Jungian Therapy, Jungian Analysis, New York

‘Now,’ said the raven, ‘seest thou that house yonder? Go now to it. It is a sister of mine that makes her dwelling in it; and I will go bail that thou art welcome. And if she asks thee, Wert thou at the battle of the birds? say thou that thou wert. And if she asks, Didst thou see my likeness? say that thou sawest it. But be sure that thou meetest me tomorrow morning here, in this place.’ The king’s son got good and right good treatment this night. Meat of each meat, drink of each drink, warm water to his feet, and a soft bed for his limbs.

On the next day the raven gave him the same sight over seven Bens, and seven Glens, and seven Mountain moors. They saw a bothy far off, but, though far off, they were soon there. He got good treatment this night, as before--plenty of meat and drink, and warm water to his feet, and a soft bed to his limbs--and on the next day it was the same thing.

The raven has sisters. What does it mean that the animus has a feminine counterparts which provide for the prince's physical well-being? Clearly there is something of balance in this. The raven shows him the heights, the sisters provides for his body. This is not a split-off disembodied-head experience (that is a common theme in fairy tales - a woman falls in love with a talking head that has no body) but support from the unconscious which is integrated and provides for the whole being. This underlines the idea that the animus is a representative of the Self, which also provides for the whole being. That is to say, the unconscious is the basis of all being, not just of the mind.

The raven's sisters are reassuring, they imply that he is a sound guide who may lead the prince well.

On the third morning, instead of seeing the raven as at the other times, who should meet him but the handsomest lad he ever saw, with a bundle in his hand. The king’s son asked this lad if he had seen a big black raven. Said the lad to him, ‘Thou wilt never see the raven again, for I am that raven. I was put under spells; it was meeting thee that loosed me, and for that thou art getting this bundle. Now,’ said the lad, ‘thou wilt turn back on the self-same steps, and thou wilt lie a night in each house, as thou wert before; but thy lot is not to lose the bundle which I gave thee, till thou art in the place where thou wouldst most wish to dwell.’

The prince has to walk now, and carry a bundle. First the mind gave him a view of his possibilities, but now he has to make those possibilites real by going the distance on foot, carrying weight. So the prince has to grow up, become embodied. This cannot be only a head trip, but must be translated into real-world actions.

He needs the will power not to open the bundle until he is ready to settle. Of course he fails to honor this condition, and so is forced to go through more trials which will further his growing up. That is the point of the task he fails, to make him experience more.

The king’s son turned his back to the lad, and his face to his father’s house; and he got lodging from the raven’s sisters, just as he got it when going forward. When he was nearing his father’s house he was going through a close wood. It seemed to him that the bundle was growing heavy, and he thought he would look what was in it.

When he loosed the bundle, it was not without astonishing himself. In a twinkling he sees the very grandest place he ever saw. A great castle, and an orchard about the castle, in which was every kind of fruit and herb. He stood full of wonder and regret for having loosed the bundle--it was not in his power to put it back again--and he would have wished this pretty place to be in the pretty little green hollow that was opposite his father’s house; but, at one glance, he sees a great giant coming towards him.

‘Bad’s the place where thou hast built thy house, king’s son,’ says the giant. ‘Yes, but it is not here I would wish it to be, though it happened to be here by mishap,’ says the king’s son. ‘What’s the reward thou wouldst give me for putting it back in the bundle as it was before?’ ‘What’s the reward thou wouldst ask?’ says the king’s son. ‘If thou wilt give me the first son thou hast when he is seven years of age,’ says the giant. ‘Thou wilt get that if I have a son,’ said the king’s son.

In a twinkling the giant put each garden, and orchard, and castle in the bundle as they were before. ‘Now,’ says the giant, ‘take thou thine own road, and I will take my road; but mind thy promise, and though thou shouldst forget, I will remember.’

The prince has been given another inspiring glimpse of what he longs to achieve, but is not yet ready for. He will have to work more. What does a giant represent? Giants are affects, big clumsy powers that can destroy consciousness, but that also can be outwitted. They are remnants of the prince's infantile personality that he must come to better terms with. He must learn to live with his affects but not be dominated by them. Again, it is about maturity of the ego, through this trial. Anger, lust, greed, entitlement, fear, loneliness, dependency, all of these will have to faced and integrated into consciousness if he is to become a conscious, mature individual.

