Introduction

FAIRY TALES ARE AMONG THE OLDEST ORAL STORIES whose history can be traced; in the West this documentation stretches back to classical antiquity. Their themes inspire writers, visual artists, and filmmakers; in the twenty-first century few media creators fail to find in them something relevant (see Greenhill et al. 2018). Yet we don’t know their original makers. Certainly the tales weren’t invented by the Brothers Grimm, Charles Perrault, or Giovanni Francesco Straparola, to list only a few contributors to the canon. Such authors, with different purposes, created their texts using characters, plots, and relationships from sources that sometimes were already written, but commonly were encountered in oral storytelling.

It’s become fashionable among some academics to disparage the idea of an oral tradition as a construct of Romanticism—that nothing of such enduring worth could have been created by the nonliterate and “uneducated.” The stories in this book may or may not sway opinion in this debate (Lovelace 2018). But here we present two makers of tales: thoughtful, creative, attentive to narrative in a way that few non-storytellers are. One grew up in a literate family; the other had little opportunity to learn from books. Nothing can be known about the “crazy, drunken old hag” (Walsh 1994, 113) who told the story of Cupid and Psyche in Apuleius, The Golden Ass (ca. 160 CE). But in the following pages we introduce Alice Lannon, who told her own version of that old woman’s tale, among others, and Pius Power, whose many long and complex stories show just what artistry is possible without the written word. (We call them Pius and Alice, as we authors refer to ourselves also by our given names.)

The Newfoundland into which Philip Pius Power (1912–1993) and Alice (McCarthy) Lannon (1927–2013) were born was a very different place than it is now. Then a self-governing colony of Britain, a Dominion like Canada or Australia, it would lose its autonomy under the Commission of Government imposed from London in 1934 as a condition of rescue from bankruptcy caused by the Great Depression and, ironically, the debt Newfoundland had incurred to pay for its part in defense of the British Empire in World War I. In 1948, by a slender margin, Newfoundland voted to become a province of Canada and entered Confederation in the following year. The population was then 313,000 on the island, spread over 9,656 square kilometers, with a further 5,200 in the larger but more sparsely populated Labrador portion. The 2016 census showed the total population of the province of Newfoundland and Labrador as just under 520,000.

In the Second World War Newfoundland became the fortress from which convoys sailed across the North Atlantic to Britain carrying food and war material. American forces established bases at Gander, Stephenville, St. John’s, and Argentia. In the process they raised local wages to a previously unseen level, putting cash into the hands of men and women who had received very little actual money when they labored under the “truck” system, in which fishers were outfitted by the local merchant and turned in their catch to him in return for food and other supplies. An enlightening—and horrifying—account of destitution among Newfoundland’s people in the 1930s, and corruption among the powerful, can be found in White Tie and Decorations, the letters of Lady Hope Simpson and her husband Sir John, who was a member of the Commission of Government (Neary 1996).

Pius was particularly affected by another great mid-century change in Newfoundland life: resettlement. Under this government scheme many small coastal communities (“outports”) scattered along the island’s 17,542 kilometers of coastline were abandoned and their inhabitants relocated to larger “growth centres” under the promise of jobs and better access to education and health care. Some 30,000 people were uprooted between 1954 and 1975; Anita details Pius’s and her own experience with this plan below. The process continues to the present, and it is always contested.

In 1992 a moratorium on catching codfish was imposed by the Canadian government in recognition that the cod stocks, as a result of local and international overfishing, were on the brink of extinction. This collapse of the inshore fishery, once the mainstay of the outports, decimated the rural economy and swelled the flow of Newfoundland emigrants to mainland Canada. Since the 1990s offshore oil resource exploitation has brought a new optimism, and prosperity for some, though vagaries in the world price of oil are a dash of cold water. For as long as Newfoundland has existed as a European settlement (since the late 1500s), there have been cycles of boom and bust. As a producer of resources—fish, minerals, lumber and paper, and oil—its economy remains constantly at the mercy of fluctuating market demand.

Before European contact, around 1000 CE when Vikings briefly settled at L’Anse aux Meadows on the Northern Peninsula, Maritime Archaic Tradition people (ca. 1800 BCE) were living at Port au Choix on the island’s west coast (Tuck 1991) (see appendix 2 map for all Newfoundland places mentioned in this book). English, Portuguese, French, and Basque fishers began summer visits in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, with colonizing explorers following in their wake. The Grand Banks cod fishery provided the reason for Newfoundland’s existence in the minds of the English fishing captains and the merchants who sent fishers out each year from Bristol, Poole, and other West Country English ports through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the heyday of the migratory fishery. The fish they caught in such abundance was split, salted, and dried onshore, then carried back for sale in Europe. Permanent settlement wasn’t considered desirable by the West Country fishing interests, which feared loss of their monopoly, or by the British government, which considered the Newfoundland voyages a useful way to prepare experienced seamen, who could later be press-ganged into the navy.

