The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye: Five Fairy Stories (Vintage International)

"A storyteller who could keep a sultan on the edge of his throne for a thousand and one nights."xa0— The New York Times Book Review "A dreamy treat. . . . It is not merely strange, it is wondrous." —Boston Globe "Alternatingly erudite and earthy, direct and playful. . . . If Scheherazade ever needs a break, Byatt can step in, indefinitely." —Chicago Tribune "Byatt's writing is crystalline and splendidly imaginative. . . . These [are] perfectly formed tales." —Washington Post Book World "Those new to the world of Byatt might well begin here, with these tales-within-tales, which one can read as anything from contemporary allegories — such as the superb Dragon's Breath , evoking every idyll that ever fell foul of war or famine — to sheer celebrations of storytelling itself." —Vogue "The familiar elements of fairy story come to life under A.S. Byatt's touch . . . with lightness, precision, grace." —Observer "A cerebral extravaganza, bristling with ideas." —Spectator "The fairy story is obviously a form that fascinates A.S. Byatt, it suits her spare, cool prose and this collection enables her to create very different effects . . . a beautifully produced book." —Financial Times "As with all of Byatt's work, there is a fierce intelligence at play, and beautifully nuanced prose." —Publisher's Weekly From the Inside Flap The magnificent title story of this collection of fairy tales for adults describes the strange and uncanny relationship between its extravagantly intelligent heroine--a world renowned scholar of the art of story-telling--and the marvelous being that lives in a mysterious bottle, found in a dusty shop in an Istanbul bazaar. As A.S. Byatt renders this relationship with a powerful combination of erudition and passion, she makes the interaction of the natural and the supernatural seem not only convincing, but inevitable.The companion stories in this collection each display different facets of Byatt's remarkable gift for enchantment. They range from fables of sexual obsession to allegories of political tragedy; they draw us into narratives that are as mesmerizing as dreams and as bracing as philosophical meditations; and they all us to inhabit an imaginative universe astonishing in the precision of its detail, its intellectual consistency, and its splendor."A dreamy treat.... It is not merely strange, it is wondrous."-- Boston Globe "Alternatingly erudite and earthy, direct and playful.... If Scheherazade ever needs a break, Byatt can step in, indefinitely."-- Chicago Tribune "Byatt's writing is crystalline and splendidly imaginative.... These [are] perfectly formed tales."-- Washington Post Book World --This text refers to the paperback edition. A.S. BYATT is the author of the novels Possession (winner of the Booker Prize in 1990), The Game, and the sequence The Virgin in the Garden, Still Life, and Babel Tower. She has also written two novellas, published together as Angels and Insects, and four collections of shorter works, including The Matisse Stories and The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye. Educated at Cambridge, she was a senior lecturer in English at University College, London, before becoming a full-time writer in 1983. A distinguished critic as well as a novelist, she lives in London. --This text refers to the paperback edition. The magnificent title story of this collection of fairy tales for adults describes the strange and uncanny relationship between its extravagantly intelligent heroine--a world renowned scholar of the art of story-telling--and the marvelous being that lives in a mysterious bottle, found in a dusty shop in an Istanbul bazaar. As A.S. Byatt renders this relationship with a powerful combination of erudition and passion, she makes the interaction of the natural and the supernatural seem not only convincing, but inevitable. The companion stories in this collection each display different facets of Byatt's remarkable gift for enchantment. They range from fables of sexual obsession to allegories of political tragedy; they draw us into narratives that are as mesmerizing as dreams and as bracing as philosophical meditations; and they all us to inhabit an imaginative universe astonishing in the precision of its detail, its intellectual consistency, and its splendor. "A dreamy treat.... It is not merely strange, it is wondrous."--"Boston Globe "Alternatingly erudite and earthy, direct and playful.... If Scheherazade ever needs a break, Byatt can step in, indefinitely."--"Chicago Tribune "Byatt's writing is crystalline and splendidly imaginative.... These [are] perfectly formed tales."