Shirley Climo (1928–2012)

The story of Rhodopis - a young Greek girl captured by pirates and sold into slavery in Egypt, only to go on to become Pharaoh Amasis' queen - is the earliest known example of the "Cinderella," or persecuted-heroine-type tale (type #510A in the Aarne-Thompson Folklore Classification system), having first been recorded in the work of the Greek geographer Strabo some time in the late first century BC, or early first century AD. Another retelling can be found in the work of Roman author Aelian show more (ca. 175–235 AD). The fairy-tale itself is (of course) fictional, although the story is based upon the life of an actual historical figure.

In addition to offering an interesting counterpart to the more well-known (and more contemporary) French version, which has given its name to the tale-type - like Cinderella, this story too includes a lost slipper, used by the pharaoh to find his ideal mate, as well as some magical intervention on the part of the god Horus and his falcon (as opposed to a fairy god-mother) - The Egyptian Cinderella also provides a fascinating snapshot of the world of classical antiquity, and highlights some of the differences between that world and our own. To wit: it demonstrates how the institution of slavery, in the ancient world, was far different from its modern counterpart; and points to the relatively recent origin of our own concerns with, and ideas of, race.

The idea that some peoples were innately more fit for servitude and enslavement goes back, not to the ancient world, but to the beginnings of the trans-Atlantic slave-trade - it was a philosophy dreamt up to justify that most unjustifiable and barbaric of practices. In the world of the ancient Mediterranean, by contrast, slavery was largely situational - one could become a slave through defeat in warfare, through capture by pirates, and (in some cultures) through debt - and was not necessarily a permanent, multi-generational condition. In the ancient world, a slave could and did marry the Pharaoh. In the same vein, while prejudice was just as present amongst the ancients, as amongst ourselves - witness the way in which Rhodopis is ridiculed by the Egyptian servant-girls with whom she works, simply because her appearance is different from their own - it did not have the same directed quality as our own prejudice, as it did not draw from the same kind of specifically racial animus.

I would imagine that these and other differences would make The Egyptian Cinderella - in addition to being an entertaining tale - an excellent book for study with younger readers, affording thoughtful teachers an excellent vehicle for exploring the world of antiquity, and contrasting it to our own. Given that this is so, I am particularly bemused to note the accusations of racism against the book on various sites online. Some reviewers, appearing not to have read the book at all, wonder why an "Egyptian" Cinderella would be light-skinned and green-eyed (perhaps because she isn't Egyptian...?); while others object to the idea that the villains of the piece (such as they are) are darker-skinned than the heroine.

These negative reviews tend to point out two rather disturbing realities: first, that there is a great deal of ignorance about the ancient world abroad in our culture; and second, that it is apparently taboo to depict a darker-skinned person as a villain, even if this may reflect reality. I can't say I find either of these things particularly admirable (quite the reverse, actually), although the icing on the cake comes with the knowledge that an explicitly Afrocentric retelling of this tale (presumably including an Egyptian Rhodopis?), was published a number of years after Climo's telling. I can only assume that the author of The Egyptian Cinderella and Other Egyptian Tales does not see the absurdity of taking a tale in which the heroine's outsider status is central to any understanding of meaning, and making her an "insider" instead. It's as if a group of far-right, modern-day Israelis, believing that the Moabites were the ancestors of their present-day enemies, the Arabs, decided "To hell with the Book of Ruth! We don't want a Moabitess in our sacred stories - we'll make her an Israelite instead!" It would be laughable, if it weren't so sad.

Leaving aside these issues of identity politics, and the racism of extreme (read: essentialist) Afrocentrism, The Egyptian Cinderella is just an engaging story, one I would recommend to readers interested in the Cinderella tale-type specifically, to general fairy-tale fans, and to anyone - teachers, librarians, parents - interested in sparking a truly thoughtful discussion of the ancient world with the children in their care. show less

The Greek myth of Atalanta often appears in elementary-school readers and literary anthologies for older children. Since it has a strong, athletic, and defiant young girl as the main character, it seems to be regarded as some sort of proto-feminist piece.

