“Perhaps the greatest stories are those which disturb us, which shake us from our complacency, which threaten our well-being. It is better to enter into the danger of such a story than to keep safely away in a space where the imagination lies dormant.” — N. Scott Momaday, The Way to Rainy Mountain
What are these stories that disturb us, and why would you venture into the danger zone of such a story?
When you think about “a disturbing story,” you may think about stories of brutality and destruction. Terrible truths. And yet, stories that shake us from our complacency, as Momaday says, aren’t necessarily stories about horrible things. They are stories that take us out of the world that we know, the comfortable world that we’ve constructed out of the materials provided to us. Stories that challenge our expectations and assumptions, even contradict what we believe is true.
A story that disturbs may open our hearts to needs and forms of suffering that we didn’t know existed, or didn’t want to admit exist. It can also open us to possibility, reveal illusions, and call us to live with more creativity, compassion, and freedom.
In this episode, I tell a Celtic fairy tale called “The Lass Who Went Out at the Cry of Dawn.” It has the power to shake my complacency, and may do the same for you.
Transcript of Stories That Disturb Us
Hello, and welcome to Myth Matters, storytelling and conversation about mythology and why myth matters to your life today. I’m your host and personal mythologist Dr. Catherine Svehla. Wherever you may be in this wide, beautiful, crazy world of ours, you are part of this story circle.
In his book The Way to Rainy Mountain, N. Scott Momaday writes, “Perhaps the greatest stories are those which disturb us, which shake us from our complacency, which threaten our well-being. It is better to enter into the danger of such a story than to keep safely away in a space where the imagination lies dormant.”
What are these stories that disturb us? These are stories that take us out of the world that we know, the comfortable world that we’ve constructed out of the materials provided to us. Stories that challenge our expectations and assumptions, even contradict what we believe is true.
Stories that shake us from our complacency, as Momaday says, aren’t necessarily stories about horrible things, about atrocities. They can be. They can be stories that open our hearts to needs and forms of suffering that we didn’t know existed, or didn’t want to admit exist. But complacency takes many forms. You can accept a limited world and a limited life out of ignorance, inertia, or a lack will. You can be resigned. You can settle in. The common denominator in these situations is a lack of imagination, the absence of a stimulating possibility and/or the courage to entertain it.
The story that disturbs me, that provokes me and moves me to an edge may not affect you in the same way. We have different lives, different pockets of complacency and comfort. Your response to a story is personal and yet the power of story, as a catalyst for the imagination, is universal.
As I said in the last podcast, “A World Without Stories,” stories develop our imagination. They are the fuel, the food, as well as the content or outcome of our imagining. Through stories– crafting, listening, sharing, learning, and working with stories– you expand your understanding of what is possible. You learn to imagine. You learn how to occupy other worlds and enter other lives, and so this connection between imagination and story feeds your creativity and compassion, your empathy and sense of value and justice, and your relationship to your self and your “inner world” as we commonly say, your awareness of your consciousness and its roots in the unconscious.
Now, you may be thinking: do we need to learn how to imagine? Because kids know how to imagine. But it’s this awareness, the awareness that you’re doing it, the ability to move back and forth and to be informed by it, that is something we need to develop like every other capacity, over time. And the role of imagination in our lives, and its importance, is something that we’re conditioned away from, aren’t we, as we move into adulthood? At least in Western culture.
So, you get all of this from stories, this creativity, compassion, empathy, and relationship to self, and in particular, I think, from working with myths and their corollaries, the fairy tale, as these deal in one way or another with the unknown, with the paradoxes and mysteries of existence, and so with the metaphorical and symbolic language of psyche that bridges the conscious and the unconscious.
I have a story for you today that is probably new to you. Anansi the trickster spider let the stories out of the box kept by the Sky God and yet these stories aren’t shared equally as you know. The manipulation of story power by self-appointed Sky Gods continues, because when you control the stories that people hear, know, and share, you control the people. I told the Ashanti story of Anansi and the box of stories in the last podcast, by the way, if you’re not familiar with it.