--"Washington Post Book World --This text refers to the paperback edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye By A. S. Byatt Vintage Books USA Copyright ©1998 A. S. ByattAll right reserved. ISBN: 9780679762225 CHAPTER ONE There was once a little tailor, a good and unremarkable man, who happened to be journeying through a forest, in search of work perhaps, for in those days men travelled great distances to make a meagre living, and the services of a fine craftsman, like our hero, were less in demand than cheap and cobbling hasty work that fitted ill and lasted only briefly. He believed he should come across someone who would want his skills -- he was an incurable optimist, and imagined a fortunate meeting around every corner, though how that should come about was hard to see, as he advanced farther and farther into the dark, dense trees, where even the moonlight was split into dull little needles of bluish light on the moss, not enough to see by. But he did come upon the little house that was waiting for him, in a clearing in the depths, and was cheered by the lines of yellow light he could see between and under the shutters. He knocked boldly on the door of this house, and there was a rustling, and creaking, and the door opened a tiny crack, and there stood a little man, with a face as grey as morning ashes, and a long woolly beard the same colour. 'I am a traveller lost in the woods,' said the little tailor, 'and a master craftsman, seeking work, if any is to be found.' 'I have no need for a master craftsman,' said the little grey man. 'And I am afraid of thieves. You cannot come in here.' 'If I were a thief I could have forced my way in, or crept secretly in,' said the little tailor. 'I am an honest tailor in need of help.' Now behind the little man stood a great grey dog, as tall as he was, with red eyes and hot breath. And at first this beast had made a low girning, growling sound, but now he hushed his threatening, and waved his tail slowly, and the little grey man said, 'Otto is of the opinion that you are honest. You may have a bed for the night in return for an honest evening's work, for help with cooking and cleaning and what must be prepared in my simple home.' So the tailor was let in, and there was a strange household. In a rocking chair stood a brilliantly coloured cockerel and his pure white wife. In the fire-corner stood a black-and-white goat, with knobby little horns and eyes like yellow glass, and on the hearth lay a very large cat, a multi-coloured, mazy-patterned brindled cat, that looked up at the little tailor with eyes like cold green jewels, with black slits for pupils. And behind the dining table was a delicate dun cow, with milky breath and a warm wet nose and enormous soft brown eyes. 'Good morning,' said the tailor to this company, for he believed in good manners, and the creatures were surveying him in a judging and intelligent way. 'Food and drink you will find in the kitchen,' said the little grey man. 'Make us a fit supper and we will eat together.' So the little tailor turned to, and prepared a splendid pie, from flour and meat and onions he found there, and decorated its top with beautifully formed pastry leaves and flowers, for he was a craftsman, even if he could not exercise his own craft. And whilst it was cooking he looked about him, and brought hay to the cow and goat, golden corn to the cock and hen, milk to the cat and bones and meat from his cooking to the great grey dog. And when the tailor and the little grey man were consuming the pie, whose warm smell filled the little house, the little grey man said, 'Otto was right, you are a good and honest man, and you care for all the creatures in this place, leaving no one unattended and nothing undone. I shall give you a gift for your kindness. Which of these things will you have?' And he laid before the tailor three things. The first was a little purse of soft leather, which clinked a little as he put it down. The second was a cooking pot, black outside, polished and gleaming inside, solid and commodious. And the third was a little glass key, wrought into a fantastic fragile shape, and glittering with all the colours of the rainbow. And the tailor looked at the watching animals for advice, and they all stared benignly back. And he thought to himself, I know about such gifts from forest people. It may be that the first is a purse which is never empty, and the second a pot which provides a wholesome meal whenever you demand one in the right way. I have heard of such things and met men who have been paid from such purses and eaten from such pots. But a glass key I never saw or heard of and cannot imagine what use it might be; it would shiver in any lock. But he desired the little glass key, because he was a craftsman, and could see that it had taken masterly skill to blow all these delicate wards and barrel, and because he did not have any idea about what it was or might do, and curiosity is a great power in men's lives. So he said to the little man, 'I will take the pretty glass key.' And the little man answered, 'You have chosen not with prudence, but with daring. The key is the key to an adventure, if you will go in search of it.' 'Why not?' replied the tailor. 