by Max Candee
At least that was the story Uncle Misha had told me time and time again, whenever I had asked him about my family.
* * *
After our long, sweaty hike up the mountain, the wind on the lake was refreshing. The rocking of the rowboat lulled Lauraleigh into near sleep, but I was far too excited to rest now. I asked Uncle Misha dozens of questions, firing one after another, not even giving him time to answer.
“Where’s my father? Did you know my grandmother is Baba Yaga? Why does she want me? Has she taken my father? Can I see him?”
He chuckled softly. “All in good time, little Anna Sophia. Let us get out of the damp night and put some food in your bellies. Then we will talk.”
Another question rushed to my lips, but I held it back. Uncle Misha strained under the weight of the oars. He had no breath to answer my questions now.
I studied him. He looked almost exactly as I remembered him: long, wild hair, bushy eyebrows, kind eyes. But his hair was more white than black now, and his face was lined with wrinkles that hadn’t been there before. They made him seem softer than I remembered, like a chalk drawing that’s been partly rubbed out.
“Would you like me to row?” I asked, worried that the task might be too much for him now.
“No, child. You’ve had a longer journey than me.”
A few minutes later, the boat bumped up against the dock. Lauraleigh, who had started to doze, jerked awake. I jumped onto the dock and tied the boat to the dock just as I’d done a hundred times as a child. Then I helped Lauraleigh onto the dock.
She shivered.
“I’ve got a fire inside and some dinner,” Uncle Misha said. “Come, let’s warm you up.”
Inside, the cabin was almost exactly as I remembered it, with a few new touches. The floor, walls, and ceiling were all made of rough-hewn logs. Rugs hooked from old rags warmed the floors. I remembered when Uncle Misha had taught me the art of rug hooking. I looked around… Yes, there it was. My first attempt at a rug was still in its place of honor by the stove.
The furniture was old and worn, but comfortable. The great room was divided into a kitchen and a living room only by a wooden table. There I had spent many enjoyable afternoons, sipping hot apple cider and reading a new picture book whenever Uncle Misha had been to town.
I was surprised to notice a few modern additions. A coffee maker sat on the counter beside the stove. A radio played classical music beside the hearth, and the old icebox had been replaced by a new refrigerator-freezer. How was he getting electricity here? Was it all solar-powered? I didn’t hear any generator outside.
We had each eaten two bowls of stew before Uncle Misha was satisfied that we wouldn’t perish from hunger.
“You are a good friend to have come all this way with Anna,” Uncle Misha said to Lauraleigh.
“She doesn’t understand,” I said. “Let me translate.”
Uncle Misha’s bushy eyebrows crawled up. “A foreigner, huh? And what tongue does she speak?”
“French,” I said. “Also English and some German.”
He smiled. “You are a good friend to have come all this way with Anna,” he repeated in perfect French. Not only that but he spoke with a clearly articulated Swiss accent. How was that possible?
I gasped. “Uncle Misha!”
He chortled and patted me on the head.
“Anna collects good friends,” Lauraleigh said. She smiled as if Uncle Misha speaking French were the most natural thing in the world. “She’s the bravest, kindest person I know,” she added.
I tried not to blush under their gazes. I hadn’t gotten over Uncle Misha’s language ability. I decided to ask about that later since he didn’t seem open to talking about it now.
“Anna was raised well by the bears,” Uncle Misha said, but I knew he was pleased. “I am glad to meet Anna’s friend. As glad as I am to have my little Malyshka back with me again.” His eyes turned somber. “I just wish it were under happier circumstances.”
“Please, Uncle Misha,” I said in French. “Tell me about my father! Your letter mentioned only that he’s in trouble, possibly taken by the Red Horseman. But why? Why would Baba Yaga want to hurt my father?”
“Ah, so you know about your grandmother,” said Uncle Misha. “I should have guessed that a smart child like you would figure some things out.”