By the nineteenth century, however, a Newfoundland-born European population began to appear. Some young men and women recruited as workers by the English fishing enterprises chose to stay. They came from a remarkably small geographic area: southwest England, especially Devon, Somerset, Hampshire, and Dorset; and southeast Ireland, Counties Cork and Wexford (Handcock 1989). They were homogeneous in another way too; they were predominantly poor, often taken from workhouses. They were also ill-educated, a condition that was not to improve in their new country, as education served no economic benefit to their masters. Education, though publicly funded, was, until 1998, administered by the various religious denominations. The loss of the fishery eventually made the existence of parallel school systems serving a diminishing school-age population manifestly wasteful.1 Both Alice and Pius were observant Roman Catholics of Irish ancestry. As a teacher’s daughter, Alice received a full education. Pius went to school until he was ten but never attended regularly afterwards as his family moved about Placentia Bay on their schooner, rarely living near a school.

Above and beyond their knowledge of the long and complex oral stories known to scholars as fairy tales, Märchen, or magic tales, Alice and Pius were unfailingly interesting and talented talkers. Alice fondly repeated her grandmother’s boast that “her tongue was the best limb in her body,” and being able to share some news or tell an interesting anecdote remains an expected social grace. Many travelers to Newfoundland return impressed by the conversational skill of people who grew up with the understanding that good talk is a form of hospitality, like offering food or drink. But with the more elaborate kinds of story that only a few gifted narrators like Pius and Alice performed, traditions of sociability aren’t enough to explain why Newfoundland was such a supportive environment for the persistence of narrative art.

There was need and occasion alike for storytelling, both in occupational (largely male) contexts and in domestic (largely female) ones. As Anita describes below, Pius learned stories from other men in the evenings aboard fishing vessels. Men went aboard other schooners to hear their news and, if there was a storyteller, to hear his tales. Likewise in the lumber camps, where some fishermen worked through the winters, songs and tales were exchanged and new ones brought home at the end of the season. People in the earlier twentieth century in Newfoundland maintained occupational contexts little different from those in the eighteenth century or earlier. In the relative absence of books and with only sporadic access to radio, men brought together from different communities for weeks away from their homes needed entertainment in their few hours of rest.

Back in the home communities of these seasonally migrant men, women kept households together. For them storytelling could be a practical skill when directed toward children, who might be controlled with the distraction or bribe of a story; Alice spoke of how combing girls’ long tousled hair was made easier when they held still to listen to a tale. In addition to storytelling within the family were more open community occasions such as Pius narrated in, where kin and neighbors would crowd into the house with the expectation that he would perform. Called the veillée in France and on Newfoundland’s French-speaking Port-au-Port peninsula (Thomas 1992) and the veglia in Italy (Falassi 1980), these multi-generational gatherings proceeded through a traditional range of oral performance genres, in some societies beginning with fairy tales, in others ending with them.2 Fairy tales weren’t meant only, or even particularly, for children, contrary to what anyone raised on Walt Disney movies might suppose. Geraldine Barter (1979) recorded her mother’s memories of Port-au-Port veillées before the 1940s: children were regarded as a tolerated nuisance and allowed to listen only as long as they stayed quiet.

Among the U.S. servicemen stationed for a while in Newfoundland was one Lt. Herbert Halpert of the Army/Air Force Transport Command. A trained folklorist, he recorded traditions wherever he was posted, including Calgary, Alberta, as well as Gander, Newfoundland. There he heard folktales from local men employed on the base at carpentry and other work and he determined someday to return to seek further into what he suspected was a rich oral tradition. In 1962 his opportunity came when he was recruited to join the English department at Memorial University in St. John’s, where his expertise as a folklorist would complement the work of documenting the province’s distinctive language and culture. Christmas Mumming in Newfoundland (1969), edited with his colleague George M. Story, was the first result of this collaboration, followed by the Dictionary of Newfoundland English, edited by J.D.A. Widdowson, George M. Story, and W. J. Kirwin (1990), unusual among dictionaries (wherein written sources are the norm) for its high proportion of words taken from records of spoken language. The audiotapes, questionnaires, and student essays on life in their home communities that were these works’ foundation are preserved in the Folklore and Language Archive at Memorial, which Halpert established, alongside a Department of Folklore, in 1968.