'Since there is no use for my craft in this wild place, and since I have not chosen prudently.' Then the animals came closer with their warm, milky breaths that smelled sweetly of hay and the summer, and their mild comforting gaze that was not human, and the dog lay with his heavy head on the tailor's foot, and the brindled cat sat on the arm of his chair. 'You must go out of this house,' said the little grey man, 'and call to the West Wind, and show her your key, when she comes, and let her carry you where she will, without struggle or alarm. If you fight or question she will toss you on the thorns and it will go ill with you before you come out of there. If she will take you, you will be set down in a bare heath, on a great stone, which is made of granite and is the gate to your adventure, though it will seem to have been fixed and unmoving since the making of the world. On this stone you must lay a feather from the tail of the cockerel here, which he will willingly give you, and the door will be opened to you. You must descend without fear, or hesitation, and descend farther, and still descend; you will find that your glass key will shed light on your way if you hold it before you. In time you will come to a stone vestibule, with two doors leading to branching passages you must not follow, and a low curtained door leading on and downwards. You must not touch this curtain with your hand, but must lay on it the milk-white feather which the hen will give you, and the curtain will be opened silently, by unseen hands, and the doors beyond it will lie open, and you may come into the hall where you shall find what you shall find.' 'Well, I will adventure,' said the little tailor, 'though I have great fear of the dark places under the earth, where there is no light of day and what is above is dense and heavy.' So the cock and the hen allowed him to take a glistening burnished black and emerald feather and a soft creamy-white feather, and he bade them all goodbye and went into the clearing, and called to the West Wind, holding up his key. And that was a delightful and most alarming sensation, when the long, airy arms of the West Wind reached down through the trees and caught him up, and the leaves were all shivering and clattering and trembling with her passing, and the straws danced before the house and the dust rose and flew about in little earth-fountains. The trees grabbed at him with twiggy fingers as he rose up through them, lurching this way and that in the gusts, and then he felt himself held against the invisible rushing breast of the long Wind, as she hurled moaning along the sky. He rested his face against his airy pillows, and did not cry out or struggle, and the sighing song of the West Wind, full of fine rain and glancing sunshine, streaming clouds and driven starlight, netted him around and around. She put him down as the little grey man had foretold on a huge grey granite stone, pitted and scarred and bald. He heard her whisking and wailing on her way, and he bent down and laid the cock-feather on the stone, and behold with a heavy groaning and grinding the huge stone swung up in the air and down in the earth, as though on a pivot or balance, disturbing waves of soil and heather like thick sea-water, and showing a dark, dank passage under the heather-roots and the knotty roots of the gorse. So in he went, bravely enough, thinking all the time of the thickness of rock and peat and earth over his head, and the air in that place was chill and damp and the ground underfoot was moist and sodden. He bethought him of his little key and held it up bravely before him, and it put out a little sparkling light that illumined a step at a time, silvery-pale. So he came down to the vestibule, where the three doors were, and under the sills of the two great doors light shone, warm and enticing, and the third was behind a musty leather curtain. He touched this leather, just brushing it with the tip of his soft hen-feather, and it was drawn away in angular folds like bat-wings, and beyond a little dark door lay open into a tiny hole, into which he thought he might just manage to put his shoulders. Then truly he was afraid, for his small grey friend had said nothing of this narrow little place, and he thought if he put his head in he might never come outalive. So he looked behind himself and saw that the passagehe had just come down was one of many, all wrinkledand wormy and dripping and tangled with roots, and hethought he could never find his way back so he mustperforce push on and see what lay in store. It took allthe courage he had to thrust his head and shoulders intothe mouth of that entrance, but he closed his eyes andtwisted and turned and after a time tumbled out into agreat stone chamber, lit with a soft light of its own thatdimmed the glitter of his shining key. It was a miracle,he thought, that the glass had not shivered in that tightstruggle, but it was as clear and brittle as ever. So helooked