“Actually, it was Lauraleigh who realized that’s who she is. I don’t really know much about her. I read some stories when I was younger, but I don’t remember much. All I really know is what Lauraleigh told me. And I got a letter from my mother when I turned thirteen. But it didn’t explain much.”
“Well then,” said Uncle Misha with a sigh, “we would better start at the beginning.”
This is what he told us.
It was not the story I was used to.
* * *
“First, you need to know about Koschey,” Uncle Misha said.
I didn’t know the name, but Lauraleigh tensed beside me.
“Koschey goes by many names,” Uncle Misha continued. “The Eater of Death, the Immortal One, the Deathless are but a few of them. He is the spirit of death, the dark angel who helps souls after they find their way into the afterlife.”
“Like the grim reaper?” I asked, confused.
“Grim, yes, but nothing like that hooded creature with a scythe. Koschey has always been a bit of a stern, forbidding character, though he can be quite handsome and charming when he wants to be. He is immortal, which is why he is grim. Eternal loneliness will do that to a fellow. You see, when everyone around you dies eventually, it is difficult to give your heart away or even strike up friendships. If you know you will have to face the grief of a friend’s death — if it is absolutely guaranteed they will leave you and you will remain behind — well, you can see how it would be easier to try and cut yourself off from all that, can’t you?”
“So he’s an orphan too,” Lauraleigh said softly.
Uncle Misha’s bushy eyebrows rose.
“Yes, Miss Lauraleigh,” he said thoughtfully, “I suppose he is, in a way. I had not thought of it that way before.”
His respect for Lauraleigh had definitely grown. So had mine. I wouldn’t have made that connection either, but she was right; to be cut off from everyone was to be orphaned. But at least orphans like Lauraleigh and me did have some family: the other orphans, her grandparents, my uncle. Did Koschey have no one at all?
Already I was starting to feel sorry for him.
“Well,” Uncle Misha went on. “In his early years, before he had become quite so gloomy, Koschey often fell in love with mortal women — usually ones with flashy tempers and high spirits, as I recall! The relationships did not always end well; when two strong spirits clash, it often does not. But he would be happy enough for a time. Still, even if things lasted, eventually his women would grow old. Eventually, they would die. And as the centuries passed, the less he interacted with people, the fewer his romances became, the more he merely attended to his duties, the more he refused to risk leaving his castle to walk the world, the less he dared speak with those he did not know, for fear he would grow too fond of them. That is when he began to be feared, I suppose — when he retreated and became a mystery to people instead of someone they were familiar with.”
We were silent for a moment. Then Lauraleigh said, “You mentioned he deals with souls after they reach the afterlife. Does he also help them on the way?”
“Ah! Aren’t you the clever one?” Uncle Misha said with a smile that seemed sad, even rueful. “Certainly, the people who are afraid of him think that. Nobody wants to die, after all. But as I said, Koschey is not a reaper.” He gave his rueful smile again and looked at me. “Who do you think stands with one leg in the world of the dead and the other in the world of the living?”
I noticed he didn’t quite answer Lauraleigh’s question, but his own question distracted me. An old childish rhyme came out of my mouth before I could even think about what Uncle Misha had said. “Baba Yaga �
� kostyanaya noga.” Of course! Baba Yaga with a bone leg. How could I have forgotten all those stories? It felt like a veil was being lifted from my memories. “We read all those stories together in this very cabin,” I said. “Why did I only just remember that?”
Uncle Misha shrugged. “I do not know, Malyshka. Maybe you were simply too young to remember. Or maybe someone has played with your memory. If you do not mind, tell me: What was in the letter that you received from your mother?”
“I don’t mind at all,” I said. I pulled Mother’s letter, Squire and the drawing of the house on chicken legs and gave them to Uncle Misha. “The drawing comes alive in the moonlight. And Squire in a flame.”
“I know,” he said. “I will not read your letter. Words are private.” Instead, he looked at Squire and the drawing. He tapped the old woman in the drawing and sighed. “Yes. This is how she looks now.
