by Unknown
Yaga hunched up in despair, resting her cheek on her bone leg.
‘Our whole clan’s been liquidated. Kaput! Done away with! They’ve taken Koshchey the Deathless off to London – Europe needed living proof that even under the new regime not everybody kicks the bucket! Tom Thumb, the little slyboots, has wormed his way into counter-espionage. Little Humpbacked Horse got eaten in Moscow by people who were fed up with fasting.3 And Sleeping Beauty’s on the staff of the Council of People’s Commissars;4 she’s manning the telephone. As for the bog devils, they’ve joined a choir, they sing in the new-style churches. Yes, nowadays bride and groom carouse and say their marriage vows beneath a New Year tree. And the bogles sing for them – well, everyone has to make a living somehow. And as for Zmey Gorynych5 – tough as they come, but not even he could resist temptation. He signed up with the Cheka6 to supervise the disposal of dead bones. Kikimora’s working in the area of State aesthetics.7 As for the poor werewolf – he’s snuffed it. He’d become a quick-change artist – he was turning his coat twenty times a minute – and the public still wasn’t satisfied. He said he couldn’t keep up – and then he just keeled over.’
Baba Yaga began to cry.
‘I’m unhappy; I’m in a bad way. What am I going to do? There isn’t even going to be any proper snow here. How am I going to whirl up a whirlwind? How can I sweep over my tracks with a broom? All this is going to be the end of me, it’s clear as daylight.’
Baba Yaga was weeping, sobbing and sobbing. Grisha was still frightened, but he felt sorry for Baba Yaga; he could even feel his nose starting to prickle.
Yaga wiped away her tears with a burdock leaf and said to Grisha, ‘You go home, my fine warrior. Go your own way. I haven’t even got anything here I could roast you in. There are no proper stoves anywhere. They seem to have installed some kind of central heating in this forest of theirs – damn them!’
Grisha turned round. The strange little man was nodding to him from behind a bush.
‘All right? Could you understand what she said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hm. I couldn’t understand a word myself.’
The little man grabbed Grisha by the hand and whirled him back through the forest. Together they ran and span through the trees – through bushes, over stumps and jagged roots. The little man was singing and laughing:
I caught you on my hook,
By a forest brook,
And you were dancing too,
Dancing to my tune.
He span Grisha round like a top, gave him a shove in the back and was gone. And then, somewhere far away in the forest there was a hoot and the sound of something rolling over.
Grisha looked round. He could see familiar bushes – and, beyond them, the path back to the dachas.
He plodded back.
At home he got it in the neck – for his ripped stockings, for his filthy clothes, and because why did he have to go into the forest at all?
And above all – for telling such a pack of lies.
There is, evidently, no justice in the world.
Baba Yaga
(1932 picture book)
Once upon a time there lived a man and his wife. And they had a daughter. She was a good little girl.
Both mother and father loved their little girl. They took good care of her and even spoiled her. The mother would bake pies for her, and the father would stroke her hair and say, ‘Grow up healthy and strong, my clever darling. Grow up to be kinder and wiser than anyone in the world!’
And so they lived until the girl’s mother died. The father grieved and grieved, but in the end he found himself another wife. Now the little girl had a stepmother.
This wicked stepmother took against the little girl. She nagged at her day after day, and she beat her. After a while she took it into her head to do away with the girl altogether.
When the father had gone away for a while, the stepmother said to the girl, ‘Go and call on my sister, your auntie. Ask her for a needle and thread so I can sew you a shirt.’
This auntie, the stepmother’s sister, was a baba yaga. She was Baba Yaga, Bone-Leg.
But the little girl was no fool. First of all, she went to speak to her real auntie.
‘Good day, auntie!’ she said.
‘Good day, my darling! What’s brought you here?’
‘I wanted to tell you that my stepmother’s sending me to her sister. I’ve got to ask for a needle and thread so she can sew me a shirt.’