about him, and saw three things. The first was aheap of glass bottles and flasks, all of them coveredwith dust and cobwebs. The second was a glass dome,the size of a man, and a little taller than our hero. Andthe third was a shining glass coffin, lying on a richvelvet pall on a gilded trestle. And from all these things thesoft light proceeded, like the glimmering of pearls inthe depth of water, like the phosphorescent light thatmoves of itself on the night surface of southern seas, orshines round the heaving shoals, milky-white over their silver darts, in our own dark Channel. Well, he thought, one or all of these is my adventure. He looked at the bottles, which were many colours, red and green and blue and smoky topaz, and contained wisps and rinsings of nothing much, a sigh of smoke in one, a rocking of spirituous liquid in another. All were corked and sealed, and he was too circumspect to break the seals till he saw better where he was and what was to do. He moved on to the dome, which you must imagine like the magic covers you have seen in your drawing-room under which dwell all sorts of brilliant little birds, as natural as life on their branches, or flights of mysterious moths and butterflies. Or maybe you have seen a crystal ball containing a tiny house which you can shake to produce a brilliant snowstorm? This dome contained a whole castle, set in a beautiful park, with trees and terraces and gardens, fishpools and climbing roses, and bright banners hanging limp in its many turrets. It was a brave and beautiful place, with innumerable windows and twisting staircases and a lawn and a swing in a tree and everything you could desire in a spacious and desirableresidence, only that it was all still and tiny enoughto need a magnifying glass to see the intricacies of itscarvings and appurtenances. The little tailor, as I havetold you, was first and foremost a craftsman, and hestared in wonder at this beautiful model and could notbegin to imagine what fine tools or instruments hadcarved and wrought it. He dusted it a little, to marvelbetter, and then moved on to the glass coffin. Have you remarked, where a fast-flowing streamcomes to a little fall, how the racing water becomesglassy smooth and under it the long fine threads of thewater-weed are drawn along in its still-seeming race,trembling a little, but stretched out in the flow? Sounder the surface of the thick glass lay a mass of longgold threads, filling in the whole cavity of the box withtheir turns and tumbles, so that at first the little tailorthought he had come upon a box full of spun gold, tomake cloth of gold. But then between the fronds he sawa face, the most beautiful face he could have dreamed ofor imagined, a still white face, with long gold lashes onpale cheeks, and a perfect pale mouth. Her gold hair layround her like a mantle, but where its strands crossedher face they stirred a little with her breathing, so thatthe tailor knew she was alive. And he knew -- it is always so, after all -- that the true adventure was the release of this sleeper, who would then be his grateful bride. But she was so beautiful and peaceful that he was half-loath to disturb her. He wondered how she had come there, and how long she had been there, and what her voice would be like, and a thousand other ridiculous things, whilst she breathed in and out, ruffling the gold threads of hair. And then he saw, in the side of the smooth box, which had no visible cleft or split, but was whole like a green ice egg, a tiny keyhole. And he knew that this was the keyhole for his wondrous delicate key, and with a little sigh he put it in and waited for what should ensue. As the little key slipped into the keyhole and melted, as it seemed into the glass body of the casket, so for a moment the whole surface was perfectly closed and smooth. And then, in a very orderly way, and with a strange bell-like tinkling, the coffin broke into a collection of long icicle splinters, that rang and vanished as they touched the earth. And the sleeper opened her eyes, which were as blue as periwinkle, or the summer sky, and the little tailor, because he knew this was whathe must do, bent and kissed the perfect cheek. 'You must be the one,' said the young woman, 'youmust be the one I have been waiting for, who must releaseme from enchantment. You must be the Prince.' 'Ah no,' said our hero, 'there you are mistaken. I amno more -- and indeed no less -- than a fine craftsman, atailor, in search of work for my hands, honest work, tokeep me alive.' Then the young woman laughed merrily, her voicestrengthening after what must have been years of silence,and the whole strange cellar rang with that laughter,and the glass fragments tinkled like broken bells. 'You shall have enough and more than enough, tokeep you alive forever, if you help me out of this darkplace,' she said. 'Do you see that beautiful castle lockedin glass?' 'Indeed I do, and marvel at the craft with which itwas made.' 