“But she was not always ugly. Once, she was young and beautiful and full of fiery passion, just the sort of woman Koschey had always admired. And they were colleagues of a sort, both working with the souls of the dead: she at the moment of their death, he after.
“Now I do not know the entire story,” he said. “Neither Koschey or Baba Yaga ever revealed it. There are many versions as to why they became enemies. The rumor I have heard most often — though I have never had the courage to ask Koschey about its truth — says that she attempted to make him fall in love with her. Those who tell that story disagree as to whether it was because she was in love with him or because she wished to trick him in some way. But what they all agree on is that for whatever reason, he spurned her.”
Uncle Misha stopped to fill his pipe. For a long moment, we sat in silence, thinking about his words. Uncle Misha lit the pipe and settled back in his chair to continue.
“Well, Baba Yaga has never taken well to being rejected. Some say this was when she lost her teeth, from gnashing them together in her rage. I do not know if that is true, but certainly, at some point, she lost her youth and beauty fast, like a dandelion tossing seeds to the wind. And as her beauty faded, her power increased. Again, some say it happens to all witches; their lost youth is the price they pay for their power. But I do not know that. I stay away from witches.”
I felt hot blood rush to my face. “I’m a witch, Uncle.”
He reached out and ran the back of his hand along my cheek. “Do not get upset, Malyshka. You just need to stay human. Do not use that power that tries to settle inside you. Ignore it.”
“Ignore it?” I didn’t even try to hide my disappointment.
“Monsieur Michel,” Lauraleigh said before I could protest any further, “do you mean Anna Sophia will lose a bit of her youth every time she uses magic?”
Uncle Misha nodded.
“That is how I understand it,” he said, “but I may well be wrong, for I am no expert in magic and have no wish to be one. My own affairs are with the living world, where there is no more magic than the turning of the seasons, the blooming of the flowers, and the growing of the trees. I deal not with spirits, for the lives I am concerned with are those of the animals: the beasts, be they predator or prey, and the birds, whose power to fly comes from the strength of their wings and not from some spell. Their lives have been set in their pattern for generations, the pattern that things must germinate and be born and ripen, and one day die. Then from their bones may grow that which their children and their children’s children may feast upon so that they too may flourish and be fruitful — and have no need of witchery.”
Uncle Misha’s voice seemed to grow deeper and stronger as he spoke, as if thunder were rumbling beneath his words. He suddenly seemed impressive in the dim light as though the years had fallen from him. A sense of power enveloped him that I had never felt from him before. Even Lauraleigh seemed to feel it.
Again, we sat in silence for a long while, each lost in our private thoughts. I found that silence unbearable. What did he mean, I should ignore my power? No matter what he said, how could I give up that wonderful feeling of freedom that came from using it? The ability to fly? To protect those I cared about?
“No, no, that can’t be right,” I said. “It’s only when I use my magic to hurt someone—”
“That darkness enters your heart,” Uncle Misha said, interrupting me. “Yes, I know. But Anna, can you risk its use? The bears do not need magic, Anna. Assuredly, you do not either.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Uncle Misha continued his story. “In any case, there grew a feud between Koschey and Baba Yaga, whatever its cause. It became dangerous to be friends with either of them, for then the other inevitably became your enemy. But it was just as impossible to stay neutral. Nobody knew how it would end, because nobody understood what victory would be for either of them. Some rumors said that Baba Yaga was seeking to bind Koschey to her will, while others claimed that Koschey had started it all by refusing to let Baba Yaga continue escorting the dead to the gates of his realm. How could such a war ever end?
“But then, one day, something entirely unexpected happened. I do not know how. One does not learn these secrets. You must understand, this was not open warfare, at least not often. Koschey and Baba Yaga are not the types one sees often. So there will always be gaps in the tale.
“But this much is certain: At some point, Koschey met and fell in love with Baba Yaga’s daughter, Sereda.”
