Smallhead and the King’s Sons

Long ago in Ireland a woman married a man of high rank and had one daughter, but soon after the child was born the husband died. Before long the widow married a second time and had two more daughters. These two hated their half-sister. They thought she was not as clever as other people, and they nicknamed her Smallhead.

When the elder of the two was fourteen, their father died. Their mother grieved so much that she began to pine away, sitting in the chimney corner and never leaving the house. Smallhead was kind to her, and the mother loved her eldest daughter more than the other two, who were ashamed of her. At last the two sisters made up their minds to get rid of their mother, and one day, while Smallhead was out, they killed her and threw her bones outside.

When Smallhead came home, there was no sign of her mother. “Where is my mother?” she asked.

“She went out somewhere. How should we know where she is?”

“Oh, wicked girls, you have killed my mother!”

After that Smallhead would not leave the house at all, and her sisters were furious. “No man will marry either of us if he sees our fool of a sister,” they said. Since they could not drive her out, they decided to leave themselves. One fine morning they slipped away without her and travelled many miles, but as soon as Smallhead found them gone, she hurried after them and never stopped until she caught up. They had to go home with her that day, scolding her bitterly all the way.

Then they plotted to kill her. They scattered twenty needles in a pile of straw outside. “We are going to that hill over there until evening,” they said, “and if you haven’t gathered every needle in that straw and laid them on the table by the time we come back, we’ll take your life.”

Smallhead sat down and cried, and a short grey cat walked in and asked why she was weeping. She told it. “Sit here and dry your tears,” said the cat, and it soon found all twenty needles and brought them to her. “Now listen to me,” it said. “I am your mother. Your sisters killed me and destroyed my body, but do them no harm. Do them good, do your best for them, save them. Obey my words, and it will be better for you in the end.” Then the cat went away. When the sisters came home and saw the needles on the table, they were angry and said someone must be helping her.

One night while Smallhead slept, they ran off, meaning never to come back. In the morning she followed, tracking them from place to place day after day, until one evening someone told her they were in the house of an old hag, a terrible enchantress with one son and three daughters. It was a bad place to be, for the hag was very wicked and had more witchcraft than anyone.

Smallhead hurried to save her sisters, knocked at the door and asked for a night’s lodging for God’s sake. “It’s hard to refuse anyone on such a wild, stormy night,” said the hag. “I wonder if you’re any relation to the young ladies who came this way this evening?” The sisters were angry that Smallhead was there, but they said nothing, not wanting the hag to know they were related.

After supper the hag told the three strangers to sleep in a room on the right of the house. When her own daughters went to bed, Smallhead saw her tie a ribbon round each of their necks and heard her say, “You sleep in the left-hand bed.” Smallhead hurried to her sisters. “Come quickly,” she said, “or I’ll tell the woman who you are.” They got into the left-hand bed before the hag’s daughters arrived. “Oh, the other bed is just as good,” said the daughters, and they took the right-hand room.

When the hag’s daughters were asleep, Smallhead crept in, took the ribbons off their necks and put them on her sisters and herself. Then she lay awake and listened. After a while she heard the hag tell her son, “Go now and kill the three girls. They have clothes and money.”

“You have killed enough in your life,” said the son. “Let these go.” But the old woman would not listen, and the boy, afraid of his mother, took a long knife and went to the right-hand room and killed the three girls who wore no ribbons. Then he went back to bed. As soon as the hag was asleep, Smallhead woke her sisters, told them what had happened and made them dress quickly and follow her. You may believe they were glad to follow her this time.

They walked fast and soon came to a bridge called the Bridge of Blood. No one who had killed a person could cross it. The two sisters stopped at it and could not take a step farther. Smallhead ran across and came back. “If I didn’t know that you killed our mother,” she said, “I would know it now, for this is the Bridge of Blood.” She carried first one sister across on her back and then the other.

They were hardly over when the hag reached the bridge. “Bad luck to you, Smallhead!” she screamed. “I didn’t know it was you who was in my house last night. You have killed my three daughters.”

“It wasn’t I who killed them, but yourself,” said Smallhead. The hag could not cross the bridge, so she stood there and laid on Smallhead every curse she could think of.

The sisters travelled on until they came to a king’s castle, where two servants were wanted. “Go and ask for work,” Smallhead told her sisters. “Be faithful and do well. You can never go back the way you came.” The two were taken on at the castle. Smallhead lodged with a blacksmith nearby, and his wife found her a place as kitchen maid in the castle. “I must be careful and do my best,” thought Smallhead. “I am in a strange place, and my sisters are here. Who knows, we may have great fortune yet.” She dressed neatly and was always cheerful, and everyone liked her better than her sisters, beautiful as they were.