The premier work on tales in Newfoundland, to which our book offers a modest sequel, is Halpert and Widdowson’s Folktales of Newfoundland: The Resilience of the Oral Tradition (1996). Recently reprinted and available online from the Memorial University Library website, this two-volume collection contains 150 tellings, representing over eighty tale types, from sixty-five narrators in forty communities. The great majority were tape-recorded by Halpert and Widdowson in a series of field research trips they made together and with others in the 1960s and 1970s. Widdowson, Halpert’s younger English colleague, reflected on his sense of their excitement at discovering folktales in living oral culture: “It is perhaps the last place where the adult English-language Märchen storytelling tradition has continued” (2009, 27).

Folktales—stories told and accepted by audiences as fiction (Bascom 1965, 4)—include oral, written, and other media versions “from Ireland to India,” as Stith Thompson put it (1946, 2). Folktale as a broad category also includes narrative jokes and other fictional forms; for folklorists and fairy-tale scholars one of the most important subcategories is the fairy tale—in German, Märchen—stories of wonder and magic.3 Some may think that the life of the traditional fairy tale in English North American oral tradition is restricted to adults reading storybooks to children or (semi)professional tellers declaiming narratives they learned from books to audiences at schools and libraries. Yet across the world, wherever oral traditions remain as important as (or even more important than) other media, orally passing stories between and among the generations continues in some places and within some families. In Newfoundland, the oral tradition has remained remarkably resilient.

The Märchen wasn’t the only kind of folktale Halpert and Widdowson recorded or presented in their book, but because of its rarity as a specialist’s narrative genre, they were drawn to it, as we have been. When you have the chance to meet people who can tell these tales with such artistry and verve, you don’t leave them unrecorded or unpublished out of some concern that they aren’t representative of a tradition in general. Certainly few oral narrators ever told them; there was never a time when everyone knew them; and Pius and Alice told many more kinds of stories than those. What Halpert and Widdowson recognized, as we do, was that they were hearing fairy tales told in an older manner, that weren’t much like literary versions, and that reflected the experience of people who had grown up with little or no exposure to tales in print.

None of Alice’s or Pius’s stories appear in Folktales of Newfoundland, though versions of the “same” tale types can be found there, and readers may wish to compare the different ways a more or less common narrative theme can be handled. A tale type is a folkloristic term for a distinct plot: it’s an abstraction, “a composite plot synopsis corresponding . . . to no individual version but at the same time encompassing to some extent all the extant versions of that folktale” (Dundes 1997, 196). ATU numbers order tale types according to plot; they come from The Types of International Folktales: A Classification and Bibliography, an index published by Hans-Jörg Uther in 2004, which revises and amplifies the Antti Aarne and Stith Thompson (AT) index (1961) used by Halpert and Widdowson. Fairy tales, or “tales of magic,” appear from numbers ATU 300 to ATU 749. Unless the distinction is salient, we refer to ATU (not AT) numbers, even when discussing examples that predate 2004.

The index categorizes many other forms, including animal tales or fables, religious tales, novelle (fairy tale–like plots but without magic elements), stupid ogre tales (giants, the devil), anecdotes and jokes, and formula tales. The index is worldwide and multilingual. Ernest W. Baughman’s Type and Motif-Index of the Folktales of England and North America (1966) is still valuable for English-language materials, though given its age it needs supplementation. We also provide indexed lists of the motifs occurring in each tale, using Thompson’s Motif-Index of Folk-Literature: A Classification of Narrative Elements in Folktales, Ballads, Myths, Fables, Mediaeval Romances, Exempla, Fabliaux, Jest-Books, and Local Legends (1955–1958).

Motifs are small elements recognizable as distinct entities in oral narrative; they float freely among tale types, and some are tale types in themselves, as readers will see below in Alice’s “The Gifts of the Little People.”4 Identifying folk narratives through motif and type numbers is an arcane but fascinating practice; Alan Dundes called it “an international sine qua non among bona fide folklorists” engaged in comparative analysis (1997, 195). But identifying folk narratives thus is not an end in itself. Rather, it complements other methods scholars use to understand what tales mean to those who tell and hear them. While the historic-geographic method—searching for individual tale sources—that these indexes were created to serve has generally been abandoned as impracticable (the place of origin and migration history of any tale cannot reliably be proven), the indexes show persisting elements from which narratives are composed.

