated by Tim Oliphant

  Gib Morgan: Tall Tale Teller, Tall Tale Hero

  illustrated by Tim Oliphant

  About the Author

  • introduction •

  I have been a lifelong student of folktales from around the world. When I first began to explore this rich branch of world literature, I read such classics as the Brothers Grimm and countless other European collections. It was easy to assume that the bulk of folktales had their origins elsewhere. My parallel interest in history and global cultures introduced me early on to other traditions from Asia, the Middle East, Africa, and Latin America. For a long time I had the somewhat vague idea that the tales we told in this country were merely “imports” from other countries, brought with our ever-growing immigrant population.

  Many of the most familiar tales were “migratory” – originating in other places, growing out of other traditions. “The Wonderful Tar Baby,” for example, was a direct descendant of a story from India about a figure made of thorns to trap the unsuspecting. The tale traveled with traders to Africa where it became an image smeared with honey, then to America where honey became tar. The story continues to evolve: a version in the Spanish-influenced Southwest features a figure made of sticky wax that snares a boastful coyote.

  But soon I realized that while there is, indeed, a treasure trove of tales that have been brought to these shores, there is a rich vein of folklore that is native to this country. Of course, Native American folktales provide an indigenous river of unique tales: “Origin Myths of the Grand Canyon” offers distinctive takes on early visions of the creation of this remarkable feature of the American landscape. Many of these tales reflect the distinctively American blending of cultures.

  Even tales that trace their roots to other countries have been so reconfigured to reflect this land, this history, and this people, that we can consider them truly “ours.” Thus, “A Creole Cinderella” echoes the familiar storyline, but the details of the New Orleans setting, Creole life, and the magic that imbues much of the region, makes it a distinctively regional American tale.

  “The Mysterious Guest” reveals a rich French influence on a story popular throughout the Northeast. “Jack and the Bull” takes a familiar European account and gives it a delicious North Carolina/Virginia flavor.

  Most importantly – as the Grimm Brothers believed and proved – the folk literature of a people reveals much about the heart, spirit, and deepest concerns of a nation. Much of American folklore displays the best of what America has been about from its founding: an independent spirit, endless resourcefulness and inventiveness, undaunted optimism, and an ability to laugh in the face of adversity. The heroes of “John Onion and the Devil” and “The Mine Owner and the New Hand” cope with adversity – human or supernatural – with what can only be termed American “can do.”

  We have our superheroes too. “John Henry: Man vs. Machine” is the embodiment of an intriguing strain of railroad lore. “Gib Morgan, Tall Tale Teller, Tall Tale Hero,” recreates the storyteller as a larger-than-life-size character. Some of the most compelling tales are those of historical figures around whom a body of folklore has accrued. “Charley Parkhurst’s Secret” is a powerful account of someone who refused to let social structures prevent her from living a fulfilling life.

  I invite you to enjoy the stories that follow — then challenge you to continue to seek out the inexhaustible pleasures and treasures of American folklore.

  — Robert D. San Souci

  Origin Myths of the Grand Canyon

  John Wesley Powell, the “discoverer” of the Grand Canyon, was one of the first non–Native Americans to hear a mythic tale of its origins and record it.

  The Paiutes believed that long ago there was a great and wise chief of the Utes who mourned the death of his beloved wife. Day and night he grieved and would not be comforted. And all the people were sad.

  At last, Tavwoats, one of the Native American gods, came to the chief and told him his wife was in a happier land, and offered to take him there so that he might see for himself. But the god made the man promise that, if he saw this, he would cease to mourn upon his return. The chief vowed to do this.

  Then Tavwoats took a magic ball, like a globe of fire, and rolled it before him. As it spun, it parted the Earth and mountains, crushing the rocks, and making a path through the mountains from the hunting grounds of the living to the joyous land beyond death. This trail was the canyon gorge of the Colorado. He guided the chief through it, until they came at last to the Spirit Land. There the great chief saw his wife was happy in the blessed abode of the spirits, where all was plenty and all was joy. And he was glad, and saw no more reason to mourn.