The king had two sons, one at home and the other abroad. One day Smallhead saw the son who was at home alone in the garden, and she went up to him. “Why aren’t you getting married? It’s high time you were.”

He laughed and thought her bold, but taking her for a simple girl trying to be friendly, he answered, “I’ll tell you why. My grandfather bound my father by an oath never to let his eldest son marry until he had the Sword of Light, and I’m afraid I’ll be a long time unmarried.”

“Do you know who has it?”

“An old hag with great powers of enchantment, who lives far from here beyond the Bridge of Blood. I cannot cross that bridge, for I have killed men in battle, and even if I could, I would not go, for many a king’s son has she destroyed or enchanted.”

“If someone brought you the Sword of Light, and that someone a woman, would you marry her?”

“I would indeed.”

“If you promise to marry my elder sister, I will try to bring it.”

“I promise most willingly.”

Early next morning Smallhead set out. At the first shop she bought a stone of salt, and she went on without resting until she reached the hag’s house at nightfall. She climbed up to the chimney and looked down. The son was making a big pot of stirabout for his mother while she hurried him. “I’m as hungry as a hawk!” she cried. Every time the boy looked away, Smallhead dropped salt down the chimney, until the whole stone of salt was in the porridge.

“Bring the stirabout!” cried the hag at last. “I’m starving! I’ll eat from the pot. And bring the milk.” But at the first taste she spat it out and screamed, “You put salt in the pot instead of meal!”

“I did not, mother.”

“You did, and a mean trick it is. Throw this to the pig outside and go for water to the well in the field.”

“The night is too dark. I might fall into the well. I won’t go unless you give me a light.”

“If I give you the Sword of Light, who knows who may follow you? Maybe that devil Smallhead is outside.” But rather than go hungry till morning, the hag gave her son the Sword of Light and warned him to take good care of it.

At the well he saw no one, so he laid the sword on the top step to light his way down to the water. He had not gone down many steps when Smallhead had the sword and was running away with it over hills and valleys towards the Bridge of Blood. The boy shouted and screamed, and out ran the hag. “Where is the sword?” “Someone took it from the step!” The hag rushed after the light, but she did not catch up until Smallhead was over the bridge.

“Give me the Sword of Light, or bad luck to you!”

“Indeed I will not. I’ll keep it, and bad luck to yourself.”

The next morning Smallhead walked up to the king’s son. “I have the Sword of Light. Now will you marry my sister?” He did, and he got the sword. Smallhead left the kitchen after that, but her sister did not want her in kitchen or parlour.

Then the king’s second son came home, and Smallhead thought, “Maybe he will marry my second sister.” She met him in the garden and asked whether it was not time he married like his brother.

“When my grandfather was dying,” he said, “he bound my father not to let his second son marry until he had the Black Book. That book used to shine with a brighter light than the Sword of Light ever gave. The Sword and the Book were in our family until my grandfather’s time, and then that cursed old hag beyond the Bridge of Blood stole them. No one dares go near her.”

“Would you marry my second sister if you got the Black Book?”

“I would. I would marry any woman who brought me the Black Book.”

“Then I will get it,” said Smallhead, “or die trying.”

Since stirabout was the hag’s main food, Smallhead planned another trick. She scraped the chimney and filled a bag with about a stone of soot. It was a dark, rainy night when she climbed onto the hag’s chimney, and the son was making stirabout. She let the soot fall a little at a time until the whole stone of it was in the pot, and then she scraped round the top of the chimney until a lump fell on the boy’s hand. “Oh, mother,” he said, “the night is wet and soft, and the soot is falling.”

“Cover the pot,” said the hag, “and hurry up. I’m starving.” But when she tasted the stirabout, she cried, “Bad luck to you, it’s full of soot! Throw it out to the pig.”

“If I do, there’s no water in the house to make more, and I won’t go to the well in the dark and rain.”

“You must go!”

“I won’t stir a foot without a light.”

“Is it the book you’re thinking of, you fool, so you can lose it the way you lost the sword? Smallhead is watching you.”

“How could the poor creature be outside all the time? If you don’t need the water, you can do without it.”