Carl Lindahl writes of “the enormous, submerged fore-shadow of a folkloric performance” (1997, 265). A performed narrative doesn’t emerge out of nothing; it’s inflected by past tellings the narrator has heard, and their interplay with the listening audience’s expectations. Type and motif indexes offer analysts a way of getting beyond our own subjectivities as we seek to interpret the cultural meanings that tales hold in their contexts. Comparing story texts, identified by type and motif, can show “regional, cultural, and class styles that inform an individual narrator, styles that the oral artist speaks with, to, and against in crafting the tale of the present moment” (Lindahl 1997, 271). For the ethnographer there’s also an undeniable “rush,” as Kirin Narayan puts it, “of awe, pleasure, and sense of connection with the past that these numbers can bring.” She finds value in “glimpsing the larger life of tales and their constituent motifs” and discovering that what seemed unique was a variant of tales “collected in earlier times and other places” (1997, 232).

Folktales of Newfoundland, with its extreme fidelity in transcribing every word a narrator spoke (Widdowson’s work) and the global reach of Halpert’s comparative annotations, ran to 1,175 pages and two volumes. It took the textual representation and comparative study of tales to an unsurpassed level. It’s cautious, however, in its reading of psychological or symbolic content. In 1987 Danish folktale scholar Bengt Holbek published Interpretation of Fairy Tales, an equally magisterial work setting out a theory of interpretation of fairy tales as projections of problems faced by young people, called “the best single monograph ever written on the fairy tale genre” (Dundes 2006, 69). He argues that magic tales resolve three major oppositions: gender, age, and social power. The hero or heroine rises out of poverty to marry a high-status partner, a Princess or Prince, despite opposition from the King and Queen. Holbek had no doubt that fairy tales derived from oral tradition: “No word of any language and few pre-industrial artifacts had spread as far and wide as the haunting themes of these tales, despite their lack of physical substance, their total dependence on the faulty memories of men” (1987, 17).

This proposition is anathema to Ruth B. Bottigheimer, who believes that writing and print are essential to the transmission of complex tales: “The ‘rise’ fairy tale—with its protagonists’ humble origins, their suffering the effects of poverty, their undergoing tests or tasks and surmounting trials, and with the trope of magical assistance that allows the protagonist to marry a royal personage and become rich—did not exist in popular tradition before the 1550s” (2010, 447). While Bottigheimer and Holbek talk about the same fairy-tale pattern, their explanations for the tales’ creation and spread are completely opposed. That such narratives were invented among the elite, especially Straparola in 1550s Venice, and “sank” down to lower social levels and oral narrators (Bottigheimer 2009; de Blécourt 2012), is not a particularly new theory, but it is intrinsically literacentric (Buchan 1989) and Eurocentric.5 While recognizing that tales recorded in Europe had counterparts in European and Asian literatures of earlier centuries, Holbek saw these literary recensions not as the tellers’ sources but as derived from original oral creations of “craftsmen” (1987, 39–44) who had apprenticed themselves to masters of the art of tale-telling.

Holbek tested his interpretation on the huge tale collection made by Evald Tang Kristensen (1843–1929) in Denmark between 1868 and 1907. From these 2,448 tales Holbek selected the 770 that were fairy tales—similar to Bottigheimer’s “rise tales,” concluding with marriage—recorded from 127 narrators. As usual with tellers of fairy tales, most knew several; the average was over eleven (Holbek 1987, 87). Most were men, though Kristensen recorded from women also, and these people lived almost entirely in rural areas. Holbek believed that magic tales, or fairy tales, had always been told mainly among the poor. Linda Dégh had found that in 1950s Hungary “well-to-do” peasants felt that long magic tales, being “lies,” were unworthy of their attention (1989, 81). Fairy tales in oral tradition see the world from the bottom up; in their natural state they are inherently revolutionary.

Holbek defined the fairy tale as “a category of tale in which a hero or heroine is subjected to a series of trials and tribulations characterized by the occurrence of ‘marvelous’ beings, phenomena, and events, finally to marry the princess or prince in splendor and glory” (1989, 40), and, more compactly, as “tales which end with a wedding or with the triumph of the couple who were cast out . . . because their marriage was a misalliance” (1987, 404). Holbek’s interpretation accounts for fairy tales’ resonance as stories: they symbolize experiences common to most of us. They are about leaving the family of one’s birth; being tested in kindness, courage, and endurance; finding and learning to trust a romantic partner; and succeeding in having the marriage approved by parents, thereby gaining independence and a means of livelihood. The stories always concern unlikely, socially unequal marriages, in which the parents of the higher-status partner must be won over to give consent.

The stories deal with individual maturation (Lüthi 1982, 117) but with recognition that the main obstacles facing the couple are created by their own families: jealous brothers or sisters, clinging parents, hostile in-laws. Fairy-tale characters are masks for figures in real-life family relationships. Holbek argued that the tales made it possible to think about, or hint about (as Pius did), oppressive and abusive family dynamics by throwing the contentious situations onto a screen of fiction where giants and witches, Kings and Queens, enact violence against well-meaning but downtrodden youth.