So, let me tell you a story. This is a Celtic fairy tale called “The Lass Who Went Out at the Cry of Dawn” and I found it in a collection titled Womenfolk and Fairy Tales, edited by Rosemary Minard. I invite you to relax and listen and let the story take you where you need to go right now. Note the moments or details that catch your attention. Your response to the story, whatever this may be, is an opening into the meaning this story holds for you right now.
The Lass Who Went Out at the Cry of Dawn
There once was a young woman who went out at the cry of dawn to wash her face in the morning dew, to make it more beautiful. She never came home again. Her father searched for her and her mother wept for her. But all of her father’s searching and her mother’s grieving did not bring the young woman back home. She had a younger sister who loved her dearly, and her sister said that she would go herself into the wide world and travel about to find her sister. She said she would not come home until she’d found her because she wasn’t happy staying at home without her.
Her father gave the younger sister his blessing to take along with her, and a purse with a piece of gold in it to help her on her way. Her mother made up a little packet of things for her to take along. There was a bobbin of yarn and a golden needle, a paper of pins and a silver thimble and a small, sharp knife. All of this wrapped up in a white towel. And then she also gave the daughter her blessing.
The younger sister took these things and she wandered up and down the world for quite a while. And then, one day in her wandering someone told her that there was a wicked wizard who lived on Misenchanter Hill, who had a reputation for stealing young women away. And so maybe he had taken her older sister.
Well, now that the young woman knew where she was going, she made a straight beeline for this place called Misenchanter Hill. And when she got there, she saw that it was going to be a long walk because the road up was steep and rocky all the way. She sat down on a stone at the foot of the hill to rest a little bit before she went on. While she was sitting there, a Tinker came by. He was between the shafts of his cart and it was loaded down with pots and kettles and pans, and he was lugging and tugging this heavy cart along on the stony road.
He stopped when he saw the younger sister and said “Good day.” “Good lord” she said to him, “that must be a very tiresome task, to be doing the work of a horse.” “It is” the tinkerer agreed, “but beggars can’t be choosers and I don’t have any money to buy a horse, so I have to go on tugging my load myself.” “Well,” she said, “I have a piece of gold that my father gave me and I haven’t had a need for it. It’s not doing anybody any good laying here in my pocket. So why don’t you take it and buy yourself a horse.”
The tinker took her purse in his hand and he looked at her and said, “I’ve been pulling that load for a very long time. And although I’ve met many people on my way, not one has given me as much as a kind word. Thank you. And if you’re going up the hill to the wizard’s castle, I’ll give you a few words to take along with you. What you see and what you hear, are not what they seem to be. Now, my advice to you is that you’d better just go back the way you came, because the wizard who lives at the top of the hill will enchant you if he can. But I doubt that you’re going to take my advice.” “No” said the younger sister, “I’m not. But thank you kindly, anyway.” Then the tinker, turned his cart around and went back down the road while the sister began to climb the long, steep hill.
When she got about halfway up the hill, she came across a poor beggar who was standing by the side of the road. His clothes were all torn and tattered and full of patches, and he was pinning all of these tears and rips together with thorns. As fast as he pinned them together, the thorns broke, and then he had to start all over again. The young sister looked at him and said, “Good Lord, that is a tiring way to try and mend your clothes. I’ve got this paper of pins that my mother gave me and I haven’t had any use for it. They’re not any good to anybody while they’re here in my bundle, so why don’t you take them and do your mending with them?”
The poor, raggedy beggar took the pins and he looked at her and said, “I’ve stood here many a long weary day, and many people have passed me by but no one has even given me so much as a kind word before. Thank you. I don’t have anything to give you in return, but a few words that you can take along with you. Gold and silver are a match for evil. Now, if you’re going up to that wizard’s castle, my advice to you is to turn back and go the way you came because he’s a terribly wicked wizard, and he will lay a spell on you if he can. But I doubt that you’re going to take my advice.” “No” she said, “I’m not. But thank you kindly anyway.” And she left the poor beggar there, mending his clothes with the pins and went on up to the top of the hill.