Her auntie heard what she had to say, then told her what she must do.
‘A birch tree will lash you across the face, my darling, but you must tie a little ribbon round it. The gate will creak and squeak. It will hit you and bang you, but you must pour oil on its hinges. Dogs will want to tear you apart, but you must throw them some bread. A tomcat will want to scratch you in the eye, but you must give him some ham. If you do as I say, if you don’t muddle or forget anything, you’ll come back safe and sound. God go with you!’
The little girl thanked her dear auntie and got ready to leave. She took with her a length of ribbon, a little bowl of oil, a hunk of bread and some ham.
She walked and walked. She walked, walked and walked. She walked all the way to the forest.
By the edge of the forest she saw a little hut with no doors or windows.
The little girl thought for a moment. Then she said, ‘Little hut, little hut, turn your face towards me and your back to the forest!’
The little hut turned around.
There was Baba Yaga, Bone Leg. She was sitting and sewing. She looked fierce and angry.
The little girl bowed to Baba Yaga. ‘Good day, auntie!’ she said.
‘Good day, my dear,’ grunted Baba Yaga.
‘My stepmother’s sent me to you. She wants a needle and thread so she can sew me a shirt.’
‘All right,’ said Baba Yaga. ‘But sit down for a while first. You can do a little embroidery for me.’
The little girl sat down at the embroidery frame. Yaga went outside and said to her maid, ‘Go and heat up the bathhouse so you can wash my niece for me. Make sure the steam’s good and hot, so you can steam every one of her little bones. I’ll be frying her tonight for my supper.’
Baba Yaga had a loud voice. It was like the wind when it howls in the chimney. The little girl heard every word. She sat there shaking, more dead than alive. But she said to the maid, in a quiet voice, ‘Dear maid! Don’t light the wood but pour water over it instead. And when you bring the water for steam, carry it inside in a sieve.’
And then she gave the maid a present: her own little kerchief.
Baba Yaga was waiting. She was growing impatient. She wanted to eat the little girl up.
She went to the window and asked, ‘Are you still working, my girl? Are you still sewing?’
‘Yes, auntie, I’m still working hard. I’m still sewing.’
‘Keep sewing then. And mind you don’t tangle the threads.’
Baba Yaga stepped back from the window. The little girl caught sight of the tomcat. He was black and he had yellow eyes. He was walking about the room with his tail straight up in the air, his eyes half-closed, twitching his whiskers and scratching the floorboards with his claws.
The little girl remembered what her auntie had told her. She gave the cat some ham and said, ‘Dear puss, sweet puss, tell me what I must do. Teach me what to do to get out of here!’
And the cat replied, in a human voice, ‘Here are a comb and a towel for you. Take them and run. Baba Yaga will chase you. And you must put your ear to the ground and listen. When you hear her come close, you must throw down this towel. It will turn into a wide, wide river. But if Baba Yaga’s very cunning, if she manages to cross the river, if she starts to catch up with you again, then you must put your ear to the ground a second time. When you hear her come close, you must throw down this comb. It will turn into a deep, dense forest, and she’ll never be able to make her way through it.’
As the girl ran out of
the hut, some fierce dogs appeared. Barking and snarling, they seemed to appear out of nowhere, out of thin air. They leaped at the girl. They wanted to tear her to pieces.
The girl was terrified, but she remembered what her auntie had told her.
‘Good dogs!’ she called out. ‘Good dogs! Don’t bark and don’t snarl! Don’t scare me or scar me! Let me pass! And here’s some bread for you.’
She threw the dogs some bread, and they let her pass.
The girl ran on further. When she reached the outer gate, it creaked and squeaked, then banged shut. It didn’t want to let her pass.
The girl remembered what her auntie had told her and poured oil onto the hinges.
‘Gate, gate!’ she called out. ‘Don’t creak and don’t squeak! Let me pass quietly and don’t call your mistress!’
The gate was very happy to feel the oil on its hinges. It opened wide and let the girl pass.