Folklorists find that storytelling often runs in families (Roberts 1974), as it did for Alice and Pius; many narrators have warm memories of hearing tales from close relatives. Jane Muncy told folklorist Lindahl of lying in bed next to her grandmother and “drifting off to sleep” after a couple of stories “with my ear at her back, because I liked to hear her heart beat” (quoted in Lindahl 2010, 255). The fairy tale in oral transmission is also an aural tradition. Anita recalls in the 1950s in Merasheen lying on the bedroom floor with her brother after they had been put to bed, listening through the heating vent to Mrs. Bride Fulford telling fairy tales to several adults downstairs in the kitchen. Narrators often say, as Alice did, that they hear the voice of the person they learned a tale from as they tell their own version. This suggests the care with which a storyteller takes over responsibility for knowing and telling. As Dorothy Noyes notes, the core meaning of traditio in classical Latin is to “hand over” ownership of valuable property in a person-to-person relationship (2009).

A teller almost always remembers the person from whom they learned a tale. Lawrence Millman, who traveled through the rural west of Ireland in 1975 searching for tellers of magic tales, said that a tale-teller needs the personal contact with another storyteller in order to be inspired to tell their own version: “Mickey’s inability to read prevents him from refreshing his memory at the local library, where he could probably collect dozens of stories with ease. No, he needs human contacts . . . actual people to tell him stories. He once had these people, though sometimes at a cost: ‘I’d often work half a day wit’ a farmer for nothing, just t’ get a good story from him’ ” (1977, 125).

Stories are passed along networks of people who care more than an average person does about them. When narrators tell the tales, they remember not merely words and a plot but also, as we’ll discuss, the sound of a voice and often also the warmth of a relationship or a desire to communicate obliquely something that social norms forbid saying directly. The ethnographic literature on the acquisition of oral tradition shows how stories, often regarded as the personal property of the teller, are kept away from rival narrators since possession of a unique repertoire was highly regarded (Dégh 1989, 89–90).6 Being able to perform a distinctive tale gave status, and was even a means of livelihood for wandering beggars such as the Siberian penal colonists described by Mark Azadovskii who drew out their tales long enough to be fed and housed for the night by the peasants whose homes they visited (1974, 19).

Itinerant craftsmen, such as tailors in rural Scotland and Ireland, often practiced storytelling alongside their handicrafts. David Thomson tells how a storyteller hid in the loft of an Irish cottage where he could overhear another narrator tell a tale he had long wanted to hear, which the teller would never have told if he knew his rival was listening: “From that night, he had the story, as good in every word as the words of the man of the house. And he told it after that wherever he went tailoring until the day he died. But he never dared go more to that house, that was all” (1965, 45–47). Those who conduct fieldwork among traditional tellers of fairy tales recognize that individuals have many reasons for telling stories, from a sense of obligation to carry on tradition—“a job that must be done” (Noyes 2009, 248)—to an egotistical or economic motive. Along with “ownership” of a story—the community’s recognition of the narrator’s right to tell that tale—comes a sense of responsibility to maintain something too valuable to be lost.

Several edited collections of folktales and fairy tales that focus upon particular tellers from oral tradition are classics. In Mondays on the Dark Night of the Moon (1997), ethnographer Narayan places herself within the storytelling performance, showing her responses to the tales and the questions she posed about them to Urmila Devi Sood, a narrator in a Himalayan foothill village. Ray Cashman’s Packy Jim: Folklore and Worldview on the Irish Border (2016), about a teller’s repertoire of legend and folktale, models a long-sustained relationship between narrator and folklorist that enables Cashman to achieve “the point of studying folklore”—“understanding the world from the perspective of others” (21). Patricia Sawin’s Listening for a Life (2004) documents an entire traditional repertoire of stories, songs, and art. Linda Dégh’s Hungarian Folktales: The Art of Zsuzsanna Palkó (1995b) OR Palkó (1995b), and John Shaw and Joe Neil MacNeil’s Tales until Dawn: The World of a Cape Breton Gaelic Story-Teller (1987), and John Shaw and Joe Neil MacNeil’s Tales until Dawn: The World of a Cape Breton Gaelic Story-Teller (1987) deal with source tellers, active tradition bearers—Palkó and MacNeil—neither of whom is a first-language English speaker. We draw inspiration from all these works.

