by Jane Yolen
in an old Russian storybook
not pink tulle but embroidered robe.
She’s the mystery jewel,
in the simple setting;
out of place, out of time,
out of my league.
An Oddness Between
There is something odd between them
The iron-nosed witch and the new girl.
Something angry, dark, secret.
A story I can’t read.
I worry about ovens, about finger bones,
About what might be served in a stew.
But it is only the anger that simmers.
No one says a bad word at first.
Vasilisa laughs my fears away.
She’s an old woman, afraid of the young,
she says, rolling the doll between her fingers.
Maybe it only seems odd.
She is cranky with age, Vasilisa says,
running the comb though the gold
of her jewel-like hair.
Beautiful, the mirror whispers.
The Baba just looks in the mirror,
finding only ugliness. The meanness
suddenly reminds me of high school gossip.
Nasty.
It rubs against me like a sore. I feel scabby,
but not enough to run, to shut another door,
not enough to leave my new, my only friend.
CHAPTER SIX
Settling In
This House Turns
This house turns whenever the Baba commands it,
spinning not so much like a top but a lazy Susan,
on a simple axis, spilling nothing.
She sits at the table, writing her lovelorn column,
never noticing the spin. Ink settles into the curves
of her letters, not a bit wasted.
Even walking across the floor, she’s so practiced,
she doesn’t miss her footing. We girls wonder at it,
as we slip, slide across the polished wood.
If there were a rug, we think, a big Persian,
even if it has to be tacked down,
it would help us finish our chores without a fall.
The old witch would never spend the money, though.
She’s tight with her purchases, raises vegetables
in the big garden, and the meat—as we know too well—
comes knocking weekly at the front door.
Teaching Us to Drive
We crowd into the mortar which stretches itself
like a snake’s mouth, a uterus, a birth canal,
to accommodate the three of us.
The Baba shows us the black iron starter,
the five gears, how the pestle steers.
how to stop without bumping into bushes.
Vasilisa, who says she’s older than me,
gets to try driving first. She’s good
at going forward, awful at parking.
I love the speed, can corkscrew through the trees,
make even Baba Yaga gasp at the loop-de-loops.
Tomorrow I plan to try wing-walking,
if only I can find some wings.
Cauldron
Baba Yaga doesn’t use a cauldron,
though her grandmother did.
Stuck in her ways, the Baba calls her.
The Baba doesn’t cook over flames,
So old-fashioned, she tells us,
preferring a reliable microwave.
She’s got modern taps, and town water.
Who wants to carry buckets from a well?
she says from her sitz-bath.
She’s remodeled the kitchen till it gleams
with chrome and stainless steel,
drawers that close by themselves.
At first it all seems like magic to us,
till she shows us the catalogs,
teaches us to read the fine print.
Baba Yaga’s Garden
She grows rows of belladonna, liking the purple
flower bells, raised rainbow beds of foxglove,
monkshood.
Breathing deep of sawdust and smoke from
her beach apple tree, she makes autumn pies,
sets them on the window to cool.
Feeding her pitcher plants, she watches them
yawn open, smiles as they snap up her meaty
offerings.
Every day, she waters, prunes, deadheads,
weeds, digs in the compost, adds ground bone,
making her garden grow.
The sign on the Baba’s garden gate says,
Come In. There is no sign that says
Exit.
Picking the Garden
My fingers have burns
from brushing past the smoking flamewort.
Vasilisa watches from the porch rocker,
crocheting a vest for Baba Yaga, laughing
as yet another thorn embeds itself
under one of my nails.
I cannot be angry with her
for taking the softer jobs.
My fingers tangle in yarn.
I fumble with needles,
cannot see the pattern
until it is done and laid flat.
Besides, I love the smell of fern
with its violin curl, the musk
of dusky roses before night
closes them down, don’t mind
the scorch and scar of the garden
which I wear like medals of war.
Her Cousin’s House of Candy
Baba Yaga’s cousin has a house made out of candy.
Very uncomfortable, the Baba says. The walls sag
in wet weather and the cousin has to re-ice it every fall.
The birds continually peck out the door handles.
The keys never fit.
In the spring bears come by every morning
looking for a handout. Or possibly a hand, she mumbles.