The prince wins a temporary reprieve and is given further experience of the good life, but his futurity is compromised, and he will still have to face the affects.

The king’s son took to the road, and at the end of a few days he reached the place he was fondest of. He loosed the bundle, and the same place was just as it was before. And when he opened the castle-door he sees the handsomest maiden he ever cast eye upon. ‘Advance, king’s son,’ said the pretty maid; ‘everything is in order for thee, if thou wilt marry me this very night.’ ‘It’s I am the man that is willing,’ said the king’s son. And on that same night they married.

Now he has the support of the feminine. He has moved closer to wholeness, and will have help in future trials. So it is in maturation, we don't do it alone, but with the help of our companions' strengths.

But at the end of a day and seven years, what great man is seen coming to the castle but the giant. The king’s son minded his promise to the giant, and till now he had not told his promise to the queen. ‘Leave thou the matter between me and the giant,’ says the queen.

The king's son seeks to be independant of the affects, but he needs to integrate them. Since he has not done so, they come to get him, that is, his son. He will need his related side to deal with this problem.

‘Turn out thy son,’ says the giant; ‘mind your promise.’ ‘Thou wilt get that,’ says the king, ‘when his mother puts him in order for his journey.’ The queen arrayed the cook’s son, and she gave him to the giant by the hand. The giant went away with him; but he had not gone far when he put a rod in the hand of the little laddie. The giant asked him-- ‘If thy father had that rod what would he do with it?’ ‘If father had that rod he would beat the dogs and the cast, if they would be going near the king’s meat,’ said the little laddie. ‘Thou’rt the cook’s son,’ said the giant. He catches him by the two small ankles and knocks him--’Sgleog’--against the stone that was beside him.

The giant turned back to the castle in rage and madness, and he said that if they did not turn out the king’s son to him, the highest stone in the castle would be the lowest. Said the queen to the king, ‘we’ll try it yet; the butler’s son is of the same age as our son.’ She arrayed the butler’s son, and she gives him to the giant by the hand. The giant had not gone far when he put the rod in his hand. ‘If thy father had that rod,’ says the giant, ‘what would he do with it?’ ‘He would beat the dogs and the cats when they would be coming near the king’s bottles and glasses.’ ‘Thou art the son of the butler,’ says the giant, and dashed his brains out too.

The giant returned in very great rage and anger. The earth shook under the soles of his feet, and the castle shook and all that was in it. ‘OUT HERE THY SON,’ says the giant, ‘or in a twinkling the stone that is highest in the dwelling will be the lowest.’ So needs must they had to give the king’s son to the giant. The giant took him to his own house, and he reared him as his own son.

On a day of days when the giant was from home, the lad heard the sweetest music he ever heard in a room at the top of the giant’s house. At a glance he saw the finest face he had ever seen. She beckoned to him to come a bit nearer to her, and she told him to go this time, but to be sure to be at the same place about that dead midnight.

And as he promised he did. The giant’s daughter was at his side in a twinkling, and she said, ‘Tomorrow thou wilt get the choice of my two sisters to marry; but say thou that thou wilt not take either, but me. My father wants me to marry the son of the king of the Green City, but I don’t like him.’

On the morrow the giant took out his three daughters, and he said, ‘Now son of the king of Tethertown, thou hast not lost by living with me so long. Thou wilt get to wife one of the two eldest of my daughters, and with her leave to go home with her the day after the wedding.’ ‘If thou wilt give me this pretty little one,’ says the king’s son, ‘I will take thee by thy word.’

The giant’s wrath kindled, and he said, ‘Before thou gett’st her thou must do the three things that I ask thee to do.’ ‘Say on,’ says the king’s son. The giant took him to the byre, ‘Now,’ says the giant, ‘the dung of a hundred cattle is here, and it has not been cleansed for seven years. I am going from home today, and if this byre is not cleaned before night comes, so clean that a golden apple will run from end to end of it, not only thou shalt not get my daughter, but ’tis a drink of thy blood that will quench my thirst this night.’ He begins cleaning the byre, but it was just as well to keep baling the great ocean.

