BABA YAGA

Once upon a time in the land of Russe on Earth, a little girl named Petruska lived with her mother and father. They were very happy. Then one day the mother became sick. She knew she was dying and called her daughter to her.

"Soon I won't be here to look after you," she said. The little girl buried her head in her mother's breast and cried. The mother brushed her head. "Shush, shush. Look. When I am gone, this doll will remind you of me. Keep it safe, feed it and care for it, and it will help you."

The mother handed Petruska a small stuffed doll dressed in felt boots, an apron and an embroidered red dress, such as Petruska wore. The doll fitted perfectly into the pocket of her apron.

The mother died, Petruska and her father grieved. Then, because men need women, the father fell in love again and married. The stepmother and her two daughters gave loving looks and kind words to Petruska when her father was in the room, but as soon as he left, they tormented her and treated her like a slave, making her work from morning ‘til night on all the hard, dirty chores.

The stepmother knew Petruska would inherit so she hatched a plan to rid them of her. One night, after the father had gone on a long trip, she made sure the fire went out. In Russe, in the middle of winter, this created a disaster. They couldn't wash, they couldn't cook and the water froze in the bowls and buckets.

"You stupid lazy girl," the stepmother shouted at Petruska. "How could you let the fire go out? We're done. Where can we find a flame?" Petruska hung her head in shame.

"What about the witch?" smirked the older stepdaughter. "She would have a flame."

"Yes. That's what you'll do. Get a flame from Baba Yaga," commanded the stepmother. "The day is fine and crisp. Off you go."

They pushed Petruska out into the snow. She started off, her little doll hidden in her coat pocket. The sun shone, a yolk in a robin's egg sky, but the icy air burned her nostrils and froze icicles around her hood.

The snow lay deep in the forest but the little doll would move first this way, then that, showing Petruska the safe paths. The little girl stopped to eat a crust of bread, giving a few crumbs to the doll. Suddenly, a white knight on a white horse charged by them, on down the path. The doll hugged Petruska's fingers as if to say, "Never mind about that."

The little girl trudged on. The sun began to set. A red knight on a red horse rode by. The doll snuggled in her palm as if to say, "Never mind about that." The sky darkened and a black knight on a black horse galloped by. Petruska knew to "Never mind about that."

Just as she was thinking about lying down in the soft snow -- a bad thing in cold winter, many have frozen from the thought -- Petruska saw a glow through the trees. She crept forward, trying to peer through the blowing snow. A row of spiked human skulls flamed like white gourd Jack O' Lanterns. The doll in her pocket hopped as if to say, "This is the home of Baba Yaga."

Petruska stared in horrified wonder. Snow dusted the human and animal bones that jammed the spaces between the upright spikes, creating a barren wall. The gate was built of bleached human femurs and tibias from victims who would never walk again. The falling snow cleared. Huge yellow chicken legs stomped in the middle of the yard. Petruska looked way up. A house complete with shuttered windows and wooden door perched atop the chicken legs. The house stalked back and forth, guarding Baba Yaga's land.

Screeching rent the air. A huge black cauldron whirled into the yard, Baba Yaga paddling the wind with her giant wooden spoon. Petruska stole up to the gate. The witch hopped out of her cauldron. Skinny and bent with great age, she tossed back her black hood and sniffed the air with her huge nose.

"I smell a human," she grated. "A girl human, plump and pink cheeked. Come in and tell dear Baba Yaga your troubles."

The skeleton gate swung open. Petruska clutched the doll deep in her pocket, straightened herself for bravery and walked through.

"Our fire has gone out and we can't live without a flame," she said. "My stepmother sent me to see if you might have some to spare."

"Did she now?" leered the witch. "Come. I need a slave and you're obedient enough, coming out in the dead of winter to find a flame."

The house knelt down to let them in. Petruska shivered as they passed through the door. The knocker was made of knuckle bones.

"You sleep here," said Baba Yaga, pointing to a bundle of smelly rags by the fireplace. "If you last that long." She showed Petruska a room full of straw. "You count this piece by piece. Tell me the amount in the morning or..." she smirked, "the oven is heating and will be perfect for a roast."