The girl ran on. Suddenly there was a birch tree barring her path. It appeared out of nowhere, out of thin air. It was waving its branches about, trying to lash her across her eyes.
The girl was terrified, but she remembered her auntie’s instructions and tied her little ribbon around the trunk of the birch tree.
‘Let me pass, silver birch! Let me pass!’
The birch tree let the girl pass.
And all this time the tomcat had been sitting at the embroidery frame. But he hadn’t done any sewing. He had just tangled everything up.
Baba Yaga went to the window. ‘Are you still working hard, my girl?’ she asked. ‘Are you still sewing, dear niece?’
‘Yes, I’m still working, mean auntie. I’m still sewing, cruel auntie.’
Yaga was surprised by the girl’s harsh voice. She rushed into the hut and realized that the girl was not there.
Baba Yaga was furious. She was angry with the cat, and she was angry that she had spent all day sharpening her teeth to no purpose. She started thrashing the cat. She beat him and flogged him and cursed him:
‘How dare you, you thieving brute of a cat? How dare you let her go without scratching her eyes out?’
The cat wiped away his tears and said to Yaga in a human voice, ‘I’ve served you for many years, Yaga, and you’ve never given me even an old bone you’ve picked clean – but the girl gave me a piece of good ham!’
Baba Yaga rode off. Next it was the turn of the dogs. She beat them and lashed them till their coats were matted like felt:
‘You faithless windbags! All bark and no bite! How dare you let the girl out of the hut without tearing her flesh into shreds?’
The dogs took offence. They said, in human voices, ‘We’ve served you for many years, Yaga, and you haven’t once thrown us so much as a burnt crust – but the girl gave us good bread!’
Yaga gave up beating the dogs. Now it was the turn of the gate:
‘How dare you, you wretched gate? How dare you not creak and squeak and call out to me? How dare you let that girl out? I’ll take an axe to you and hack you to pieces! Soon you’ll be splinters of firewood!’
In a human voice, the gate replied, ‘I’ve served you for many years, but you haven’t once even given me water. But the little girl poured oil onto my hinges!’
Next, Yaga was yelling at the birch tree:
‘How dare you, you wretched birch? I’ll rip you out of the ground and use all your twigs to make besom brooms! How dare you let the girl pass? How dare you not lash her across the face?’
In a human voice, the birch replied, ‘I’ve served you for many years. You’ve never once even tied a thread round my trunk, but the little girl gave me a pretty ribbon!’
Yaga stopped shaking the birch tree and turned instead to her maid, ‘Lazy, sponging slut! How dare you let the little girl out of the hut? How dare you leave me without any supper?’
She punched the maid with her fists. She gnashed her teeth at her. She kicked her in the back with her bone leg.
And the maid replied, ‘I’ve served you for many years. You’ve never once given me so much as a torn rag, but the little girl gave me a pretty kerchief!’
Yaga wanted to gnaw her maidservant to death, but she didn’t have time. She had to catch up with the little girl.
Yaga crawled down into the storeroom. She got out her copper mortar and rolled it along the ground. She found her pestle and her broom. She got into the mortar – and off she went, crashing and rumbling.
Yaga hurtled on in her mortar, spurring it on with her pestle, sweeping up her tracks with her broom.
The little girl felt the earth start to shake. She put her ear to the ground and listened: Yaga was catching up with her. She was very close indeed.
The little girl remembered what the cat had said and threw down the towel he had given her.
The towel fell on the grass and turned into a broad, broad river. It was so broad that you wouldn’t be able to cross it even in three days.
Baba Yaga hurtled up to the edge of the river and stopped. What could she do? How could she cross the water in a copper mortar?
Baba Yaga ground her teeth, banged her pestle and returned home. Then she herded her oxen together, drove them to the river and ordered them to drink up the water.
The oxen drank and drank. They drank and drank until they had drunk the river dry.