After midday, when sweat was blinding him, the giant’s young daughter came where he was, and she said to him, ‘Thou art being punished, king’s son.’ ‘I am that,’ says the king’s son. ‘Come over,’ says she, ‘and lay down thy weariness.’ ‘I will do that,’ says he, ‘there is but death awaiting me, at any rate.’ He sat down near her. He was so tired that he fell asleep beside her. When he awoke, the giant’s daughter was not to be seen, but the byre was so well cleaned that a golden apple would run from end to end of it. In comes the giant, and he said, ‘Thou hast cleaned the byre, king’s son?’ ‘I have cleaned it,’ says he. ‘Somebody cleaned it,’ says the giant. ‘Thou didst not clean it, at all events,’ said the king’s son.

‘Yes, yes!’ says the giant, ‘since thou wert so active today, thou wilt get to this time tomorrow to thatch this byre with birds’ down--birds with no two feathers of one colour.’ The king’s son was on foot before the sun; he caught up his bow and his quiver of arrows to kill the birds. He took to the moors, but if he did, the birds were not so easy to take. He was running after them till the sweat was blinding him.

About midday who should come but the giant’s daughter. ‘Thou art exhausting thyself, king’s son,’ says she. ‘I am,’ said he. ‘There fell but these two blackbirds, and both of one colour.’ ‘Come over and lay down thy weariness on this pretty hillock,’ says the giant’s daughter. ‘It’s I am willing,’ said he. He thought she would aid him this time, too, and he sat down near her, and he was not long there till he fell asleep.

When he awoke, the giant’s daughter was gone. He thought he would go back to the house, and he sees the byre thatched with the feathers. When the giant came home, he said, ‘Thou hast thatched the byre, king’s son?’ ‘I thatched it,’ says he. ‘Somebody thatched it,’ says the giant. ‘Thou didst not thatch it,’ says the king’s son. ‘Yes, yes!’ says the giant.

‘Now,’ says the giant, ‘there is a fir-tree beside that loch down there, and there is a magpie’s nest in its top. THe eggs thou wilt find in the nest. I must have them for my first meal. Not one must be burst or broken, and there are five in the nest.’ Early in the morning the king’s son went where the tree was, and that tree was not hard to hit upon. Its match was not in the whole wood. From the foot to the first branch was five hundred feet. The king’s son was going all round the tree.

She came who was always bringing help to him. ‘Thou art losing the skin of thy hands and feet.’ ‘Ach! I am,’ says he. ‘I am no sooner up than down.’ ‘This is no time for stopping,’ says the giant’s daughter. She thrust finger after finger into the tree, till she made a ladder for the king’s son to go up to the magpie’s nest. When he was at the nest, she said, ‘Make haste now with the eggs, for my father’s breath is burning my back.’ In his hurry she left her little finger in the top of the tree.

‘Now,’ says she, ‘thou wilt go home with the eggs quickly, and thou wilt get me to marry tonight if thou canst know me. I and my two sisters will be arrayed in the same garments, and made like each other, but look at me when my father says, go to thy wife, king’s son; and thou wilt see a hand without a little finger.’ He gave the eggs to the giant. ‘Yes, yes! says the giant, ‘be making ready for thy marriage.’

Then indeed there was a wedding, and it was a wedding! Giants and gentlemen, and the son of the king of the Green City was in the midst of them. They were married, and the dancing began, and that was a dance? The giant’s house was shaking from top to bottom. But bed time came, and the giant said, ‘It is time for thee to go to rest, son of the King of Tethertown; take thy bride with thee from amidst those.’

She put out the hand off which the little finger was, and he caught her by the hand.

‘Thou hast aimed well this time too; but there is no knowing but we may meet thee another way,’ said the giant.

But to rest they went. ‘Now,’ says she, ‘sleep not, or else thou diest. We must fly quick, quick, or for certain my father will kill thee.’

Out they went, and on the blue gray filly in the stable they mounted. ‘Stop a while,’ says she, ‘and I will play a trick to the old hero.’ She jumped in, and cut an apple into nine share, and she put two shares at the head of the bed, and two shares at the foot of the bed, and two shares at the door of the kitchen, and two shares at the big door, and one outside the house.