Baba Yaga sat down at her table. A pile of food and drink as high as a man and as wide as three pigs appeared in front of her. She gobbled every morsel except the crust she threw at Petruska. The witch stumbled to her bed, pulled her thick covers up to her pointed chin and filled the house with thundering snores. Petruska picked at her bread, her appetite gone. She fed the doll a few crumbs then went to the room to count straw.

"One, two, three, four..." Petruska knelt on the floor, gathering the straw in her hands as she counted each piece. Soon she had filled her arms and as she gathered, the pieces slid back onto the floor to mingle with the uncounted straw. She burst into tears and dropped the bundle.

"How can I ever count this?" she sobbed to her doll. The doll seemed to smile with love and sympathy. The answer popped into Petruska's head. "Less than the stars, more than the trees." She fell asleep hugging the doll.

The next morning, Baba Yaga forced her to make a giant pot of cereal before she asked, "How many pieces of straw?"

"Less than the stars, more than the trees," quavered Petruska. She trembled as she knelt, waiting for Baba Yaga to grab her and stuff her in the oven.

"What!" screamed the witch. "You will clean the house and have my supper made by the time I return."

She threw on her cape and stormed out of the house. The cauldron whirled away. Petruska collapsed on the floor with a sigh. After awhile she rose and cleaned the house and prepared the huge supper. Baba Yaga snorted when she returned and saw the work completed. She took Petruska to a room filled to the top with dried peas.

"There's pebbles in my dinner from these. Sort the stones from the peas by the morning," she commanded. "Or my soup will have plenty of meat."

Baba Yaga sat down at the table and devoured her meal, then stumbled to bed, pulled the covers up to her sunken mouth and rocked the house with her snoring. Petruska began to sort the pebbles from the peas. Soon her apron was filled. The stones slid out the sides to mingle with the clean pile. The little girl sat in despair, hugging her doll. The doll snuggled against her, seeming to say, "Don't mind about that. Go to sleep." Petruska crawled to the pile of rags and fell into an exhausted sleep. She startled awake at Baba Yaga's roar.

"Get up and put the peas in my pot."

Petruska rushed to the room and found the pebbles and the peas in two neat piles. She dumped peas into the cauldron, all the while wondering when Baba Yaga would push her in. But the hag only made her throw in potatoes and spices, carrots and stock. Three pairs of hands appeared in the air and began to stir the soup with the wooden ladle. The doll moved in Petruska's pocket and an idea jumped into the little girl's mind.

"Grandmother," whispered Petruska. "May I ask you some questions?"

"Go ahead," smirked the witch.

"Who is the white knight on the white horse who passed me on my way here?"

"That is my day."

"Who is the red knight on the red horse who galloped by me?"

"That is my sunset."

"And who is the black knight on the black horse who trotted by me?"

"That is my favourite, my night." Baba Yaga leered, "Any more questions?"

Petruska glanced at the stirring hands, wishing to know all about them. The witch noticed the glance and her mouth widened into a horrible maw. The doll jumped and careened in Petruska's pocket.

"No. Nothing more," said Petruska snapping her mouth shut in case words should slip out.

"Who taught you when to ask and when to not?" asked the witch with suspicion.

"My mother who loved me and showed me how to say my prayers."

The witch screamed in pain. "NO. No love, no kindness. Get you gone."

"What about my flame?" asked Petruska with sudden boldness.

"Take a skull. Wrap it in your apron and do not show it until you get home," snapped Baba Yaga. "House. Let her out. Now."

Petruska grabbed her coat, ran out the door, down the path and through the gate. She climbed the bones and grabbed one of the skulls then took off her apron and wrapped it around. Even then, light shone out into the winter gloom.

Petruska found her home as night fell. Her stepmother and her daughters lived in dread. Since the little girl had vanished into the forest, they could not light even a single flame. All their flints and tapers came to nought. The house was cold and dark. They couldn't wash, they couldn't cook and the water froze in the bowls and buckets. They greeted Petruska with joy when they saw the light shining from beneath her apron.

"You got the flame," exclaimed her stepmother.

"Yes," replied Petruska.

She opened her apron. The skull's flames flared out into the room. The stepmother and her daughters screamed as they burned to cinders and bones. An icy wind rushed through the house and blew the remains away, out into the forest. Where perhaps Baba Yaga has found a use for them.