Accessible anthologies like Jack Zipes’s The Golden Age of Folk and Fairy Tales: From the Brothers Grimm to Andrew Lang (2013) help to remind fairy-tale scholars and other readers of the drastic variation possible in versions of the same and related tales and tale types. However, like most works based on tales gathered sufficiently long ago that they don’t have the advantage of electronic recording, the examples in The Golden Age don’t convey the flavor of a live telling. Further, actual tellers rarely follow ATU types, as exemplified in Alice’s “Open! Open! Green House” which, despite its many echoes of traditional tale types, Martin considers unclassifiable, and Pius’s telling two quite distinct versions of ATU 313 The Magic Flight: “The Maid in the Thick of the Well” and “Jack Shipped to the Devil at Blackhead.”

Paradoxically, in its oral even more than in its literary iterations, the fairy tale is a visual form. Peter Seitel described storytelling sessions among the Haya people of Tanzania beginning with audiences’ invocation to the narrator to “see so that we may see” (1980, vii). “Seeing” the events of a tale as they unfold is vital to tellers and listeners. For the teller the ability to visualize details of scenes and confrontations is essential to memorizing and structuring the tale. Vivian Labrie developed a persuasive theory of this connection between visualization and memorization through her interviews with narrators in New Brunswick, Canada, in the 1970s. One of them, Ephrem Godin, observed: “When somebody tells you a tale, you keep your attention until the hero sets out for another place and then, you notice again where he stops if you want to be able to tell it back” (quoted in Labrie 1981, 101).

Labrie called this “visual itinerary” “the very framework of remembering,” and noted that it was a method used by orators in antiquity. “The task of the narrator,” she says, “consists of depicting, for the blind audience, what he sees as it unfolds from his memory into his consciousness” (1981, 102). D. A. MacDonald’s interviews with Scottish narrator Donald Alastair Johnson reveal how detailed a narrator’s vision may be: “I could see just, how . . . where . . . when he went up to the cauldron, it was just as if I were seeing the cauldron right there—rusty” (quoted in MacDonald 1978, 15). Johnson said that he saw a succession of images as he narrated, running left to right, like a film projected on a wall.

Full transcriptions of folktales often reveal cues given by narrators that steer audiences toward what the teller sees. In the following passage Allan Oake of Beaumont, Newfoundland, tells the swan maidens episode in ATU 313 The Magic Flight. Through the speech of the old man advising the hero he lets the audience know what to imagine: “‘You’ll see, look away to the mountain tops you’ll see a cloud’ he said ‘a little cloud risin[’]. The once’ he said ‘you’ll see three girls comin’ down for a bathing’ ” (Halpert and Widdowson 1996, 1:160). The visual cueing is immediately reinforced as the hero follows the old man’s advice and the episode unfolds in the same sequence of images, from the distant cloud to the body of the naked girl. A light in the darkness that resolves into a lighted window, through which can be seen—giants, or whatever the story demands—is a similar device used to focus the mind’s eye.

The style of the fairy tale owes much to what is possible, and necessary, in oral performance. Axel Olrik’s “Epic Laws of Folk Narrative” (1965, 129, 141)—including the “Law of Three” (the number of siblings, the number of tasks), “Contrast” (rich/poor, powerful/weak), “Twins” (the ugly sisters, the jealous brothers), and others—exist because they are effective. Max Lüthi’s “Aspects of the Märchen and the Legend” (1969) describes the distinctive visual design of these contrasting genres: the fairy-tale world, with its landscapes, animals, and artifacts of copper, silver, and gold, as being out of and beyond everyday experience, while the legend is all about how quotidian reality was broken in upon by some outlandish event. None of these visual features derive from any literary rendering of a tale, but they are very necessary for the transmission and comprehension of an oral tale. Graham’s illustrations, which introduce each tale or tale set, show how one visual artist understands the images, but we see them as evocative rather than summative.

Olrik’s proto-structuralist work, originally published in 1909, anticipated Morphology of the Folktale by Vladimir Propp, which appeared in Russian in 1928 (in English in 1968), an essential work for understanding how a fairy tale can be composed in oral performance without recourse to memory of any particular prior text, written or otherwise. The teller, or maker, of such a story would absorb, through listening to other narrators, the rules or grammar for creating fairy tales that would be acceptable to audiences, who also knew the conventions of the genre (see also Foley 1988). After taking apart 100 tales recorded by the nineteenth-century folklorist A. N. Afanasiev, Propp found there were potentially seven tale roles, or types of character defined by the actions they perform in a tale, and up to thirty-one kinds of events that the characters cause to happen. The tales move from the hero’s separation from family through testing encounters with characters who provide magic aid or become future helpers on the quest to conflicts with dangerous adversaries, culminating in a glorious wedding of social unequals.

