Tatterhood—“I Will Go as I Am”

Once upon a time there was a king and queen who had no children, and this grieved the queen very much. She was always bewailing their lack of a family and saying how lonesome it was in the palace with no young ones about.

The king remarked that if it were young ones she wanted running about, they could invite the children of their kinswoman to stay with them. The queen thought this a good idea, and soon she had two little nieces romping through the rooms and playing in the palace courtyard.

One day as the queen watched fondly from the window, she saw her two lassies playing ball with a stranger, a little girl clad in tattered clothes. The queen hurried down the stairs.

“Little girl,” said the queen sharply, “this is the palace courtyard. You cannot play in here!”

“We asked her in to play with us,” cried the lassies, and they ran over to the ragged little girl and took her by the hand.

“You would not chase me away if you knew the powers my mother has,” said the strange little girl.

“Who is your mother?” asked the queen. “And what powers does she have?”

The child pointed to a woman selling eggs in the marketplace outside the palace gates. “If she wants to, my mother can tell people how to have children when all else has failed.”

Now this caught the queen’s interest at once. She said, “Tell your mother I wish to speak to her in the palace.”

The little girl ran out to the marketplace, and it was not long before a tall, strong market woman strode into the queen’s sitting room.

“Your daughter says you have powers, and that you could tell me how I may have children of my own,” said the queen.

“The queen should not listen to a child’s chatter,” answered the woman.

“Sit down,” said the queen, and she ordered fine food and drinks to be served. Then she told the egg woman she wanted children of her own more than anything in the world. The woman finished her ale, then said cautiously that perhaps she did know a spell it would do no harm to try.

“Tonight I want you to put your bed out on the grass. After it is dark have two pails of water brought to you. In each of them you must wash yourself, and afterward, pour away the water under the bed. When you awake in the morning two flowers will have sprung up, one fair and one rare. The fair one you must eat, but the rare one you must let stand. Mind you, don’t forget that.”

The queen followed this advice, and the next morning under the bed stood two flowers. One was green and oddly shaped; the other was pink and fragrant. The pink flower she ate at once. It tasted so sweet that she promptly ate the other one as well, saying to herself, “I don’t think it can help or hurt either way!”

Not long afterward the queen realized she was with child and some time later she had the birthing. First was born a girl who had a wooden spoon in her hand and rode upon a goat. A queer looking little creature she was, and the moment she came into the world, she bawled out, “Mamma!”

“If I’m your mamma,” said the queen, “God give me grace to mend my ways!”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” said the girl, riding about on the goat, “the next one born will be much fairer looking.” And so it was. The second twin was born fair and sweet, which pleased the queen very much.

The twin sisters were as different as they could be, but they grew up to be very fond of each other. Where one was, the other must be. But the elder twin soon had the nickname “Tatterhood,” for she was strong, raucous, and careless, and was always racing about on her goat. Her clothes were always torn and mud-spattered, her hood in tatters. No one could keep her in clean, pretty dresses. She insisted on wearing old clothes, and the queen finally gave up and let her dress as she pleased.

One Christmas Eve, when the twin sisters were almost grown, there arose a terrific noise and clatter in the gallery outside the queen’s rooms. Tatterhood asked what it was that dashed and crashed about in the passage. The queen told her it was a pack of trolls who had invaded the palace.

The queen explained that this happened in the palace every seven years. There was nothing to be done about the evil creatures; the palace must all ignore the trolls and endure their mischief.

Tatterhood said, “Nonsense! I will go out and drive them away.”

Everyone protested—she must leave the trolls alone; they were too dangerous. But Tatterhood insisted she was not afraid of the trolls. She could and would drive them away. She warned the queen that all doors must be kept tight shut. Then she went out into the gallery to chase them. She laid about with the wooden spoon, whacking trolls on the head or shoulders, rounding them up to drive them out. The whole palace shook with the crashes and shrieking, until it seemed the place would fall apart.

Just then her twin sister, who was worried about Tatterhood, opened a door and stuck out her head to see how things were going. Pop! Up came a troll, whipped off her head, and stuck a calf’s head on her shoulders instead. The poor princess ran back into the room on all fours and began to moo like a calf.

When Tatterhood came back and saw her sister, she was very angry that the queen’s attendants had not kept better watch. She scolded them all around, and asked what they thought of their carelessness now that her sister had a calf’s head.

“I’ll see if I can get her free from the troll’s spell,” said Tatterhood. “But I’ll need a good ship in full trim and well fitted with stores.”

Now the king realized his daughter Tatterhood was quite extraordinary despite her wild ways, so he agreed to this but said they must have a captain and crew. Tatterhood was firm—she would have no captain or crew. She would sail the ship alone. At last they let her have her way, and Tatterhood sailed off with her sister.

With a good wind behind them, she sailed right to the land of the trolls and tied up at the landing place. She told her sister to stay quite still on board the ship, but she herself rode her goat right up to the trolls’ house. Through an open window she could see her sister’s head on the wall. In a trice, she leaped the goat through the window and into the house, snatched the head, and leapt back outside again. She set off with it, and after her came the trolls. They shrieked and swarmed about her like angry bees. But the goat snorted and butted with his horns, and Tatterhood smacked them with her magic wooden spoon until they gave up and let her escape.

When Tatterhood got safely back to their ship, she took off the calf’s head and put her sister’s own bonny head back on again. Now her sister was once more human.