Baba Yaga got back into her mortar. She set off again over dry land. The mortar roared and rumbled. She spurred it on with her pestle and swept up her tracks with her broom.
The little girl felt the earth start to shake. She put her ear to the ground and listened: Yaga was catching up with her again. She was very close indeed.
The little girl remembered what the cat had said, took the comb and threw it down on the path behind her.
And straight away a dense, dark forest rose out of the earth. It was so dense and so dark that not even a worm would have been able to worm its way through – let alone a human being.
But Baba Yaga knew nothing of this. She hurtled on in her mortar, spurring it on with her pestle. She was determined to catch up with the girl.
‘I didn’t get any lunch,’ she was thinking, ‘but it doesn’t matter. There’ll be all the more room for my supper.’
Her mortar knocked and banged and rumbled. Pillars of dust twisted into the sky.
Yaga hurtled on towards the forest – but there was no way through. There was no way she could pass through the trees.
Baba Yaga got out of her mortar, ran to the very edge of the forest and began gnawing the trees. She gnawed and gnawed – but after gnawing for a long time she had felled only ten oaks. All she had really done was to make her teeth even sharper.
Yaga made her way back home.
The girl’s father was also on his way back to his hut. When he got in, he asked, ‘Where’s my daughter?’
The stepmother replied, ‘She’s gone to her auntie’s.’
The father didn’t believe this.
And then, all of a sudden, there was his daughter. Her face blank from terror, she came running in as fast as her legs would carry her.
‘Where have you been, my darling?’ he asked her.
‘My stepmother sent me to my auntie’s to ask for a needle and thread so she could sew me a shirt. But this auntie is a Baba Yaga, Bone Leg, and she wanted to eat me.’
‘Dear daughter, how did you manage to get away from her?’
And the girl told her father everything: how her real auntie had given her wise advice, how the tomcat had pitied her and given her a comb and a towel, how the maid had disobeyed Baba Yaga and not heated the bathhouse. She told her father about the gate and about the dogs and about the birch tree.
Her father was very angry when he learned that his wife had wanted to feed his daughter to Baba Yaga. He took a large stick and drove the wicked stepmother out of the hut.
And he and his daughter lived and prospered.
I was there, and I drank mead and beer. It ran down my beard but did not pass my lips.
The Dog
(a story from a stranger)
Do you remember that tragic death? The death of that artful Edvers? The whole thing happened right in front of my eyes. I was even indirectly involved.
His death was extraordinary enough in itself, but the strange tangle of events around it was still more astonishing. At the time I never spoke about these events to anyone. Nobody knew anything except the man who is now my husband. There was no way I could have spoken about them. People would have thought I was mad and I would probably have been suspected of something criminal. I would have been dragged still deeper into that horror – which was almost too much for me as things were. A shock like that is hard to get over.
It’s all in the past now. I found some kind of peace long ago. But, you know, the further my past recedes from me, the more distinctly I can make out the clear, direct, utterly improbable line that is the axis of this story. So, if I am to tell this story at all, I have to tell you all of it, the way I see it now.
If you want to, you can easily check that I haven’t made any of this up. You already know how Edvers died. Zina Volotova (née Katkova) is alive and well. And if you still don’t believe me, my husband can confirm every detail.
In general, I believe that many more miracles take place in the world than we think. You only need to know how to see – how to follow a thread, how to follow the links in a chain of events, not rejecting something merely because it seems improbable, neither jumbling the facts nor forcing your own explanations on them.
Some people like to make every trivial event into a miracle. Where everything is really quite straightforward and ordinary, they introduce all kinds of personal forebodings and entirely arbitrary interpretations of dreams, made to fit their stories. And then there are other, more sober, people who treat everything beyond their understanding with supreme scepticism, dissecting and analysing away whatever they find inexplicable.
I belong to neither of these groups. I do not intend to explain anything at all. I shall simply tell you everything truthfully, just as it happened, beginning at what I myself see as the story’s beginning.