When she got to the top of the hill, there was the wizard’s castle standing across a big courtyard inside a high stone wall. She went through the open gates and across the courtyard and knocked boldly on the castle door. The wizard himself opened it to her. The minute that she saw him, she knew that he was the evil wizard because you could see it in his face. But he spoke to her politely enough and asked her what she had come for. “I’d like my older sister” she said, “I hear that you’ve brought her here.”
“Oh, come in” he said and threw the door open wide. “I’ll see if I can find her.” He took the younger sister into a room and left her there and shut the door behind him. She looked around the room. There was no sign of her sister anywhere so she sat down to wait. And all of a sudden, she heard flames crackling. The room started filling up with smoke and these flames sprung at her from the walls. She could feel the heat. “Good Lord” she said, “the castle is on fire!”
She was about to jump up from her chair and run out of the room when she remembered what the tinker had said: what you see and hear are not what they seem to be. “Hmm” she said, “no doubt this is only some of the wicked wizard’s magic art.” She stayed in her chair and paid the smoke and the flames no heed and they went away. She waited for a while longer. And then she heard a voice calling and weeping. It was the voice of her sister, the older sister that she was seeking. She was calling her younger sister by name and crying.
Well, the younger sister jumped up from her chair ready to go and find her sister. And then she remembered the tinker’s words again: what you see and hear are not what they seem to be. She said, “It’s only that wicked wizard’s magic again, I bet.” Now the voice kept on calling her and it was very hard for her to keep herself from just getting up and running in the direction of the sound. So, she took the bobbin of yarn from her packet and bound her arm to the chair, passing the yarn around and around and around until she had used it all up. And now she was safe, because no matter how hard she pulled, the yarn held her fast to the chair. After a while, the voice stopped calling and the sound of the weeping died away and everything was quiet. Then the sister took out her little sharp knife and cut herself free from the chair.
As soon as she did that the wizard came back, and when he saw her sitting there waiting, he looked surprised. He looked surprised and not too pleased. He told her to come along with him and maybe they would find her sister. “There are a lot of maidens here in the castle” he told her, “and well, you’ll have to pick your sister out for yourself.” They went into another room and when she went in, she stopped and stared. There was nothing in the room but seven white statues. Every one of them was as white as snow, from head to foot. They were all exactly alike. And every one of them was the perfect image of her sister. “Pick your sister out” said the wizard with a wicked grin. “You can take her along with you and welcome.”
Of course, he thought she’d never be able to do this. The younger sister walked up and down in front of the statues. She couldn’t for the life of her tell which one she ought to choose. At last, she stood still with her chin in her hand and considered what to do next. She remembered the words that that beggar in the tattered clothes had given her in return for the paper of pins: gold and silver are a match for evil. She took the silver thimble out of her pocket and slipped it on the finger of the first statue. As soon as she did that, the thimble turned black, so that one was not her sister.
She tried the thimble on the next statue and it turned black again. She tried it on the rest of the statues one by one and the thimble stayed black as black could be until she came to the last one in the line. She put the thimble on that one’s finger and the thimble shone out so bright, it dazzled her eyes. “I’ll take this one” she told the wizard. As soon as she spoke, the statue moved and there was her sister turned back into flesh and blood. The younger sister took her older sister’s hand and the two of them left the room. They went down the hall and through the door of the castle and out into the courtyard.
When the wizard saw that they were getting away from him, he nearly exploded. He was so angry. With his magic he called a great fierce wolf and sent it after them. The two sisters turned around and they saw the wolf panting along behind them and they ran. They ran like the wind itself. But the wolf came closer and closer. The older sister wept and said she could not run any more. But the younger sister remembered that beggar in the ragged clothes and she cried out “gold and silver are a match for evil “and quick as a wink, she whipped out the golden needle and she turned to face the wolf. He came snapping and snarling up to her, with his jaws wide open, ready to leap on her and she reached out and stuck the needle into his forehead, between his great red eyes. And that was the end of the wolf. He just collapsed down, dead.