The bone-yard fence is just asking for a call
from the building inspectors. They have cited her
half a dozen times already this year.
I never visit, the Baba tells us.
You would not believe
how dirty her ovens are.
She always eats the help.
Firebird in the Monkey Puzzle Tree
The droop of its red tail
almost sets the needles on fire.
Sparks burn the long fingers of the tree.
The roots shrink from the very idea
of a blaze.
The Baba can smell the singe
from her house. She fears that peasants
have found where she lives,
runs out the front door,
waving a stick.
Shouts—Get off my lawn,
though it is a meadow in a forest,
not a lawn,
not even hers.
Baba Yaga Has Tea with Kostchai the Deathless
When Kostchai comes to call he brings roses,
mostly wilted by his breath which smells
like a mortuary. His eyes are still
as gravestones and as hard.
He calls her Baba Yaga, no nicknames,
gives a little half bow, dusts the chair
with his white handkerchief before sitting,
compliments her on the shine of the floor.
They sit across from one another,
glasses full of tea laced with plenty of sugar
and arsenic, talking about their latest operations.
Organ recitals, she calls it.
He complains the weather has been too hot,
she says nobody uses proper grammar any more,
he says the price of tea is outrageous.
She says someone tried to steal her pestle.
Vasilisa and I stay in the pantry like servants,
collect the dirty dishes, the glasses.
Later we launder the table cloth, mop the floor.
Vasilisa pockets the coins he sets
on the sideboard.
They are gold, with the head of the tsar
looking to the left, where danger comes from.
When he goes, Kostchai kisses the Baba on the cheek.
It leaves a scar.
Chicken Feet
I think today I would like a seaside view,
the wind in my hair, Vasilisa and me
sitting on the front porch watching gulls
and the red sails of the Fifies drifting by.
How long do you suppose it will take
for the cottage to get there on its chicken feet?
I argue for horses’ hooves, Arabian for fleetness,
or Clydesdales better suited for carrying
an entire house on its shoulders.
But will the iron-nose lady listen to me?
She’s tougher than Clinton or Thatcher ever were.
Tradition, she says through gritted teeth.
Tradition, I say, will not get you an easy trip
south to Brighton or Edinburgh or Atlantic City.
Still, if you have the time, and money
is no object, or comes with no objection,
chicken feet will do, I suppose.
She laughs, raps my knuckles, says: You rick.
Vasilisa says, You mean rock.
The Baba glares at her. They mean the same.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Prince Not Very Charming
The Prince Comes to Call
He’s the same as all princes,
cheekbones like knives
that cut to the heart.
A way of talking that sounds as if
plums have taken root in his mouth.
His clothes have no wrinkles,
his hair curls like snails
around the shells of his ears.
He looks in every mirror he passes,
gives himself a wink.
His fingernails are pink,
with cuticles like smiley faces.
Dirt never sticks to his trousers.
He doesn’t bruise.
Making Jokes
I say something funny about the prince,
then the Baba and I laugh.
When I say the same to Vasilisa,
her mouth goes suddenly sour,
like a lemon too long on the shelf.
I try another, and another,
thinking I have to find the right one.
Soon I can make lemonade
from her face. I fall silent.
He’s a prince, she says,
as if it explains everything.
which of course it does.
Humor, it seems, does not change royalty,
does not supplant reality,
does not change the lusting heart.
I Consult the Baba
The prince and Vasilisa lock eyes.
Their fingers vine together.
They make small comforting noises
like a puddle of puppies
which makes Baba Yaga fart
in their general direction.
Surely not, I whisper to the Baba,
she isn’t such a fool.
You do not understand the human heart,
she tells me. It runs on lust
the way horses run on oats.
A necessary meal—but,
in the end, only grass.
Vasilisa Argues with the Baba
“Every loving has a death sentence…”
—Ask Baba Yaga website
I’m hanging on your every utterance,
old lady with the iron teeth,
but this time you have gone too far.
All the other tales promise me that love
lasts beyond death, but your straight razor
has slit my throat and the truth bleeds out.
Death is an ending, not a beginning.
I’ll try to remember this,
should I ever need to fall in love again.
The operative word is fall, I suppose.
No one your age who falls is expected to rise.