“My mother?” I asked in a squeaky voice, forgetting my disappointment at what Uncle Misha had said about my power and the price I was paying for using it. Those thoughts were of no importance. Uncle Misha was talking about my parents, and that was all that mattered now. My mother. Sereda. With whom Koschey had fallen in love.
And now I knew why Uncle Misha had started talking about Koschey.
He nodded. “Your mother.” His eyes gazed at a point far away as if for him, the little cabin had melted away and my parents stood before him. My parents. My mother, whose name I now knew, and my father, whose name I had just learned as well.
I wished I could see them in my imagination too, but for me, they were still fuzzy inkblots in a story that seemed too fantastic to be true. Except that I’d seen a wolf turn into a man. I’d seen a statue of a hand come to life. I’d flown in a bucket, and I’d felt cold darkness creep into my chest. I knew that even the most fantastic story could be true. And despite the horrors in this tale, I wanted it to be true. I wanted to believe that my parents had fallen in love and were being kept apart — kept away from me — only by an evil witch.
“This part of the story I do know,” Uncle Misha went on. “For I played my part in it. I knew your father, Anna Sophia. He used to visit me quite often. He liked the peacefulness of this little lake. Koschey would sit on the dock with fishing poles, not really expecting to catch anything, and he would tell me stories of his youth. Oh, those stories. Even then, I knew I was privileged to be the recipient of such tales. Though he would never tell me everything.
“But one day he showed up without my expecting him at all. I had never seen him like that. Bedraggled, exhausted, with a look in his eyes I would have called fear, had he been anyone else. His clothes were as ragged as his breathing. And he had a young woman with him. Sereda.
“That was the first time I met your mother,” said Uncle Misha, nodding at me. “She was not well. So very pale, and circles under her eyes, as much from sorrow as from tiredness. She would not speak. I took both of them into my cabin and fed them. For three days, Sereda scarcely moved. She just lay there on that bed, sipping the soup I spooned into her mouth but nothing else, staring up at the ceiling. Koschey never left her side. He sat right here on the hard floor, his gaze fixed on her, his hands clutching hers. I had never seen such devotion and never have since.”
Uncle Misha took a deep draw on his pipe and let the smoke out slowly. His eyes were distant as if he saw in the smoke what he was telling us.
“After three days, she finally fell asleep, and I was able to take Koschey aside. I walked him
out to the shore. He was as malleable as a child. It was frightening; he seemed utterly defeated, and worse — uncertain. I told him he had to let me know what was going on. If nothing else, by the laws of hospitality, he owed me the truth.
“That was when I discovered who your mother was, Anna Sophia. I will not say it was not a shock, because it was. I knew, vaguely, that Baba Yaga had a daughter, of course. But I had no idea she was anything other than a child. And for her to be here with Koschey, and for him to be so clearly in love with her — well. There were always stories in the old days that Koschey was in the habit of kidnapping the women he loved. But this was clearly different.
“I had to shake his shoulders more than once to get the story from him. I cannot begin to explain to you what that was like. Your father is not the sort of man one touches, let alone roughly. But it seemed the only way to make him react. Still, eventually he told me. For some reason, he had been in Baba Yaga’s house. He would never tell me why or for how long, but he had been.
“He met Sereda, and they fell in love behind her mother’s back. But at some point, she found out, and her anger was terrible. They had to run, to flee from her. So he took her to the only safe place he could think of, the only peaceful haven he knew. Where his friend, the Great Trapper, could keep watch over them and Baba Yaga would never look for them.”
“Did she?” Lauraleigh asked. She was clearly as caught up in the story as I was.
“Perhaps,” said Uncle Misha, “but if so, she did not find us. The lives of beasts are of no concern to her, and the bears gave us good protection. It is not good,” he said with a growl, “to disturb the bears. I have no doubt that she could defeat them all, but she would have to try hard, and the price she would pay would be bitter. She knows better than to attempt it. Perhaps she guessed where your parents were, but she was wise enough not to test her guess.”