  Now, when they returned, Tavwoats made the chief swear that he would never travel this trail during his life, and that all his people should be warned not to walk the path. Yet still he feared they would attempt it, so he rolled a mad, raging river into the gorge made by the globe of fire, which would overwhelm any who might seek to enter there and prevent them from leaving the woes of the present world for the pleasures of the next.

  The Havasupai, who still live in the canyon, told how the canyon came about as the result of a conflict between two brother gods: Tochapa, the embodiment of goodness, and Hokomata, who was evil. Hokomata learned that Tochapa wanted his daughter, Pukeheh, to become the mother of all living beings and so populate the Earth, which had been created for this purpose. Hokomata, ever his brother’s rival, was determined to prevent this. He caused a great flood that drowned the Earth. Rain poured down from the heavens, as though rivers and waterfalls were poured out on the Earth.

  But Tochapa, learning of his brother’s plot, saved his daughter by felling a great piñon tree, hollowing it out, and placing his daughter inside, with food and water. In this makeshift boat, she floated safe upon the waters. In time, the down-pours stopped. When the flood waters finally receded and the mountain peaks emerged, rivers were created. The mightiest such river cut an escape channel, which remains today as the Grand Canyon.

  The log holding Pukeheh came to rest on the new, empty Earth. When the land became dry, the Sun rose to warm the Earth. He became the father of her first child, a son. Later, a waterfall became the father of her second child, a daughter (for this reason, Havasupai women are still called “Daughters of the Water”). Pukeheh’s children, who were the first mortals, became the parents of all the people on the Earth.

  The Havasupai were the firstborn, followed by the Apaches, Hualapais, Hopis, Paiutes, and Navajos. Tochapa spoke to the Havasupai and told them to live forever in peace in the canyon, where the good earth and pure water would provide for all their needs. And they remain there to this day.

  The Hualapai, however, who dwelt within the canyon, said that the river was the runoff from an Earth-covering deluge like the one Noah knew. Once there had been a big flood, and the world was covered with water. The canyon had begun, they said, when a cultural hero named Packithaawi had struck deep into the water-covered Earth with his knife. He then drove it deeper and deeper w
ith his club. He moved it back and forth as he forced it deeper into the earth. Finally, the canyon was formed, through which all the water rushed out into the Sea of the Sunset. When the Sun came out, it dried the ground until it became the hard and solid walls of the Grand Canyon.

  A Creole Cinderella

  A young woman named Celeste once lived in a fine house in New Orleans. It had a beautiful courtyard with a garden and a black iron gate. Her parents had died; her only real friend was an old parrot, with green feathers. All it could cry was, “Remember! Remember!”

  “Yes,” Celeste would reply. “I will remember to be thankful for my good fortune.”

  So she often gave coins to the poor who came to her gate. And she liked it when street vendors passed, singing about their goods. One woman sang:

  Cantaloupes! Cantaloupes! Sweet to the rind

  If you don’t believe me, jest draw up your blind!

  I sell to the rich,

  I sell to the poor,

  I’m gonna sell to the lady

  Standin’ in that door.

  “Yes,” Celeste said, and bought some.

  One morning, she heard voices singing tunelessly:

  Beautiful rice fritters,

  All hot, all hot, quite hot:

  We promise they are good.

  Fine rice fritters … fine rice fritters.

  Celeste saw that two women had set up a little burner to cook fritters. They wore raggedy gingham skirts, badly tied turbans, and dingy aprons. Celeste saw a man take a bite of one fritter, make a face, and toss it back into the skillet. The younger woman began to cry, “What we gonna do? No one buy our sorry fritters.”

  “You mix the batter wrong,” said the older woman. “Fine daughter I got, can’t even make a fritter!”