A flaw in Propp’s schema is that his model is based on male-centered fairy tales, in which the wedding is the end of the story for the male hero. He’s won his Princess and a kingdom and no more need be said. Female-centered fairy tales, however, begin at the wedding, after which things go badly downhill for the heroine bride. Her female in-laws plot against her and the story follows her adventures as she struggles to restore her marriage and regain happiness. This vision of the family as fraught with enmity could be safely imagined only through the screen of fiction (Holbek 1989, 49). The tales are about generational conflict, finding a life partner, and the triumph of the “have-nots” over the “haves” (44). The tales are coded, as feminist readings (Radner 1993) of other genres of oral literature, especially ballads, show (Stewart 1993; Wollstadt 2003). For Holbek the wedding is always the crucial act in fairy tales. Through achieving marriage, the younger generation overcome their elders’ opposition and gain their independence: the “keys of the kingdom.”

In a riposte to a purely literary understanding of fairy tales as texts consumed in private reading, Alan Dundes stated, “One cannot possibly read fairy tales; one can only properly hear them told” (1986, 259). The oral performance of a tale is a far more multi-channeled experience than reading, or even listening to someone else read, a fixed text: “A vast chasm separates an oral tale with its subtle nuances entailing significant body movements, eye expression, pregnant pauses, and the like from the inevitably flat and fixed record of what was once a live and often compelling storytelling event” (259). The oral tale in performance is flexible, creatively variable.

Stage properties can be improvised out of immediate surroundings: a storyteller is remembered for acting out the throwing of a man into jail by pushing one of his listeners into the cellar (Arsenault 2002, 4). A cockroach on the floor could be brought into a tale; a narrator’s penknife might be handed round as the very knife used to slay the giant (Crowley 1966, 28). The oral fairy tale, being an interplay between teller and audience, is never the same tale twice, though opening and closing formulas, with their relatively fixed phrasing—“Not in my time, not in your time, but when the monkeys used to walk, talk, and chew tobacco” or Pius’s riffs on “There was one time, in olden times, in farmers’ times, ’twasn’t in my time, or in your time, but in times ago”—are especially likely to be remembered whole. The verbal text is merely one element in the entire “storytelling event” (Georges 1969, 372).

Robert A. Georges looked forward, in 1969, to the use of “sound cameras” by folklorists to capture the “wholeness” of storytelling events (327). At minimum two video cameras, to record narrator and listeners, are necessary. In Martin’s experience, when he and Barbara Rieti videotaped Alice telling her tales to them in her home, Alice delivered her stories to Barbara rather than to him. Was this because she was placing gendered inflections in her tales best appreciated by another woman? Or because Martin was sitting next to the unblinking stare of the video camera? A second or third camera registering the interviewers’ responses might have helped interpret this, and would have obliged the ethnographers to submit equally to the camera’s gaze. Regrettably, none of the narrators recorded by Halpert and Widdowson were filmed, but a videotape is available of a tale performance by Emile Benoit, a brilliant narrator from the Port-au-Port Peninsula in western Newfoundland.7

Our method of presenting the verbal texts of Alice’s and Pius’s tales is built on the ethnopoetic model employed by Pauline in her retranscription of stories, including magic tales, that were recorded in the Canadian Maritimes by Helen Creighton (Greenhill 1985); see our appendix 1 below for detailed discussion of the method. The use of audio- and video recordings has enabled us to attend more closely to nuances in a teller’s performance and to recognize, as Pauline suggests, that “nothing is completely extraneous or meaningless in a story’s telling” (227). This willingness to listen closely and transcribe exactly what was said is far different from earlier ways of “improving” texts that collectors felt had been garbled or left “incomplete” by tellers. Our texts don’t read like fairy tales edited in a library.

Ethnopoetic transcriptions demonstrate the insight of folklorists and linguistic anthropologists like Dell Hymes (e.g., 1996) and Dennis Tedlock (e.g., 1983) that tellings are more like poetry than like prose. Direct word-for-word prose transcriptions can be hard slogging, even for academics. The plethora of ums, he saids, so anyways, wells, and so on appear to interrupt the read story on the page, yet when heard they clearly mark transitions, new ideas, reported speech, and so on (see, e.g., Greenhill 1985). In the absence of available oral recordings, these speech segments can be used to reconstruct the ethnopoetics of the stories; with oral recordings, as we have for this book, paralinguistic features like pauses, laughter, lowered or raised voice, and so on can also serve as ethnopoetic markers (see appendix 1).