Rather than fast till morning, the hag gave him the book. “Don’t put it down or let it out of your hand till you’re back inside, or I’ll have your life.” The boy carried the book down into the well, and as he stooped to dip the water, Smallhead, who had followed him carefully, snatched the book and pushed him into the well, where he nearly drowned. By the time he had struggled out and screamed for his mother, Smallhead was far away. When the hag found the book gone, she flew into such a rage that she killed her own son, and then she ran after Smallhead. But Smallhead was over the bridge before the hag could reach her.

When the hag saw Smallhead dancing for joy on the far side, she screamed, “You took the Sword of Light and the Black Book, and your two sisters are married. Bad luck to you! My curse on you wherever you go. You have killed all my children, and I a poor, feeble old woman.”

“Bad luck to yourself,” said Smallhead. “I’m not afraid of curses from the likes of you. If you had lived an honest life, you wouldn’t be as you are today.”

“Now, Smallhead,” said the hag, “you have robbed me of everything and destroyed my children. Your sisters are well married. Your good fortune began with my ruin. Come and take care of me in my old age. I’ll take my curse off you, and you’ll have good luck. I bind myself never to harm a hair of your head.”

Smallhead thought about it for a while and agreed. “But if you harm me, or try to,” she said, “it will be the worse for you.” The hag was satisfied and went home.

Smallhead went to the castle, where she was received with great joy. The next morning she told the king’s son in the garden, “If you marry my sister tomorrow, you will have the Black Book.” He married her gladly the next day and got the book. Smallhead stayed at the castle about a week, then said goodbye to her sisters and went to the hag’s house.

The old woman was glad to see her and showed her the work. All Smallhead had to do was wait on the hag and feed a big pig. “I’m fattening that pig,” said the hag. “He’s seven years old now. We’ll keep him a while longer, and then we’ll kill him and eat him.” Smallhead did her work, and the hag taught her a few things, and Smallhead taught herself far more than the hag dreamed. She fed the pig three times a day, never thinking he could be anything but a pig.

The hag sent word to a sister of hers in the Eastern World to come for a great feast when the pig was killed. The sister came, and one day, as the two old women were going out for a walk, the hag said, “Give the pig plenty of meal today. It’s the last food he’ll get, so let him have his fill.”

But the pig had a mind of his own and knew what was coming. He put his nose under the pot and tipped it onto Smallhead’s bare toes. She ran into the house for a stick, grabbed a rod lying on the edge of the loft and hit the pig with it, and in that instant the pig was a splendid young man.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I am the son of a king the old hag hated, the King of Munster. She stole me from my father seven years ago and made a pig of me.”

Smallhead told him how the hag had treated her. “I must make you a pig for now,” she said, “because the hag is coming back. Be patient and I will save you, if you promise to marry me.”

“I promise.” She struck him with the rod and he was a pig, and she put the switch back in its place and was at her work when the two old women came in. The pig ate his meal heartily now, for he was sure of being rescued.

“Who is that girl, and where did you find her?” asked the sister.

“All my children died of the plague, and I took this girl to help me. She is a very good servant.”

That night, when the two old women were sound asleep in their rooms, Smallhead got up, stole the hag’s magic book, took the rod and with one blow made a man of the pig. Then with the help of the book she turned herself and the king’s son into two doves, and they flew off through the air without stopping.

In the morning the hag called Smallhead, but she did not come. She ran out to the sty: the pig was gone. She ran to her book: not a sign of it. “Oh, that villain Smallhead has robbed me! She has stolen my book, made a man of the pig and taken him away!” She told the whole story to her sister. “You follow them. You have more enchantment than Smallhead.”

“How will I know them?”

“Bring back the first two strange things you find. They will turn themselves into something wonderful.”

The sister turned herself into a hawk and flew off as swift as a March wind. Some hours later Smallhead said, “Look behind and see what is coming.”

“Nothing but a hawk, flying fast.”

“That is the hag’s sister. She has three times the enchantment of the hag herself. Fly down onto the ditch and preen yourself the way doves do in wet weather, and maybe she will pass us by.”

The hawk saw the two doves but saw nothing wonderful in them, and she flew on till evening and then went home. “Did you see anything wonderful?” asked the hag.

“No, only two doves preening themselves.”

“You fool, those doves were Smallhead and the king’s son! Off with you in the morning, and don’t show your face here without the two of them.”

Off went the hawk, and fast as the doves flew, she was gaining on them. Seeing this, Smallhead and the prince dropped down into a big village on market day and turned themselves into two heather brooms. The brooms began to sweep the road with no one holding them, sweeping towards each other, and a great crowd gathered round to see the wonder. The hawk saw it from above and thought, “That must be Smallhead and the king’s son.” She came down, turned into a woman and said to herself, “I’ll have those two brooms.”

