That should have been enough of a happy ending. But it isn't, and with good reason. How can a woman of power, of fantastic substance from that world beyond the boundaries of the human world, be tamed, slotted into the narrow role of a wife? What would be the point of reducing her to the ordinary? The Prince and the Monkey Girl are happily married, but the happily–ever–after is threatened when the Emir lusts after the young woman. He imposes impossible tasks on his son, proclaiming death if the Prince fails to complete them. Of course, it is his fantastic bride who rescues him. Effortlessly drawing on her power, she makes the gardens bear fruit overnight and just as easily consumes a storehouse of food during the second night. In the final task she tricks the Emir into agreeing to his death should the Prince succeed in making a newborn infant learn to walk and talk in a single day. The following morning the child walks into the hall announcing the Emir's death sentence and the ascension of the young Prince to the throne. This monkey girl is not just a pretty face but wise and adept at managing agriculture, politics, law, and dangerous men.
What fascinated me the most in this story was not the obvious ugly monkey to beautiful woman transformation. It was the idea that the Monkey Girl controlled not only the destiny of her rite of passage, but also that of the Prince. Through the agency of the spear — a wonderful manipulation of the phallic sign — she brings the Prince out into the fantastic realm to her to begin his journey. Similarly, cloaked in the animal skin, she embarks on her own rite of passage, journeying back to the human world while the storyteller in her recounts, in figurative language, the scenario of her death as an adolescent girl and of her subsequent resurrection as an adult woman ready for marriage. She uses her disguise not only to complete her rite of passage but also to test her husband's worthiness, integrity, compassion, and the strength of their bond. Little by little, she reveals herself to him, gradually making him aware of her considerable hidden power. Can he handle it? Will he be frightened? Or worse, will he try to control and possess her like the Emir?
The hero's task is to wrestle with the ambiguous power of the fantastic world and return with its fully creative potential in hand. The young Prince proves his loyalty and compassion — and from the monkey's bestial skin, there emerges a beautiful bride. This bride is unlike her mortal counterparts, no matter how brave they may appear in other tales, for she represents a union, a partnership between the human hero and the creative forces of the fantastic world. In their marriage, the hero and the amazing bride work together as equals to enrich each other's lives and strengthen their community.
But this is one bride that must never be underestimated or taken for granted in the happily–ever–after. While the beastly bride may shed her skin or commit herself as a sensual partner, she never surrenders her power and, therefore, always remains a little dangerous and unpredictable. There are beastly brides who hide their scales and fur and don women's bodies to marry men for their reasons and to have children. Perhaps these brides should come with warning labels — disrespect us at your peril! Husbands who transgress by peering into keyholes to learn the hidden truth about their wives risk losing all the privileges such fantastic women provide them. And while the tales of beastly brides may be regarded as the cautionary warnings of a patriarchal society, convinced that the difficult woman hides a furry tail, scaled thighs, or a demon's appetite, I rejoice in them. They force the essential questions of marriage: Can you respect the power I hold, the secrets that are mine, the space reserved for me alone, and still be loving? Can marriage be a union of two forces, each with its gifts to be offered freely, mutually acknowledged, respected, and supported? And if the answer is no and the marriage hits a bump, a snag in the happily–ever–after, these women pack their bags and leave for the forests, the deserts, the deep oceans, or India, angry but undaunted. Years after their divorce, my father confessed to me that he had often told my mother in their bitter fights that she couldn't decide whether to be a mother or an academic. It was with regret that he had recognized too late that she could have been both had he supported her. A beastly bride, my mother was too difficult and rich in resources for my father to appreciate and love until she was gone.
The tale of the Monkey Girl gave me what I needed most at a critical time: the image of the creative and complex woman, unique to herself but willing to share those considerable gifts with a man capable of intuiting the wealth of her worth hidden beneath the skin. But more than that, the Monkey Girl also suggested that I need not be afraid of the fragile happily after, that I had my resources, and that I would not have to contort myself into a restricting social role for fear of losing that fairytale ending. There was always travel. I gained courage resisting the tyranny of those opposing sides: the one that argued I was too radical and sharp and the other that insisted I was a deluded, romantic traditionalist caught in the jaws of a bourgeois trap. Thirty years later, still happily married to the same man, I am grateful to the powerful example of the fantastic bride.
When I began to write novels, I again experienced the presence of the Monkey Girl at my shoulder, pushing and encouraging me. What better teacher could I have had? For out of the mysteries, the imagination, the realm of all things fantastic, she creates and transforms life: gardens out of the desert sands, wealth out of a hovel, feasts out of dry bread, precocious children out of newborns, and husband out of a promising but confused young hero. She has a flare for drama, disguise, and illusion. From the moment the Prince releases his spear in her direction, she controls the story, manipulating the narrative, repetition fueling a smoldering sexual anticipation that climaxes when she finally reveals herself quite nude and available.
But behind the Monkey Girl, there is another woman who tells this tale, the one who repeats it so that we may always remain respectfully awed by the provocative and glorious power of the fantastic bride. Who could resist admiring the skill of such a potent storyteller? Certainly not me, and so it is in my work that I follow this well–worn path and take pleasure in writing the tales of difficult women, ambiguous and fantastic women, women whose fairytale–like stories I never grow tired of imagining.
Copyright © 2002 by Midori Snyder. This article first appeared in Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Women Writers Explore Their Favorite Fairy Tales (Second Edition), edited by Kate Bernheimer, Anchor Books, 2004.
Art: Edmund Dulac illustrations, Arabian Nights.
Midori Snyder is the author of nine books for children and adults, published in English, French, Dutch, and Italian. She won the Mythopoeic Award for The Innamorati, a novel inspired by early Roman myth and the Italian "Commedia dell'Arte" tradition....