In most versions of the story, a female child is born to King Iasus of Arcadia. Disappointed—even enraged—that his wife didn’t produce a son, he orders that the baby be abandoned on the side of a mountain. A she-bear finds and suckles show more the infant, who is later discovered by a group of hunters. They take her into their care and teach her how to track, trap, and spear animals.

Atalanta quickly demonstrates extraordinary athletic ability, particularly as a runner. When she gains wide renown for winning races, she’s called to the king’s court and discovers her true identity. She’s soon pressured to marry, for now her father (whose queen is dead) wants a grandson. Atalanta has no interest in love or marriage and only agrees if she can set the terms of a union: any suitor worth his salt must be able to beat her in a running race. Losing competitors are to be put to death.

Athletes and warriors willing to take the risk come from near and far. None succeeds, until Melanion (sometimes called Hippomenes) is aided in doing so by the goddess Aphrodite, who is angered by the proud girl’s spurning of love. The goddess supplies Melanion with three golden apples, which the young man tosses at various points in the race, distracting Atalanta, and allowing him to claim victory.

This being a Greek myth, the happily-ever-after part cannot be relied on (though some modern tellers prefer to leave out what actually happens after the wedding.) Because Atalanta and Melanion never offer thanks to Aphrodite for her role in their union, the goddess vindictively turns them into lioness and lion. “Let them race and hunt forevermore!” she bitterly pronounces.

Hmm . . . Now for an assessment of Climo’s picture-book version.
Climo is a masterful storyteller who writes well. She provides valuable descriptive detail without irritating and distracting lyrical excess. She fills in the gaps of the original story and humanizes the characters, particularly King Iasus who’s rendered considerably more sympathetic. Most significantly perhaps, she provides Atalanta with a mother, who begs and pleads with the king to spare her beloved daughter.

In Climo’s version, a merciful guard is charged with taking the baby to the slopes of Mount Cyllene. He finds a cave that might protect the child—the very one inhabited by a she-bear and her cubs. In this interpretation of the myth, Atalanta is later found not by a group of hunters but by a single one, the kindly Ciron, who recalls hearing about this baby and the manner in which she’d been abandoned. (Although Ciron uses her given name, he tells her nothing of her royal lineage.) The hunter raises her in his woodman’s hut and cultivates her natural talents, observing: “She was steady of hand and so nimble that she could slip the honey from a hive without disturbing the bees.” She can also “run as fast as a stag” and “speed an arrow to a target almost as well as Artemis, the goddess of the hunt.”

As she approaches young adulthood, Atlanta becomes restless. She leaves Ciron’s side, travelling to Athens, Sparta, Corinth, and Olympia, where she engages in and wins many athletic competitions. Climo emphasizes that although the girl is an exceptional sportswoman, she’s barred from the Olympics due to her sex.

Summoned to Iasus’s court after she gains wide renown, Atalanta is told of her parentage. This is where Climo makes her greatest deviation from her source material: the author has Iasus apologize to his daughter, admit how very wrong he was, and beg her forgiveness. Hmm . . . I wonder if it isn’t better for young readers to understand how unlikely this would have been in deeply misogynistic Ancient Greece.

To her credit, Climo does not succumb to the temptation of omitting or softening Atalanta’s marriage terms. In her telling, the suitors must compete in a race where defeat means something more than humiliation—namely, the loss of one’s head. However, the author can’t resist the desire to fashion a love story. Her Atalanta is attracted to the handsome young warrior, Melanion, and repeatedly tries to discourage him from running against her (knowing he’ll surely end up dead). And when the heroine is not victorious, she takes it well in stride. “Losing the race was a small price to pay for finding love,” she muses.

Climo’s story’s conclusion is faithful to the source material. After Atalanta delivers a son, Parthenopaeus, an heir for King Iasus, it is ultimately Aphrodite who wins the day. Since the ungrateful couple never offered the goddess thanks for her significant role in their union—providing the apples— and since the two only care about the hunt, games, and races, then that is all they will have. . . . But is it really so bad to be allowed to run free in the wild as lions if those are the things the pair really value? This reader thinks not!