'That was no carver's or miniaturist's craft, but blackmagic, for that was the castle in which I lived, and theforests and meadows round it were mine, where Iroamed freely, with my beloved brother, until the black artist came one night seeking shelter from foul weather. For you must know that I had a twin brother, as beautiful as the day, and gentle as a fawn, and wholesome as new bread and butter, whose company pleased me so much, as mine also pleased him, that we swore an oath never to marry but to live forever peacefully in the castle, and hunt and play together the livelong day. But when this stranger knocked, in a howling gale, with his wet hat and cloak pouring rainwater and his smiling mouth, my brother invited him in eagerly, and gave him meat and wine, and a bed for the night, and sang with him, and played cards, and sat by the fire, talking of the wide world and its adventures. As I was not pleased with this, and indeed a little sorrowful that my brother should take pleasure in another's company, I went to bed early and lay listening to the West Wind howling round the turrets and after a while fell into an uneasy slumber. From this I was wakened by a strange, very beautiful twanging music, coming from all about me. I sat up, and tried to see what this might be or mean, and saw the door of my chamber slowly open and he, the stranger, came striding in, dry now, with black curly hair and a dangerous smiling face. I tried to move, butcould not, it was as though a band gripped my body, andanother band was tied about my face. He told me that hemeant me no harm, but was a magician, who had madethe music play around me, and wished to have my handin marriage and live in my castle, with me and mybrother, in peace hereafter. And I said -- for I was permittedto answer -- that I had no desire for marriage, butwished to live unwed and happy with my dear brotherand no other. So he answered that that might not be,that he would have me whether I would or no, and thatmy brother was of his opinion in this matter. We shallsee that, said I, and he answered unabashed, with the invisibleinstruments twanging and humming and janglingall over the room, "You may see it, but you mustnot speak about this or anything that has passed here,for I have silenced you as surely as if I had cut out yourtongue." 'Next day I tried to warn my brother, and it was asthe black artist had said. When I opened my mouth tospeak on this topic it was as though my lips were sewntogether with great stitches in the flesh, and my tonguewould not move in my mouth. Yet I might ask to havethe salt passed, or discourse of the evil weather, and so my brother, to my great chagrin, noticed nothing, but set out blithely to go hunting with his new friend, leaving me at home to sit by the hearth, and to feel silent anguish at what might ensue. All day I sat so, and in the late afternoon, when the shadows were long on the castle lawns and the last rays of the sun were brassy and chill, I knew with certainty that something terrible had happened, and ran out of the castle, and away to the dark woods. And out of the dark woods came the black man, leading his horse on one arm, and on the other a tall grey hound with the saddest face I have ever seen on any creature. He told me my brother had suddenly gone away, and would return no more for a great and uncertain length of time and had left me, and the castle, in charge of him, the dark magician. He told me this gaily, as if it did not much matter whether I believed it or no. I said I would by no means submit to such injustice and was glad to hear my own voice steady and confident, for I feared my lips might again be sewn into silence. When I spoke great tears fell from the eyes of the grey hound, more and more, heavier and heavier. And I knew in some sort, I think, that the animal was my brother, in this meek and helpless form. Then I wasangry, and said he should never come into my house,nor come near me, with my good will. And he said thatI had perceived correctly, that he might do nothingwithout my good will which he would strive to gain, if Iwould allow it. And I said, this should never be, and hemust never hope for it. Then he became angry, andthreatened that he would silence me forever, if I wouldnot agree. I said that without my dear brother I had littlecare where I was, and no one I wished to speak to.Then he said I should see whether that was so after ahundred years in a glass coffin. He made a few passesand the castle diminished and shrank, as you see it now,and he made a pass or two more and it was walled withglass as you see. And my people, the men and maidservantswho came running, he confined as you see, eachin a glass bottle, and finally closed me into the glass coffinin which you found me. And now, if you will haveme, we will hasten from this place, before the magicianreturns, as he does from time to time, to see if I have relented.' 