She pushed through the crowd so roughly that she nearly knocked over a man in front of her. “You cursed old hag,” he cried, “do you want to knock us down?” He gave her a shove that sent her into another man, who pushed her on to a third, and so on, until between them they nearly knocked the life out of her and pushed her away from the brooms. Then a woman called out, “It would be only right to knock the head off that old hag, trying to push us away from the mercy of God, for it was God who sent the brooms to sweep the road for us.”

“True for you,” said another woman, and the people grew so angry they were ready to kill her. But just as they were about to seize her, she turned into a hawk and flew away, vowing never to do another stroke of work for her sister. The hag could do her own work or leave it alone. When the hawk had gone, the two brooms rose up and turned into doves, and the people were sure that the brooms had been a blessing from heaven that the old hag had driven away.

The next day Smallhead and the king’s son saw his father’s castle, and they came down to earth not far from it in their own shapes. Smallhead was a very beautiful woman now, and why wouldn’t she be? She had the magic and did not spare it, and she made herself as lovely as she could, so that there was no one like her in that kingdom or the next. The prince fell in love with her that minute and did not want to part from her, but she would not go with him.

“When you reach your father’s castle,” she said, “everyone will be overjoyed to see you, and the king will hold a great feast for you. If you kiss anyone, or let any living thing kiss you, you will forget me for ever.”

“I won’t let even my own mother kiss me.”

At the castle everyone was overjoyed, for they had thought him dead, not having seen him for seven years. He would let no one near enough to kiss him. “I am bound by an oath to kiss no one,” he told his mother. At that moment an old grey hound came in, sprang onto his shoulder and licked his face, and in that instant all that had happened to him in seven years was forgotten.

Smallhead went to a forge near the castle. The smith had a wife much younger than himself and a stepdaughter, and neither was a beauty. Behind the forge was a well with a tree growing over it, and Smallhead climbed into the tree to spend the night there, sitting just above the water. Soon the moon rose high above the hills and shone into the well. The smith’s stepdaughter came for water, looked down, saw the face of the woman in the tree, and took it for her own. “Oh, to think of me carrying water for a smith, and I such a beauty! I’ll never bring him another drop.” She threw the pail in the ditch and ran off to find a king’s son to marry.

The smith was waiting to wash after his day’s work, so he sent his wife. She had only a pot to fetch water in, and at the well she too saw the beautiful face. “Oh, you villain of a smith,” she cried, “bad luck to the hour I met you, and I such a beauty! I’ll never draw another drop of water for you.” She smashed the pot and hurried off to find a king’s son.

When neither came back, the smith went himself. He picked up the pail from the ditch, looked into the well and saw the beautiful face. Being a man, he knew it was not his own, so he looked up and saw the woman in the tree. “Now I know why my wife and her daughter brought no water,” he said. “They saw your face in the well and thought themselves too good for me, and they’ve run away. You must come and keep house till I find them.”

“I will help you,” said Smallhead. She came down, went to the smith’s house and showed him which way the women had gone. He found them in a village ten miles off, explained their foolishness to them, and brought them home.

The mother and daughter washed fine linen for the castle. One day Smallhead saw them ironing and said, “Sit down, and I’ll iron for you.” In an hour she had the whole day’s work done, and the women were delighted. That evening the daughter took the linen to the castle housekeeper. “Who ironed this?” asked the housekeeper. “My mother and I.” “Indeed you did not. You couldn’t do work like that. Tell me who did it.” The frightened girl admitted it was a woman staying with them. The housekeeper showed the linen to the queen, and the queen sent for the woman.

Smallhead went to the castle. The queen welcomed her, marvelled at her beauty and put her in charge of all the maids. Smallhead could do anything, and everyone was fond of her. The king’s son never knew he had seen her before. She lived in the castle for a year and did whatever the queen asked.

The king arranged a match for his son with the daughter of the King of Ulster, and there was a great feast at the castle, with the wedding to follow a week later. The bride’s father brought many of his people, who were skilled in all kinds of tricks and enchantment. The king knew that Smallhead could do anything asked of her in a twinkling. “I think she can do something his people cannot,” he said to the queen, and he asked her whether she could entertain the strangers. “I can, if you wish it,” she said.

When the Ulster men had shown their best tricks, Smallhead stepped forward and opened a window forty feet above the ground. She tied one end of a small ball of thread to the window and threw the ball out over a wall near the castle. Then she stepped out of the window and walked along the thread, keeping time to music from players no one could see. When she came back in, everyone cheered.