  Kindhearted Celeste went and offered to make the mother her housekeeper, and gave the daughter, named Coraline, the job of lady’s maid. They gladly accepted. But the two were schemers, who began to plot how to get too-trusting Celeste’s riches.

  The next day, while Celeste visited a sick neighbor, Coraline’s mama went to the big public square, where she bought some “forgettin’” powder.

  Celeste, at her neighbor’s, saw a handsome young man in a passing carriage. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Who is that gentleman?”

  “That is Henri Marot, the nephew of Monsieur Marot,” said the neighbor. “He is visiting from France. His uncle hopes he will marry one of the young women hereabouts. Monsieur Marot will give three masked balls to introduce him to the ladies. Surely you will get an invitation, for you are the loveliest of all.”

  Celeste blushed at these words. But she was secretly very pleased.

  Alas! That night Coraline’s mama sprinkled “forgettin’” powder on Celeste’s food. As soon as she tasted it, Celeste forgot who she was.

  “You’re the serving girl,” said the woman. “Now clear these dishes away.”

  So Celeste became a servant in her own house.

  “Remember! Remember!” urged the parrot in the garden.

  But Celeste remembered only that she was a servant.

  The next day, an invitation arrived to the masked balls Monsieur Marot was holding for his nephew, Henri. Both Coraline and her mother planned to go; as she washed and dusted and swept, Celeste listened to them chatter about how Coraline would win the young man’s heart.

  “Remember! Remember!” the parrot would cry.

  “I have nothing — not even a memory — to call my own,” sighed Celeste as she rested from her work beside the gate one morning.

  Her sad thoughts were interrupted by an old woman in a raggedy black shawl and red turban, who sang:

  Fine eggs, fresh offen the farm,

  So fresh from the hen, they still warm!

  Buy my breakfas’ eggs today, Lady,

  An’ yo’ smile the livelong day, Lady.

  Celeste had already bought eggs, but the old woman looked hot and weary and clearly hadn’t sold any eggs. So, kindhearted Celeste bought the basketful.

  “A kind heart earn a reward,” said the old woman. “When you sort them eggs, you’ll find a little luck-egg. Plant it like a seed, and you’ll get a surprise.”

  Indeed, when she sorted the eggs, Celeste found one no bigger than a marble. She planted the “luck-egg” in a secret corner of the garden.

  For days, Celeste was kept running as Coraline and her mother prepared for the first masked ball at Monsieur Marot’s. When they finally went away on an errand, Celeste went to where she had planted the luck-egg.

  To her surprise, she found a small tree bearing a lovely crystal fig. The moment she saw it, an idea took shape in her mind. She picked the fruit, left the sleeping household, and went to the finest dressmaker in the city. There, she exchanged the fig for a dress of black velvet studded with glass beads, like the starry night-sky, glass slippers, and a small black mask called a domino.

  She had barely returned home, however, when Coraline and her mother demanded that she help them dress for the ball. When they left in the carriage, Celeste put on her new gown, slippers, and mask. She hurried to Monsieur Marot’s house. There, a charmed Henri Marot danced every dance with her. He begged her to remove her mask, but she said, “Not until everyone unmasks at midnight.”

  But at the first stroke of twelve, she fled, afraid that she would be punished for pretending to be a grand lady when she was not.

  She hid her finery just before an angry Coraline and her angrier mother returned, complaining about the “upstart who ruint the ball fo’ ever’one.”

  The next day, while Coraline and her mother fussed over what to wear to the second ball, Celeste found that the egg tree had grown a silver pear. She exchanged this for a gown the color of the Moon, silver slippers, and a silver mask.

  The moment the others left, Celeste put on her new things and went to the ball, where Henri Marot recognized the mysterious lady. Again he danced each dance with her; again she refused to remove her mask. Just as the clock struck twelve, she fled home and hid the slippers, gown, and mask. Soon mother and daughter returned in foul tempers, raging about the “silver-gowned no-’count who put a spell on Henri Marot.”