“Let’s sail on and see something of the world,” said Tatterhood. Her sister was of the same mind, so they sailed along the coast, stopping at this place and that, until at last they reached a distant kingdom.

Tatterhood tied up the ship at the landing place. When the people of the castle saw the strange sail, they sent down messengers to find out who sailed the ship and whence it came. The messengers were startled to find no one on board but Tatterhood, and she was riding around the deck on her goat.

When they asked if there was anyone else on board, Tatterhood answered that, yes, she had her sister with her. The messengers asked to see her, but Tatterhood said no. They then asked, would the sisters come up to the castle for an audience with the king and his two sons?

“No,” said Tatterhood. “Let them come down to the ship if they wish to see us.” And she began to gallop about on her goat until the deck thundered.

The elder prince became curious about the strangers and hastened down to the shore the very next day. When he saw the fair younger twin, he promptly fell in love with her and wanted to marry her.

“No indeed,” she declared. “I will not leave my sister Tatterhood. I will not marry until she is married.”

The prince went glumly back to the castle, for in his opinion no one would want to marry the odd creature who rode a goat and looked like a ragged beggar. But hospitality must be given to strangers, so the two sisters were invited to a feast at the castle, and the prince begged his younger brother to escort Tatterhood.

The younger twin brushed her hair and put on her finest kirtle for the event, but Tatterhood refused to change.

“You could wear one of my dresses,” said her sister, “instead of that raggedy cloak and old boots.” Tatterhood just laughed.

“You might take off that tattered hood and the soot streaks from your face,” said her sister crossly, for she wanted her beloved Tatterhood to look her best.

“No,” said Tatterhood, “I will go as I am.”

All the people of the town turned out to see the strangers riding up to the castle, and a fine procession it was! At the head rode the prince and Tatterhood’s sister on fine white horses draped with cloth of gold. Next came the prince’s brother on a splendid horse with silver trappings. Beside him rode Tatterhood on her goat.

“You’re not much for conversation,” said Tatterhood. “Haven’t you anything to say?”

“What is there to talk about?” he retorted. They rode on in silence until finally he burst out, “Why do you ride on that goat instead of a horse?”

“Since you happened to ask,” said Tatterhood, “I can ride on a horse if I choose.” At once the goat turned into a fine steed.

Well! The young man’s eyes popped open wide, and he turned to look at her with great interest.

“Why do you hide your head beneath that ragged hood?” he asked.

“Is it a ragged hood? I can change it if I choose,” she said. And there, on long dark hair, was a circlet of gold and tiny pearls.

“What an unusual girl you are!” he exclaimed. “But that wooden spoon—why do you choose to carry that?”

“Is it a spoon?” and in her hand the spoon turned into a gold-tipped wand of rowan wood.

“I see!” said the prince. He smiled and hummed a little tune as they rode on.

At last Tatterhood said, “Aren’t you going to ask me why I wear these ragged clothes?”

“No,” said the prince. “It’s clear you wear them because you choose to, and when you want to change them, you will.” At that, Tatterhood’s ragged cloak disappeared, and she was clad in a velvet green mantle and kirtle. But the prince just smiled and said, “The color becomes you very well.”

When the castle loomed up ahead, Tatterhood said to him, “And will you not ask to see my face beneath the streaks of soot?”

“That, too, shall be as you choose.”

As they rode through the castle gates, Tatterhood touched the rowan wand to her face, and the soot streaks disappeared. And whether her face now was lovely or plain we shall never know, because it didn’t matter in the least to the prince or to Tatterhood.

But this I can tell you: the feast at the castle was a merry one, with the games, and the singing, and the dancing lasting for many days.

Sovereignty and authenticity are the key to every ounce of Tatterhood’s life energy and everything—on the surface so strange, even repulsive—that she did or said. Tatterhood is not afraid to be herself. She was born raucous and unusual—you might even say “ugly” from a conventional point of view. She is loud, dirty, fearless, and strong. She knows her own way and goes her own way, regardless of what others think. There is not a passive bone in her body. She has sailed her ship as both captain and crew, stolen her sister’s head back, and seen something of the world to boot. She is a wild woman who is also capable of love and devotion to her “perfect” sister, a sister who has all the outward, conventional attributes that society adores in women. Tatterhood is as dark as her sister is light. Her appearance, perhaps not so pleasing, requires, even demands acceptance on its own terms, an honoring of the underlying essence of her being, deeply and always beautiful, although hidden to the unseeing eye.

Out of her love for her, Tatterhood’s sister tries to get her to change her ragged clothes and wash her dirty face. She wants her to look her best. How many of us as parents have struggled with wanting to protect our children from the criticism of others, wanting them to be seen as beautiful, as we see them? But Tatterhood stands firm: “No, I will go as I am.”

As the prince rides next to Tatterhood, he is silent. When he finally speaks, at her insistence, he doesn’t make small talk. He speaks honestly and asks a straightforward question: “Why do you ride on that goat instead of a horse?” When her goat transforms into a horse, the prince notices. He becomes more attentive. He proceeds to ask other questions but stops short of asking about her clothes. We feel his acceptance of her in his silence. She has to ask him, “Aren’t you going to ask me why I wear these ragged clothes?” He refuses, saying that it is clear that she has chosen to dress as she is and that when she wants to change them she will. It is in that very moment—when the young prince acknowledges her sovereignty, saying, “That, too, shall be as you choose”—that she is transformed, and in the process, teaches him what is most important about love.