Breaking the Mother Goose Code

How a Fairy-Tale Character Fooled the World for 300 Years

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Contents

Beginning My Search for Mother Goose

It was years ago – as far back as the early 1990s – that I first began to suspect that Mother Goose might be a goddess in disguise. My theory was this: Mother Goose and her fairy tales form a secret code cobbled together by our pre-Christian ancestors during "the burning times" – a period several centuries long during which the Church murdered tens of thousands of so-called "witches", people who'd supposedly made pacts with the Devil. I knew that academics were beginning to suspect that far from being just ordinary bystanders unfortunate enough to have been caught up in the Inquisition's deadly net, "witches" were actually some of Europe's last magico-religious practitioners, many of whom probably still believed in strong, powerful and beneficent female deities (later academics have increasingly added to the evidence for this; see Klaniczay 1990, Behringer 1998, Wilby 2005 and Bever 2008, among others).

Throughout the 16 and 17 centuries especially, the Church worked hard and fast to destroy the last vestiges of non-Christian religion in Europe. According to my theory, the few non-Christians left standing were desperate to find a way to hide their ancient Mother Goddess until it was safe for her to appear in the open again. What they came up with was ingenious: they hid their beautiful deity in the guise of an ugly old crone, a grizzled grandmother who spun innocent "fairy" tales around the kitchen fire. These tales, however, were far from innocent. They carried within them the secrets of the Old Religion. What better way to safeguard a great and ancient faith than to tuck it away in "harmless" stories for children?

I probably got the idea of the Mother Goose/Mother Goddess connection from the goddess scholar Buffie Johnson. In Lady of the Beasts, Johnson includes a glossy, full-colour picture of Mother Goose looking exactly like a Halloween witch: straddling a broomstick, Mother shoots to the moon in a dark night sky, her blood-red cape flapping in the wind; under the cape she wears an ankle-length black dress, and snake-like strands of her white hair escape from under her tall black hat. Behind her stands a white goose, its webbed feet clutching her broomstick with a vengeance (Johnson 1988).

Buffie stuck the same picture, in black and white this time, in a section of her book in which she says certain goddesses were strongly connected to geese. She also notes that for years a small group of scholars suggested that European fairy tales originated in pre-Christian mythology and religion. I knew also that the Church believed that the women they were burning at the stake for being witches were still holding on to pre-Christian beliefs and practices. So, just like the old European goddesses, Mother Goose too was mixed up with witches and geese.

Around the same time, I read a fascinating take on the fairy tale Cinderella. According to this explanation of the tale, theWestern version of the Cinderella story is secret code for the fact that Westerners will eventually return to their ancient Mother Goddesses. Cinder-Ella is the ancient Great Mother Goddess Ella (or Hella, Hel, Holda, Holla, along with several other names, depending on which part of Europe you're in during which time period), whose regenerative powers have burnt out and become cinders rather than the full-blown fire the Goddess needs to keep the earth and its inhabitants strong and healthy. The bad people in the story – the wicked stepmother and her two obnoxious blood daughters – represent the Church, the landed nobility, and the Church hierarchy (bishops and so forth), in that order (Walker 1996).

Waltzing these ideas a bit further down the road, it seemed clear to me that Cinderella, her fairy godmother, and her birth mother form a holy trinity. Just like the Father-Son-and-Holy-Ghost trinity, many ancient European goddesses too were organised into trinities, typically labelled Virgin-Mother-Crone (or, Daughter-Mother-Grandmother) – Persephone-Demeter-Hecate, for example, or Persephone-Artemis-Hecate (Leeming 2005: 268). In the Cinderella story, Cinder-Ella would be the Virgin, her birth mother the Mother, and her fairy godmother the Crone. Disguised as a fairy godmother, the Crone aspect of the goddess uses her powers to remove Cinderella's ugly cinder disguise, so that humanity (played by the prince) can once again become cognisant of Ella's monumental beauty, and accept her as their principle deity.

This view of the Cinderella story as prophecy roused me into rooting around for more information on the tale. Where had it come from and when? Early on I discovered that one of the first Westerners to publish Cinderella was one Charles Perrault, a Frenchman who included it in 1697 in a book of eight fairy tales, Tales and Stories from Times Past, or Tales of Mother Goose. Here again loomed another nagging, shadowy suggestion that Mother Goose might connect somehow with ancient European Mother Goddesses.

Of the eight stories in Perrault's Tales of Mother Goose, five have become almost universally popular: in addition to Cinderella these include Little Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty, Puss in Boots and Blue Beard. The other three – The Fairy, Riquet with the Tuft, and Little Thumb – are less well known (see Appendix D for a synopsis of each). After thinking about these stories for a while, I couldn't really see the Mother Goddess hiding incognito in any of them except Cinderella. One possible exception, however, was Sleeping Beauty. Like Cinderella, Perrault's Sleeping Beauty has fairy godmothers in it — but eight to Cinderella's one.