The giant awoke and called, ‘Are you asleep?’ ‘We are not yet,’ said the apple that was at the head of the bed. At the end of a while he called again. ‘We are not yet,’ said the apple that was at the foot of the bed. A while after this he called again. ‘We are not yet,’ said the apple at the kitchen door. The giant called again. The apple that was at the big door answered. ‘You are going far from me,’ says the giant. ‘We are not yet,’ says the apple that was outside the house. ‘You are flying,’ says the giant. The giant jumped on his feet, and to the bed he went, but it was cold--empty.

‘My own daughter’s tricks are trying me,’ said the giant. ‘Here’s after them,’ says he.

In the mouth of day, the giant’s daughter said that her father’s breath was burning her back. ‘Put thy hand, quick,’ said she, ‘in the ear of the gray filly,, and whatever thou findest in it, throw it behind thee.’ ‘There is a twig of sloe tree,’ said he. ‘Throw it behind thee,’ said she.

No sooner did he that, than there were twenty miles of black thorn wood, so thick that scarce a weasel could go through it. The giant came headlong, and there he is fleecing his head and neck in the thorns.

‘My own daughter’s tricks are here as before,’ said the giant; ‘but if I had my own big axe and wood knife here, I would not be long making a way through this.’ He went home for the big axe and the wood knife, and sure he was not long on his journey, and he was the boy behind the big axe. He was not long making a way through the black thorn. ‘I will leave the axe and the wood knife here till I return,’ says he. ‘If thou leave them,’ aid a hoodie that was in a tree, ‘we will steal them.’

‘You will do that same,’ says the giant, ‘but I will get them home,’ He returned and left them at the house. At the heat of day the giant’s daughter felt her father’s breath burning her back.

‘Put thy finger in the filly’s ear, and throw behind thee whatever thou findest in it.’ He got a splinter of gray stone, and in a twinkling there were twenty miles, by breadth and height, of great gray rock behind them. The giant came full pelt, but past the rock he could not go.

‘The tricks of my own daughter are the hardest thins that ever me me,’ says the giant; ‘but if I had my lever and my mighty mattock, I would not be long making my way through this rock also.’ There was no help for it, but to turn the chase for them; and he was the boy to split the stones. He was not long making a road through the rock. ‘I will leave the tools here, and I will return no more.’ ‘If thou leave them,’ says the hoodie, ‘we will steal them.’ ‘Do that if thou wilt; there is not time to go back.’

At the time of breaking the watch, the giant’s daughter said that she was feeling her father’s breath burning her back. ‘Look in the filly’s ear, king’s son, or else we are lost.’ He did so, and it was a bladder of water that was in her ear this time. He threw it behind him and there was a fresh-water loch, twenty miles in length and breadth, behind them.

The giant came on, but with the speed he had on him, he was in the middle of the loch, and he went under, and he rose no more.

On the next day the young companions were come in sight of his father’s house. ‘Now,’ said she, ‘my father is drowned, and he won’t trouble us any more; but before we go further,’ says she, ‘go thou to thy father’s house, and tell that thou hast the like of me; but this is thy lot, let neither man nor creature kiss thee, for if thou dost thou wilt not remember that thou hast ever seen me.’

Everyone he met was giving him welcome and luck, and he charged his father and mother not to kiss him; but as mishap was to be, an old greyhound was in and she knew him, and jumped up to his mouth, and after that he did not remember the giant’s daughter.

She was sitting at the well’s side as he left her, but the king’s son was not coming. In the mouth of night she climbed up into a tree of oak that was beside the well, and she lay in the fork of the tree all that night.

A shoemaker had a house near the well, and about midday on the morrow, the shoemaker asked his wife to go for a drink for him out of the well. When the shoemaker’s wife reached the well, and when she saw the shadow of her that was in the tree, thinking of it that it was her own shadow--and she never thought till now that she was so handsome--she gave a cast to the dish that was in her hand, and it was broken on the ground, and she took herself to the house without vessel or water.

‘Where is the water, wife?’ said the shoemaker. ‘Thou shambling, contemptible old carle, without grace, I have stayed too long thy water and wood slave.’