Before concluding, a few words about the art: Alexander Koshkin’s colourful, framed, Greek-style frieze-like illustrations wonderfully complement the text. All in all, I think this is a very fine retelling of the myth. The author humanizes the characters, fills in some of the narrative gaps, and highlights the talents of a gifted female athlete and her exclusion from the Olympics. (No wonder our heroine creates her own very high-stakes competition!) And Climo does all of this without deviating too much from the original fascinating myth.

Recommended. show less

Motherless Settareh, so named because of the star-shaped birthmark on her cheek ("Settareh" meaning "star" in Persian), grows up in the women's quarters of her father's house, alternately ignored or harassed by her stepmother, stepsisters, aunts, and female cousins. Given a gold coin by her father, in order to buy new clothes for Prince Mehrdad's upcoming No Ruz (New Year) celebration, Settareh instead gives most of her holiday money to a beggar, using what little is left to buy an cracked show more old bottle. Her kinswomen are convinced that, contrary to her father's instruction, she has not chosen wisely. But the pari - a magical fairy - residing in her bottle proves differently, producing gorgeous clothing that allows Settareh to attend the No Ruz celebration after all...

As mentioned in my review of Shirley Climo's The Korean Cinderella, another of her four Cinderella retellings (see also: The Egyptian Cinderella and The Irish Cinderlad), I find the titles used for these books, including The Persian Cinderella, rather problematic. This tale, after all, is no more "the Persian Cinderella" than Cinderella is "the French Settareh," and while I understand the need for marketing, and for reader appeal (what better way to draw in fairytale lovers young and old, than to describe this as a "Cinderella" story?), I wish that a culturally specific name had been used, with any parallel to other traditions confined either to the description, or to a subtitle. Something after the fashion of Petrosinella: A Neopolitan Rapunzel, which happens to be my favorite variant of the "Rapunzel" tale-type.

That said, I did find the actual story here, taken from that classic collection, Tales from the Thousand and One Nights, where it is known as The Anklet, very engaging. I also appreciated that, this time around, Climo actually named her textual source material! The cultural details - Settareh lives in the women's quarters; Prince Mehrdad is unable to search for the mysterious anklet-owner, because he cannot visit women in their homes - offer a fascinating glimpse of another place and time. The illustrations by Robert Florczak, which a friend has astutely compared to the work of Maxfield Parrish, are appealing. All in all, despite my critique of the title, this is a book I would recommend to young fairytale lovers, and to readers interested in international variants of the "persecuted heroine" tale-type. show less

Shirley Climo, whose many folkloric adaptations for children range from picture-books like The Irish Cinderlad and King of the Birds, to collections like A Treasury of Mermaids and Monkey Business, began her children's book career with this volume (published in 1981), which presents nine magical tales from Cornwall. Each folktale, or 'droll,' is accompanied by a short introduction to the magical being - a Piskey, a Spriggan, a Knacker - which features in that selection, as well as a brief show more afterword, in which the superstitions and customs pertaining to that type of creature or situation are laid out.

The opening selection, The Very Old Woman and the Piskey, follows the story of an elderly farm couple who are aided by a Piskey - a mischievous, but essentially good elf - until the woman's meddling (done with the best of intentions) finally drives him away. Note: one should never shake all the apples from a tree, but rather, should leave some for the Piskey. Also, one should make sure to leave a mouse-sized hole in the outer wall of one's home, to allow the Piskies access.

The second selection, which features the Spriggan - a different kind of elf altogether, one that was mean and ugly, and possibly (so they said) the spirit of a long-dead giant - is entitled The Widow and the Spriggans of Trencrom Hill, and sets out the tale of an old widow, living alone in a house known as 'Chyanwheal' ("the house on the mine"), who tangles with some coin-counting Spriggans, and comes out the worse for it. Note: a horseshoe hung over the window will scare off Spriggans, just as a garment turned inside-out will deflect their spells. Also, one should be wary of toads, and shoo them from the doorstep, as they will bring Spriggans with them.