We have tried to balance nonstandard English while avoiding “eye dialect,” a representation of speech that conveys a disparaging attitude to the speakers (see Preston 1982). For example, “wrong” sounds identical to “rong,” but the latter spelling makes the speaker look careless or uneducated. In our transcriptions we are careful to retain meaningful usages, especially when they appear in the Dictionary of Newfoundland English. Conventional standardizations of the English language obscure the fact that there are many valid and vibrant forms of English. Alice and Pius were always articulate and forceful speakers.

We present eight tales from Pius (one in two different tellings), collected between 1979 and 1989, and six tales from Alice, collected in 1999 and 2001. Though these are all the fairy tales from these tellers to which we have access, Alice and Pius certainly knew more. It can be difficult to quantify the actual number of tales in any individual’s repertoire. Tellers may know but choose not to tell stories. For example, Pius knew “Cinderella” but much preferred tales with more active heroines.

Further, tellers formed in the oral tradition don’t tell stories in the same way each time. Not only the inflections but the actual words change from one telling to another. We’re fortunate here to have two of Pius’s tellings of “The White King of Europe”—one for an American folklorist, Kenneth Goldstein, and some community members, and the other for his son and a friend on a fishing vessel. Tales often don’t even have a consistent title; a story may be referred to by a character (like “Peg Bearskin”) or by some important event or saying (like “Open! Open! Green House”). Placed in different narrative circumstances, whole passages migrate from tale to tale. For example, in two of Pius’s stories his hero encounters three giants and a dragon, but the events leading up to the confrontation, and the details of the results, differ. As scholars frequently aver, story form, title, and tale type are academic abstractions; there’s no fixed text to an oral narrative. The level and degree of changes possible for stories are enormous—far greater than anyone steeped in the ideas of written and filmed versions might think.

In addition, tellers may know stories that aren’t strictly within the fairy-tale form that also contain magical and/or supernatural elements. For example, Pius told a story akin to the traditional ballad “Tam Lin” (Child 39, Roud 35),8 which includes a fairy abduction, as a legend (magical historical event to which evaluations of truth and various levels of belief apply) in which he personally participated. For traditional performers, fairy tales (i.e., Märchen) may not hold any particular pride of place. Tellers might be more interested in stories of personal experience, jokes, or songs. Alice told many other stories that weren’t fairy tales, including supernatural legends and personal experiences.

Different narrators also have different kinds of relations to their stories. From Martin’s experience, Alice’s stories seem more or less fixed. Some sedimentation may have happened after she and her brother Michael McCarthy (as literary editor) collaborated on their book Fables, Fairies & Folklore (1991). We encourage readers to check out the versions in that volume to see how the tone and language vary from the tellings here. Further, Alice frequently told her stories to children, which meant she would have pitched the content and wording to their particular interests and knowledge. In later life, she frequently appeared at Newfoundland storytelling festivals, which could lead to emphasis on local interest but also on traditional language. Anita remembers Pius’s tales varying from place to place and time to time, especially depending on his audiences. He hated the tape recorder and told the stories in this book mainly as a favor to Anita (and in one case to Irish fiddler Seamus Creagh, who also fished with Pius for one season). Anita noticed that recorded tellings have more rapid speech and were rushed. Pius was slower and more relaxed in his storytelling when no recorder was present.

Each of our notes on the tales identifies the tale type(s) and motifs employed. Though such practices are associated with more old school folkloristics, we hope readers will find the commonalities and dissimilarities ascertained in type and motif useful. Maids/Jacks/Cat also includes contextual information. We discuss fairy tales in oral tradition and in the lives of Alice and Pius. We offer the fairy-tale oeuvres of these two superb tellers as a contribution to interdisciplinary fairy-tale studies—balancing that field’s general focus upon fixed texts, especially written traditions, often those gathered more than a century ago—as well as to folklore, gender studies, Newfoundland studies, and Canadian studies.

Two of our authors, Anita and Martin, knew the tellers. Anita first met Pius when she was a child. When in 1976 she began collecting songs, knowing Pius had some, she sought him out in Southeast Bight. In 1977, she married Pius’s son, Pius Jr., and by that time had moved to the Bight. The couple lived in Pius’s house while they were building their own, and then moved there, a short walk away. She also fished with father and son. In 1984, she moved away from Southeast Bight, but continued to visit frequently until Pius’s death. Martin, with his wife Barbara Rieti, recorded Alice over two visits, one in 1999 and the other in 2001. Alice visited their home, and they also saw her at storytelling festivals. We are unconventional in placing the biographies of those involved in this book directly after this introduction. But we hope that having some idea who the two tellers, Alice and Pius, are will enhance the experience of reading their stories. And we also think that our distinct understandings and locations, as well as that of Graham, our illustrator, contribute to this work in ways readers may wish to evaluate for themselves.

Notes