“I can do that,” said the King of Ulster’s daughter, and she sprang out onto the thread, but she fell to the stones below and was killed. There was weeping and wailing, and instead of a wedding there was a funeral. The king’s son was angry and grieved and wanted to drive Smallhead from the castle somehow. “She is not to blame,” said the King of Munster, who could only praise her.

Another year passed, and the king found the daughter of the King of Connacht for his son. There was a great feast before the wedding, and since these visitors from Connacht were skilled in enchantment, the King of Munster called Smallhead and said, “Now show the best trick of all.” “I will,” said Smallhead.

When the Connacht men had shown their tricks, Smallhead stood before the company, threw two grains of wheat on the floor and spoke some magic words, and there stood a hen and a cock with beautiful feathers. She threw a grain of wheat between them. The hen ran to eat it, and the cock struck her with his beak. The hen drew back, looked at him and said, “Bad luck to you! You wouldn’t do that when I was the hag’s servant and you her pig, and I made a man of you and gave you your own shape.” The king’s son stared and thought, “There must be something in this.”

She threw a second grain, and the cock pecked the hen. “Oh,” said the hen, “you wouldn’t do that the day the hag’s sister was hunting us and we were two doves.” The king’s son was more astonished still. She threw a third grain, and the cock struck the hen, and she said, “You wouldn’t do that to me the day I turned you and myself into two heather brooms.” She threw a fourth grain, and the cock pecked the hen a fourth time. “You wouldn’t do that the day you promised not to kiss anyone, or let any living thing kiss you, but me. You let the hound kiss you, and you forgot me.”

The king’s son leaped forward, took Smallhead in his arms and kissed her, and told the king his whole story from beginning to end. “This is my wife,” he said. “I will marry no other woman.”

“Then whose wife will my daughter be?” asked the King of Connacht.

“She will be the wife of the man who marries her,” said the King of Munster. “My son gave his word to this woman before he ever saw your daughter, and he must keep it.” So Smallhead married the King of Munster’s son.

Where this tale comes from

Jacobs took “Smallhead and the King’s Sons” from Jeremiah Curtin’s “Hero Tales of Ireland,” printed in the New York Sun. In his notes he says it is the same story as J. F. Campbell’s Scottish tale “Maol a Chliobain” and the Lowland tale “Molly Whuppie,” which he had retold in English Fairy Tales, and he links it to the large family of “Hop o’ My Thumb” stories.

The source is very grim in places. The sisters boil their mother, the hag’s son cuts the girls’ throats, the hag stabs her son, and the Ulster princess breaks her neck. This adaptation retains the deaths but softens the source’s descriptions of how several of them happen. It still includes the murder of a parent and children, threats against Smallhead and a princess’s fatal fall.

Read the original: Joseph Jacobs, More Celtic Fairy Tales (Project Gutenberg #34453, Smallhead)

For older readers: includes family murder, repeated death threats, children killed through mistaken identity, near-drowning and a fatal fall. Smallhead’s obligation to help her abusers deserves critical discussion.

Who crosses the bridge, and at whose cost?

The Bridge of Blood blocks killers, including Smallhead’s sisters and the prince who has killed in battle. Yet Smallhead can carry her sisters over it. The episode separates a magical test of an individual from the larger question of responsibility: passing a boundary does not undo the mother’s death or make the sisters grateful. Their mother’s command that Smallhead save them drives the plot, but should not be read as a duty to remain close to people who threaten your life.

Smallhead survives by noticing details others miss: ribbons, the need for a light at the well, ordinary-looking doves and the crowd around the brooms. At the end she makes those private experiences visible through the hen and cock. Her final performance supplies a sequence of memories, while the earlier thread-walking produces only admiration and a fatal imitation. The contrast matters: spectacle alone cannot explain who she is.

Build a record of the rescue

Match each of the hen’s four speeches to the earlier scene it recalls. For each scene, identify what Smallhead contributed and what the prince knew at the time. Then consider the Ulster princess’s death and the Connacht princess’s dismissal: whose losses receive less attention than the central couple’s reunion?

Think about it

• How did Smallhead save her sisters in the hag’s house?
• What tricks did Smallhead use to get the Sword of Light and the Black Book?
• How did Smallhead make the prince remember her at the end?

You may also like

• Fair, Brown, And Trembling — another Irish tale of a wronged sister who wins a prince
• The Battle of the Birds — a Gaelic tale where a clever girl’s magic saves a king’s son
• Gold-Tree And Silver-Tree — a Celtic tale of jealousy within a family