Seven of these "God Mothers" gave good gifts to baby Sleeping Beauty. The eighth, however, an old fairy, gave a deadly gift; when Beauty grew up, the young woman would "pierce her hand with a spindle and die ..." To me, this didn't seem very goddess-like. On the other hand, I mused, this elder fairy could represent the death-cycle aspect of the old triple goddess – that part in charge of making certain all living creatures eventually move on to make room for new life on a finite planet. In this case, the Virgin-Mother-Crone trinity would play out like this: Beauty is the Virgin, the good godmothers are the Mother, and the elder godmother is the Crone.

Still, unlike the Cinderella tale, Sleeping Beauty didn't seem to have anyone playing the parts of the bad guys, the bullies who shunted the Great Mother Goddess underground in the first place (I'd learn later that Perrault had dropped the part of the tale with the bully in it). These would be the patriarchal religions. Beginning with the ones ushered in during the fourth millennium BC by the first invading wave of Indo-Europeans, and ending in the 300s AD with the Christians, the patriarchal religions had been a thorn in the side of the European Mother Goddess for quite some time. Overall, the connection between Perrault's tales and Mother Goose seemed tenuous at best, and for a few years I put aside my interest in Mother Goose toconcentrate on other writing projects.

Recently, however, I began again to get serious about exploring the mysteries and secrets surrounding Mother Goose. Could she really, as Buffie Johnson suggested to me years ago, be secret code for the Mother Goddess? A way to keep female deities from disappearing during times when Europe's power elites shifted into overdrive to cripple and crush them? Near the beginning of this new phase of my research, I began to wonder: if Mother Goose is secretly a goddess in disguise, exactly which goddess is she? Although in the past much of Europe apparently worshipped goddesses, the separate European culture groups were by no means all married to the same local deities. The goddesses of the Germanic tribes, for instance, differed from those of the Romans, and from those of the Celts, Slavs and other regional European groups.

Remembering that years ago I'd seen pictures in Buffie Johnson's Lady of the Beasts of goddesses riding geese, I picked the creamy, linen-covered book off my bookshelf and leafed through the index until I got to the word "goose". Buffie had only a few references to geese, but they all pointed to one and the same goddess: Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty. Or at least that's the way most people think of Aphrodite. Actually, modern scholars say she was much more than a pampered beauty queen (see, for example, Bernard and Moon's Goddesses Who Rule). Although this is the one-dimensional deity the Greeks and Romans turned her into, in other times and places Aphrodite was a powerful and complex goddess of fertility and new life – in addition to sensuality and romantic love.

In Lady of the Beasts I found two ancient images of Aphrodite flying through the air on a goose. In the first, the goddess perches sidesaddle on the bird, and in the second she stands regally and bolt upright on its back. Actually, in the second image the bird is a swan, but as Johnson points out, in ancient Classical imagery swans, geese and ducks are used interchangeably. A main trait all three birds share is their ability to travel on air, water and land alike. Not many of earth's creatures possess this special set of abilities, and scientists would eventually place all three birds into the family Anatidae, alone, with no other birds sharing their separate little corner of the biological classification system.

It's easy to see why these three birds might have been considered sacred to ancient peoples – so sacred, in fact, that among the Celts it was forbidden to eat them (Green 1986: 114). Of course geese are far from sacred today – think "silly goose", "to cook someone's goose" and Christmas goose for dinner, and you can see how far geese have fallen from grace. Interestingly, they fell at exactly the same time "witches" were being burned at the stake.

Even though I'd found my goose goddess (or so I thought), I admit I was a tad disappointed. Aphrodite didn't exactly fit my idea of who I thought Mother Goose should be. She wasn't ancient enough, for one thing, and she seemed to originate among people I had little respect for: the warlike, patriarchal Indo-Europeans. But, oh well, there it was. Aphrodite was the goddess who rode geese, so I was stuck with her – or so I thought.

Around this time I invested in a copy of Marguerite De Angeli's Book of Nursery and Mother Goose Rhymes. In it I found the only nursery rhyme known to mention Mother Goose: Old Mother Goose When She Wanted to Wander ("... flew through the air on a very fine gander."). This rhyme contains several symbols directly connected to goddesses: an owl (Athena's bird), an other-worldly woman who flew in the sky on the back of a goose (Aphrodite), a woman with a magic wand she used to morph her son Jack into "the famed Harlequin", and the moon – that celestial entity almost always associated with goddesses, probably because it shares its 28-day cycle with the menses, women's magical ability to shed blood without bleeding to death. Later I would learn that this rhyme was first published in 1815 in a chapbook by T. Batchelar, who titled it Old Mother Goose, or, The Golden Egg (chapbooks were small, inexpensive booklets sold by peddlers from the 15th century through the 18th century) (Delamar 1987: 252).