The wizard shrieked with rage, and he came flying at them himself with his black cloak outspread, like a big pair of wings. All the younger sister had left was that little sharp knife, and no words from the tinker or that beggar with the tattered clothes were left to tell her what to do. But since the knife was all she had, she had to make do with it and hope for the best. When she put her hand in the packet to pull it out, somehow the knife got tangled up with her mother’s and father’s blessings. So, when the wizard got close enough and she aimed the knife at him, the blessings carried it straight to his heart, and down he fell, black cloak and all.
While they stood there catching their breath, they heard a great rumbling noise and they looked over at the castle and it was rocking to and fro. All of a sudden, it turned to dust and settled down in a heap on the ground. It had been made of the wizard’s magic and it could no longer stand.
Now that the wizard was dead, the two sisters didn’t need to run anymore. They walked down the mountain as if they were walking on clouds of air, they were so happy, instead of the rocky, steep road. Halfway down, they met up with a fine young man, all dressed up in the best of clothes. “I don’t think you’ll remember me” he said to the younger sister. “I’m the beggar in the tattered clothes that you gave your paper of pins to. The wizard laid a spell on me that I’d be mending my clothes with thorns till the end of time. But now the spell is lifted, and I’m a free man once more.” The younger sister would never have known him if it hadn’t been for the fact that his clothes were all stuck through with pins.
The three of them now walked down the hill together, and what should they find at the bottom of the hill, but a fine young man standing beside a grand shining coach. “I don’t think you’ll remember me” he said, “but I’m the tinker to whom you gave your gold piece.” She never would have known him if he hadn’t taken her purse from his pocket and given it back to her. The wizard had laid a spell on him too. But now that the wizard was dead, the spell was lifted, and he was free.
The four of them got into the coach and drove back home. So, the younger sister brought her older sister back with her just as she said she would. And in due time the older sister married the fine young man with the pins. And the younger sister married the tinker. And they all settled down together happily for the rest of their days.
And that’s the end of ” The Lass Who Went Out at the Cry of Dawn.”
Have you heard a story like this before? Did it take you any place new? I encourage you to think about it a little, sink into the story, don’t move too quickly into the space of all that you already know. if this story has any capacity to disturb you, what would that be? Where would it be located?
Now, I was led to this story in the process of creating a workshop for women called “How Women Save the Day: Stories of Empowered Women.” I offered that group a point for reflection that I would like to extend to you as well. Consider this if it feels fruitful to you… It’s very important for the younger sister to not be confused by appearances, to not take what she sees and hears at face value. Have you ever been in a situation like this? Have you ever needed to heed that kind of advice? There’s obviously no right or wrong answer. Your experience is for you.
One thing that I’ve noticed in the time that I’ve spent with this story is the action of the little knife. The younger sister uses the little knife twice– once to cut herself free from the chair and once to kill the wizard. I wonder about the use of this little knife, a symbol of discernment, for freeing herself in both of these instances. And along the same lines, I notice that the actions of the younger sister and the tools that she uses, last. they don’t disappear when the wizard dies. All of his evil is an illusion and what she brings to the situation remains. What motivates her actions, do you think? And could that have anything to do with their endurance?
On that note….welcome to the new subscribers! If you are new to Myth Matters, I invite you head over to the Mythic Mojo website where you’ll find information about Myth Matters and a variety of ways to subscribe. You can listen to this podcast on your favorite platform or you can get onto my email list and receive announcements from me when I release a new episode. I also share information about the story work courses that I offer in my emails.
You’ll also find my contact information on the website. Feel free to contact me if you have questions or comments about today’s program.
A shout out and big thanks to Barbara Hockley and Kerri Dene, who are patrons of Myth Matters on Patreon. These monthly contributions are so important to making this podcast viable. If you’re finding value here and have the means, please consider becoming a patron too. There are some additional benefits as part of being a patron. You’ll find this outlined on Patreon.
And that’s it for me, Catherine Svehla and Myth Matters. Thank you so much for listening. Until next time, happy mythmaking and keep the mystery in your life alive…
Useful links:
The Way to Rainy Mountain, 25th Anniversary Edition By N. Scott Momaday