'Of course I will have you,' said the little tailor, 'foryou are my promised marvel, released with my vanishedglass key, and I love you dearly already. Though why you should have me, simply because I opened the glass case, is less clear to me altogether, and when, and if, you are restored to your rightful place, and your home and lands and people are again your own, I trust you will feel free to reconsider the matter, and remain, if you will, alone and unwed. For me, it is enough to have seen the extraordinary gold web of your hair, and to have touched that whitest and most delicate cheek with my lips.' And you may ask yourselves, my dear and most innocent readers, whether he spoke there with more gentleness or cunning, since the lady set such store on giving herself of her own free will, and since also the castle with its gardens, though now measurable with pins and fine stitches and thumbnails and thimbles, were lordly and handsome enough for any man to wish to spend his days there. The beautiful lady then blushed, a warm and rosy colour in her white cheeks, and was heard to murmur that the spell was as the spell was, that a kiss received after the successful disintegration of the glass casket was a promise, as kisses are, whether received voluntarily or involuntarily. Whilst they were thus disputing, politely, the moral niceties of their interesting situation, a rushing sound was heard, and a melodious twanging, and the lady became very agitated, and said the black magician was on his way. And our hero, in his turn, felt despondent and fearful, for his little grey mentor had given him no instructions for this eventuality. Still, he thought, I must do what I can to protect the lady, to whom I owe so much, and whom I have certainly, for better, for worse, released from sleep and silence. He carried no weapon save his own sharp needles and scissors, but it occurred to him that he could make do with the slivers of glass from the broken sarcophagus. So he took up the longest and sharpest, wrapping its hilt round in his leather apron, and waited. The black artist appeared on the threshold, wrapped in a swirling black cloak, smiling most ferociously, and the little tailor quaked and held up his splinter, thinking his foe would be bound to meet it magically, or freeze his hand in motion as he struck. But the other merely advanced, and when he came up, put out a hand to touch the lady, whereupon our hero struck with all his might at his heart, and the glass splinter entered deeply and he fell to the ground. And behold, he shrivelled and withered under their eyes, and became a small handful of grey dust and glass powder. Then the lady wept a little, and said that the tailor had now twice saved her, and was in every way worthy of her hand. And she clapped her hands together, and suddenly they all rose in the air, man, woman, house, glass flasks, heap of dust, and found themselves out on a cold hillside where stood the original little grey man with Otto the hound. And you, my sagacious readers, will have perceived and understood that Otto was the very same hound into which the young brother of the lady of the coffin had been transformed. So she fell upon his grey hairy neck, weeping bright tears. And when her tears mixed with the salty tears that fell down the great beast's cheek, the spell was released, and he stood before her, a golden-haired young man in hunting-costume. And they embraced, for a long time, with full hearts. Meanwhile the little tailor, aided by the little grey man, had stroked the glass case containing the castle with the two feathers from the cock and hen, and with a strange rushing and rumbling the castle appeared as it must always have been, with noble staircases and innumerable doors. Then the little tailor and the little grey man uncorked the bottles and flasks and the liquids and smokes flowed sighing out of the necks of them, and formed themselves into men and women, butler and forester, cook and parlourmaid, all mightily bewildered to find themselves where they were. Then the lady told her brother that the little tailor had rescued her from her sleep and had killed the black artist and had won her hand in marriage. And the young man said that the tailor had offered him kindness, and should live with them both in the castle and be happy ever after. And so it was, and they did live happily ever after. The young man and his sister went hunting in the wild woods, and the little tailor, whose inclination did not lie that way, stayed by the hearth and was merry with them in the evenings. Only one thing was missing. A craftsman is nothing without the exercise of his craft. So he ordered to be brought to him the finest silk cloth and brilliant threads, and made for pleasure what he had once needed to make for harsh necessity. Continues... Excerpted from The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye by A. S. Byatt Copyright ©1998 by A. S. Byatt. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. --This text refers to the paperback edition. "Once upon a time," A.S. Byatt's title fairy story begins, "when men and women hurtled through the air on metal wings, when they wore webbed feet and walked on the bottom of the sea, learning the speech of whales and the songs of the dolphins ... there was a woman who was largely irrelevant, and therefore happy. Her business was storytelling..." But this is no backward looking, quaint fairy time. The time is the present, and the protagonist is a sensible scholar who is given the not-at-all sensible gift of a genie. How will Gillian, an expert in fairy stories and well versed in all that can go wrong with wishes, use hers? Distinguished British author and Booker Prize-winner A.S. Byatt creates fairy tales for adults, each a blend of the magical and the modern, and readers of Angels & Insects and Possession will recognize the role of Victorian fairy tales in her fiction. This handsome little book includes reproductions of woodcuts that evoke our childhood wonder for dragons and princesses, glass coffins and netherworldly things. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Kirkus Reviews Four short fairy tales with a contemporary edge, and one novella-length tale that brilliantly transforms a story of middle- age angst into a celebration of serendipity and sex. Byatt (Babel Tower, 1996, etc.) uses that parallel world of fairy tales--which closely resembles our own in motive, character, and outcome--to explore the sources of hope and imagination. ``The Glass Coffin'' reworks a traditional quest tale as a tailor seeking employment helps a stranger and, as a reward, is given a glass key and certain mystifying instructions to follow that lead him to a beautiful sleeping princess. In ``Gode's Story,'' a young woman is true, while her feckless sailor lover betrays her, only to find his happiness with a new bride short-lived when he sees her among the Dead riding the ocean waves. ``The Story of the Eldest Princess'' is a witty reworking of the quest tale as well as a low-key analysis of the role of fate, choice, and character as a princess steps out of her preordained role in life to rescue her people. And ``Dragon's Breath'' is a wry morality tale about the unsuspected ``true relations between peace and beauty and terror'' revealed when dragons destroy a village. But Byatt is at her best in the novella, about what happens when Dr. Gillian Perholt, in Turkey to attend a conference on stories, is granted the chance to make three wishes, which all come true. Troubled by visions of her mortality and her husband's desertion, fiftyish Gillian buys a dirty but striking old glass bottle and takes it back to her hotel. When she washes it, a handsome Djinn appears, who gives her the younger body she wishes for, makes love to her as she wishes, and after talk, tales, and travels, grants her her third wish. An intelligent detour with an exemplary guide through Keats's ``magic casements'' to fairy land. (Author tour) -- Copyright ©1997, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Library Journal The enjoyment of fairy tales comes from new ways of telling old themes. The underlying stories are predictable?innocence is tested, a mission accomplished, a lesson learned, and an adult finally born?but the characters, adventures, and outcome vary with each telling. However, every once in a while this pattern gets bent or broken, as in Byatt's collection of five previously published stories. Each story is refreshingly different, eloquently detailing the story's setting, and each contains developed characters and dialog that make them truly enjoyable. The last and title story is the length of a small novella and is itself a collection of stories within a story. Readers who can keep up will have a fascinating adventure wandering from story to story as a modern middle-aged woman is granted three wishes by a highly personal and experienced genie. More than a play on words, this piece is a play on storytelling. Byatt has redesigned the fairy tale, breathing new life into old themes, and has done it with talent to spare. For all collections. -?Laurel Duda, Marine Biological Lab., Woods Hole, Mass. Copyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From AudioFile Renowned British author A.S. Byatt offers five contemporary fairy tales, with the longest--the title story--taking three of the five cassettes. It deals with narratologist (storyteller) Gillian Perholt, who finds a little bottle in Turkey, removes the stopper and encounters a genie who grants her three wishes. Among other things, they fall in love. These stories will require considerable suspension of disbelief, but they're helped by the commanding narration of Virginia Leishman. Enunciation, some of it on difficult Middle Eastern terms and names, is perfect. Pauses help out. The only quibble is Leishman's occasional failure to differentiate adequately among characters; otherwise, fine work. T.H. (c)AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Read more