‘I am thinking, wife, that thou as turned crazy. Go thou, daughter, quickly, and fetch a drink for thy father.’ His daughter went, and in the same way so it happened to her. She never thought till now that she was so loveable, and she took herself home. ‘Up with the drink,’ said her father. ‘Thou home-spun shoe carle, dost thou think that I am fit to be thy slave.’

The poor shoemaker thought that they had taken a turn in their understandings, and he went himself to the well. He saw the shadow of the maiden in the well, and he looked up to the tree, and he sees the finest woman he ever saw. ‘Thy seat is wavering, but thy face is fair,’ said the shoemaker. ‘Come down, for there is need of thee for a short while at my house.’ The shoemaker understood that this was the shadow that had driven his people mad. The shoemaker took her to his house, and he said that he had but a poor bothy, but that she should get a share of all that was in it.

At the end of a day or two came a leash of gentlemen lads to the shoemaker’s house for shoes to be made for them, for the king had come home, and he was going to marry. The lads saw the giant’s daughter, and they never saw one so pretty as she. ‘Tis thou hast the pretty daughter, here,’ said the lads to the shoemaker. ‘She is pretty, indeed,’ says the shoemaker, ‘but she is no daughter of mine.’ ‘St. Nail! said one of them, ‘I would give a hundred pounds to marry her.’ The two others said the very same.

The poor shoemaker said that he had nothing to do with her. ‘But,’ said they, ‘ask her tonight, and send us word tomorrow.’ When the gentles went away, she asked the shoemaker--‘What’s that they were saying about me?’ The shoemaker told her. ‘Go thou after them,’ said she; ‘I will marry one of them, and let him bring his purse with him.’

The youth returned, and he gave the shoemaker a hundred pounds for tocher. They went to rest, and when she had laid down, she asked the lad for a drink of water from a tumbler that was on the board on the further side of the chamber. He went; but out of that he could not come, as he held the vessel of water the length of the night. ‘Thou lad,’ said she, ‘why wilt thou not lie down?’ but out of that he could not drag till the bright morrow’s day was. The shoemaker came to the door of the chamber, and she asked him to take away that lubberly boy. This wooer went and betook himself to his home, but he did not tell the other two how it happened to him.

Next came the second chap, and in the same way, when she had gone to rest-- ‘Look,’ she said, ‘if the latch is on the door.’ The latch laid hold of his hands, and out of that he could not come the length of the night, and out of that he did not come till the morrow’s day was bright. He went, under shame and disgrace.

No matter, he did not tell the other chap how it had happened, and on the third night he came. As it happened to the two others, so it happened to him. One foot stuck to the floor; he could neither come nor go, but so he was the length of the night. On the morrow, he took his soles out of that, and he was not seen looking behind him.

‘Now,’ said the girl to the shoemaker, ‘thine is the sporran of gold; I have no need of it. It will better thee, and I am no worse for thy kindness to me.’

The shoemaker had the shoes ready, at dawn on that very day the king was to be married. The shoemaker was going to the castle with the shoes of the young people, and the girl said to the shoemaker, ‘I would like to get a sight of the king’s son before he marries.’ ‘Come with me,’ says the shoemaker, ‘I am well acquainted with the servants at the castle, and thou shalt get a sight of the king’s son and all the company.’

And when the gentles saw the pretty woman that was here they took her to the wedding-room, and they filled for her a glass of wine. When she was going to drink what is in it, a flame went up out of the glass, and a golden pigeon and a silver pigeon sprung out of it. They were flying about when three grains of barley fell on the floor.

The silver pigeon sprang, and he eats that. Said the golden pigeon to him, ‘If thou hadst mind when I cleared the byre, thou would'st not eat that without giving me a share.’

Again fell three other grains of barley, and the silver pigeon sprang, and he eats that, as before. ‘If thou hadst mind when I thatched the byre, thou would'st not eat that without giving me my share,’ says the golden pigeon.

Three other grains fell, and the silver pigeon sprang, and he eats that. ‘If thou hadst mind when I harried the magpie’s nest, thou would'st not eat that without giving me my share,’ says the golden pigeon; ‘I lost my little finger bringing it down, and I want it still.’

The king’s son minded, and he knew who it was he had got. He sprang where she was, and kissed her from hand to mouth. And when the priest came they married a second time. And there I left them.