  The next day, before the third and final ball, Celeste found that the little tree had sprouted a golden apple bright as the Sun. For this, the dressmaker gave her a gown of cloth-of-gold, dainty golden slippers, and a golden domino.

  That night, she danced every dance with Henri. But when Celeste tried to leave as before, Henri grabbed her hand, and signaled to the musicians to play the old song that goes:

  Take this golden ring,

  Put it on your finger;

  Take this golden ring,

  To remember me by.

  To Celeste’s surprise, the young man slipped a gold ring on her finger, while cries of disappointment came from all sides — with the loudest from Coraline and her mother. Afraid of their anger if she was found out, Celeste fled, but she stumbled and left one golden slipper behind.

  But Coraline followed. She saw the gold-gowned figure slip through the gate of their house. She guessed everything, and later told her mother.

  The next day, Henri Marot announced that he would marry the young woman whose foot fit the dainty gold slipper, and who could produce the ring he had given her.

  Coraline and her mother locked Celeste in a second-floor room with a single narrow window; they made her hand over the ring. But Coraline’s fingers were too big, so she put the ring in her pocket. Though Celeste refused to tell them where the items where, the two searched until they found the black satin dress with glass beads and the glass slippers. Then they found the silver gown and silver slippers. But they couldn’t find the golden dress or slippers.

  “Two outta three’ll do,” said the mother. Then she sent a message to Henri Marot telling him that Coraline was his lost love.

  When Henri Marot knocked at the door, Coraline’s mother ordered, “Go put on one o’ them gowns we found.”

  Coraline tried to squ
eeze into the black velvet gown, but the seams burst; glass beads flew everywhere. However, the seams of the silver gown held; and she was — just barely — able to squash her feet into the silver slippers. Then she went out to greet Henri, who was chatting with her mother in the garden. With painful effort, she scrunched her foot into the gold slipper that Henri had brought. Henri gallantly kissed Coraline’s hand.

  Poor Celeste watched through the narrow window of the locked room. But the parrot took the key from the ledge where Coraline’s mother had set it. He flew up and dropped it at the feet of heartbroken Celeste.

  Henri asked to see the ring, and was puzzled that Coraline kept it in her pocket, not on her finger. Suddenly, the parrot swooped down, snatched the ring from Coraline’s palm, and flew into a tree.

  “Thief!” cried the young woman. “That’s mine!”

  But a gentle voice said, “The ring belongs to me.” Celeste stepped into the sunlight, dressed in her cloth-of-gold gown, on her foot a single gold slipper.

  Coraline and her mother screeched, “Get back t’ work, you!”

  At that moment, Coraline’s foot swelled. The gold slipper flew off and landed in front of Celeste. She immediately slipped it on. Then the parrot flew down, perched on her shoulder, and dropped the ring into her hand. Henri placed it on her finger, saying, “The ring and slipper are back where they belong.”

  “Remember! Remember!” the parrot cried. And the “forgettin’” spell on Celeste was broken at that moment. She remembered everything. Seeing that the game was up, Coraline and her mother fled — they were never to be seen again. Celeste and Henri were soon married, and lived happily ever after with the parrot as their companion.

  John Onion and the Devil

  The following tale has been told by the Narragansett for more than 200 years and is their most popular legend…

  A young man christened John Onion lived near Cocumpaug Pond (which was sometimes called Schoolhouse Pond), in the heart of Narragansett country. He was the oldest of four children. His father was a white man, also named John Onion, and his mother, Deborah, was a Narragansett.

  Young John lived to ice skate. From the moment winter froze the ice thick enough on the pond, the boy would go racing across the white expanse, testing his speed or cutting fancy figures. Often he challenged the other young men to races. Many accepted, but John outskated them all. He grew so boastful that one day a Narragansett man said, “You think you’re pretty good, don’t you?”