Harlequin, however, was a puzzle. What connection did he have, if any, to Aphrodite, or any other European goddess? Harlequin had long been a character in European stage entertainments, a jester of sorts, good for a chuckle or two and sometimes even a belly laugh. Not very goddess-like. But neither, of course, were pictures of Mother Goose as the prototypical, homely Halloween witch. This homeliness did, however, fit with my idea that Mother Goose was the goddess in disguise. Like Cinderella and not a few other fairy-tale females, was she hiding her exquisite beauty behind a mask of extreme bad looks? And could Harlequin too be hiding behind his dunderhead disguise?

As is the case with Mother Goose, Harlequin's origins are shrouded in mystery. Digging around a little I found a confusing stew of possibilities. One that snagged my attention was this: Harlequin was really Hellequin, or the ancient northern European goddess Helle (aka Holda, Holde, Hel, Ella, etc.) (Lecouteux 2011: 179-80). Shades of Cinder-Ella! Mother Goose being code for the ancient pre-Indo-European, pre-patriarchal goddess Helle was a fascinating possibility. All the evidence pointed to Helle being one of the last Great Goddesses of Europe before the patriarchy hit, the goddess who probably stood for peace, nonviolence, and social and gender equality (Studebaker 2008). Of course back then Helle went by different names in different parts of Europe, but "Helle" she was in northern Germanic areas (Gimbutas 2001: 190-95).

There was only one problem: Helle didn't ride a goose. It was Aphrodite who rode the goose. It looked like Helle and Harlequin were dead ends in my search. The only other goddess Buffie Johnson mentions riding geese is the East Indian goddess Devi. Europeans are distant cousins of East Indians – through their common Indo-European language and heritage.

For a while, I laid the whole goose issue aside and turned back again to Perrault's Tales of Mother Goose. Did these tales have anything in common, anything at all that might connect them to the Mother Goddess? After reading all eight tales again, carefully this time, one thing hit me immediately: in a full half of them, fairy "godmothers" (God Mothers? Mother God-esses?) rushed in to rescue the main characters in their times of need.

These magical god(ess)mothers rescued Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, the good daughter in The Fairy, and both Riquet and the princess in Riquet with the Tuft. Years before, I'd been struck by the similarity between the terms "godmother" and "God the mother". Add the word "fairy" into the mix, with its connotations of supernatural powers, and it seemed fairly obvious to me that "fairy godmother" could well be code for "God the mother", aka "the Mother Goddess".

After weeks of mulling over Perrault's tales, the only thing I found in common among most of them (seven out of eight) was this: all but one includes a mother and her daughter(s). Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty had good mothers who died young, and Red Riding Hood, the princess in Riquet, the daughters in Blue Beard, and the little ogre daughters in Little Thumb all had good mothers who were nevertheless powerless to rescue them from the trouble they tumbled into. The only story missing a mother-daughter dyad was Puss in Boots; in it Perrault includes a daughter character, but mentions only her father, not her mother.

At this point I became curious about Perrault himself, the first person on record ever to use Mother Goose in a book title. Who was he exactly? What I read at first was intriguing: Perrault hadn't signed his own name to the first edition of Tales of Mother Goose, but had instead signed his son's name (Appelbaum 2002: ix). Not only that, he used a form of his son Pierre's name so vague and obscure that it seemed almost intentionally designed to hide even his son's identity: "P. d'Armancour" ("Armancour" was the name of a piece of land Perrault had given Pierre) (Philip 1993: 125-27). Even more telling was the fact that on later copies of Mother Goose, Perrault didn't use even his son's name, but left his readers guessing who the author of the book was. To me this sounded like a man who'd written revolutionary material and didn't want his name anywhere near it.

But the more I read about Perrault, the more uncertain I became that he might have been purposely promoting a pre-Christian agenda with his Tales of Mother Goose. Perrault dedicated the book to the niece of Louis XIV, and at least one writer has suggested that he did this to introduce Pierre into high society (Perrault himself, who worked for one of Louis XIV's influential ministers, was quite prominent in French society). If you're dedicating a book to the king's niece, what better motivation for making your tales about young girls and princesses? What's more, Perrault had monkeyed around quite a bit with his Mother Goose stories, changing each from the folk versions into "literary folk tales" that some scholars suggest were more palatable to his wealthy, upper-class friends. Of course, such monkeying might also make for a better disguise for Mother Goose, and that's what I was looking for ...

At any rate, at this point I lost a bit of enthusiasm for Perrault. I even began wondering if it was pointless to suggest Mother Goose was a mother goddess, or that she was code for anything. Wasn't it a bit unrealistic to think that any trace of goddess worship would have survived after centuries of abuse, beginning in the 300s AD with the Roman Emperor Constantine, and ending with the extremely efficient Inquisition that was finally closing up shop around the time Perrault wrote Tales of Mother Goose? This was 14 centuries of terror and brutality – could any religion have survived such a thrashing?