Baba Yaga Answers in Kind
Baba Yaga answers in kind, but without kindness,
something about age, something about gratitude,
something about honor, about how the world works.
She snorts and snarls, gnashes her iron teeth
until there are bright sparks and smoke in her mouth,
until her tongue burns with a vivid flame.
We back away from the conflagration.
I look for an extinguisher. Papa had one in every room.
Perhaps the little hut takes care of such things on its own.
Perhaps it is well used to dealing with the Baba’s fire.
An Orchard Tryst
I see them in the orchard.
They’ve settled under
the Beach Apple
which makes him cough.
He hawks up phlegm
into a silken handkerchief
which he crushes into a ball
and throws away in the weeds.
Small white petals fall
all around them,
making a wedding canopy.
I watch them through the scrim.
Their shadows kiss,
tongues dodging in and out,
like little animals seeking
a comfortable shelter.
A thrush sings from a burning bush.
An old wolf lies down next to a lamb.
A peacock fans open his fancy tail.
Corny stuff like that.
When the prince gets down on one knee,
I turn away. There’s no magic here.
What comes ever after will make
no one happy.
Especially me.
Silence in the House
There is silence in the house.
I recognize it, try to break it
with the worst words I know.
Even soap in the mouth
would be better than this.
Damn, I begin. Shit.
Double poop. Ass.
Baba Yaga looks at me
and laughs. Glances down
at her grimy fingernails
and slowly scratches one
against her iron nose.
The sound is worse
than the silence.
I wince.
Try these, she says.
Mudak, suka, dik.
She looks back and forth
between the prince
and Vasilisa, spitting
each word out as if
it tastes sour.
They don’t notice,
both so engrossed
in looking at themselves
looking at themselves.
Yebat, she adds loudly.
The question is clear in my eyes.
She laughs. I tell them get lost,
she says, or the equivalent.
I guess in English, the word
begins with a percussive F.
And who, I think, can be silent now?
The Prince Is Too
The prince is too old to be eaten,
Too big to be beaten,
too powerful to be killed,
too strong to be carted away.
He’s too wary to be caught,
too knowing to be fooled,
too well-armed to be pricked,
too deep in lust to leave.
He eats his own food,
carries his own drink in a thermos,
grinds his own coffee beans,
sleeps with his back against the wall.
He knows what he wants,
will get what he came for
whether it’s one girl or two.
Princes always do.
Vasilisa Dreaming
In the big bed, sleeping beside me,
Vasilisa dreams. She makes kissing noises,
touches my shoulder with her small hand,
palm down. I can feel the heat thro
ugh my gown.
She sighs, turns over, murmurs the prince’s name,
Ivan, which doesn’t sit prettily in her mouth,
being both egocentric and brutal.
It comes out covered in spit.
He’ll leave her for someone younger, prettier,
but not today.
She’ll leave him for someone older, richer,
already a king. But not tomorrow.
I feel her restlessness until I fall asleep.
When I wake, the bed is small, her side cold.
She’s gone on that long road into adulthood
from which none of us returns.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Runaways
Running Away From, Running Towards In Eight Fits
1.
Get up, the Baba yells, her words
derricking me into morning.
I leap into my clothes, have no time
to lace my shoes, or drink a cup of wakeup,
before we’re running out the door.
You drive, she says, by which I know
she wants speed. I’ll tell you where.
The mortar is sluggish at first,
but soon we’re careening along
the lanes of sky. Traffic’s light.
I can see the wind.
2.
There, she says, words strained by air.
She points to the two riding below,
Vasilisa behind, holding him tight.
I lean on the pestle and like a hawk
we make a great, steep stoop,
dropping toward our prey.
I feel the mortar flex and stretch.
Readying for the pounce,
I bank slightly to the right
Then straighten like a teacher’s ruler.
The prince looks up, but Vasilisa looks ahead.
The horse’s sides are thick with sweat.
3.
Then Vasilisa, silly, cunning girl,
looks up, loosens her hold
on the prince for a single moment,
takes out her mother’s comb.
She mumbles words I can’t make out,
flings the comb behind.
A strange forest of Norway pine
grows swiftly, raising green fists,
making a leafy barrier, a portcullis of limbs.
We must thread our way through
if we’re to keep them in sight.