The third selection, Tom Treverrow and the Knackers, relates the story of a foolish miner and his (mis)adventures in the Ballowal mines with some Knackers - underground elves who mine for tin, and who, if respected and left alone, are not usually harmful. Note: miners should always remember to touch a horseshoe four times before gong down into a mine, to tip their caps in all directions before picking up their pickaxes, to pay attention to the snails (good luck!) or hares (bad luck!) which cross their path, to share a few crumbs of their midway meal with the Knackers, and to drip a bit of candle grease every time they light a candle, to supply the Knackers with material to makes their own lights.

Betty Stoggs' Baby is the fourth selection, and follows the tale of careless (and lazy) Betty, who almost loses her son, Wee Jan, to the Small People - fairies with the appearance of miniature humans, who danc by moonlight, sup on honey and blackberries, and make off with neglected children. Note: careful parents should pin their baby's covers to the pillow, to prevent it from being stolen, and should hang a hot cross bun in the corner of the kitchen, for good luck. Also important: keep a ginger cat - it will ward off fire!

Those malicious Spriggans pop up again in the fifth selection, The Changeling of Brea Vean, in which the loving Janey Trayer's baby is stolen, and a fretful Spriggan changeling is left in its place. Luckily, Janey's neighbors, the Two Wise Sisters, know what to do, because she herself is too softhearted to break the spell (Parents: please don't try any of this at home, when your baby won't stop crying!). Note: shoes placed at the foot of a bed, with their toes pointed upward, will drive off cramps, just as standing on the head for fifteen minutes with cure stomachache. One should carry a stolen potato, or a cork, to be rid of rheumatism.

The sixth selection, The Giant of Castle Treen - which concerns those massive inhabitants of ancient Cornwall, whose great standing stones, and sea-column formations have outlasted them - follows the tale of a childless Giant couple, Den-an-Dynas (or Dan Dynas) and his wife Venna, who find that a son can be a mixed blessing. Note: One can ward off a witch's ill wishes by walking around the Garrack Zans (a giant slab of granite near Land's End), and can become a witch by touching one of Cornwall's rocking stones nine times, at the stroke of midnight.

The Cornish tradition of Merpeople - believed to be the children of Llyr, the Celtic sea god - appears in the seventh selection, The Mermaid of Zennor, in which a lovely Mermaid named Morveren is drawn to the singing of a human man, Mathew Trewella, and falls in love with him. Thankfully, this ends much more happily (for the couple, anyway) than it does in Hans Christian Andersen's classic tale of The Little Mermaid. Note: fisherman should always nail a horseshoe to the bottom of their boats, to insure a good catch, and should leave a little fish on the shore for the Merpeople, to share good fortune.

It would seem that Cornwall is (and always has been) awash in Witches, and these magical practitioners feature in the eighth selection, The Tricking of Pye Clemo, which follows the story of a greedy miser who gets his comeuppance, when he snatches a pig out from under old Madgy of St Buryan, while shopping at the market. Note: anyone cursed by a Witch is advised to fill a glass bottle with old needles and pins, and let them rust, which will cause the Witch to wither and fade. Alternately, one could stick an onion with many pins, and hang it in the house.

The ninth and final selection, Duffy and the Devil, features that old Cornish Bucca-bhu (the origin of the English word 'bugaboo'), the Devil, and is a fascinating variant on the Rumpelstiltskin-type tale. Note: sadly, this selection didn't include an afterward, perhaps because the Devil must always be dealt with on a case-by-case basis...?

All in all, I enjoyed the stories in Piskies, Spriggans, and Other Magical Beings: Tales from the Droll-Teller, and particularly appreciated the introductions and afterwords that Climo provided, placing each selection in a larger folk tradition. The accompanying illustrations by Joyce Audy dos Santos felt very familiar to me, although I didn't recognize her name at first. Then I went digging, and realized that she also wrote and illustrated The Diviner, a French-Canadian folktale that I have in my collection. How very rich the folk tradition of Cornwall is, and how very sad that the Cornish language is all but extinct! I would definitely like to read more about Kernow... perhaps with Climo's own later collection, Magic & Mischief: Tales from Cornwall? show less