First day at Baba Yaga’s Hut on Chicken Legs, Deep in the Dark Forest

Banging and shouting woke me.  The sky was still dark, but the morning chorus of birds was well begun.  Baba Yaga stood at the foot of the ladder yelling reveille, banging a spoon on a pan.

 

I dressed quickly, clambered down the ladder, falling at Baba Yaga’s feet, breathless. 

 

“By the time I return I want this hut free of dust, not a single speck anywhere.  The cups are silver, polish them.  Not a smidgeon of tarnish should remain.  Bake bread.  And card the wool you find in the shed.”

 

Baba Yaga flew out the door into her mortar and was away before I drew a breath.

 

My little doll peered out of my pocket.  “Well, we can’t work on empty stomachs.”

 

We toasted bread over the fire and made tea.  As we ate my little doll gave me the plan to tackle the chores.

 

“Leave the indoor tasks to me.  You card the wool.”  She pulled out something form her pocket and put it on the tip of my finger.  “Use these combs to card the wool.”

 

I could barely see the combs, and doubted they would be much help, but what is the sense in questioning a talking doll that just happens to have the necessary tool for the task in her pocket?

 

I took myself out of the dancing house to the shed behind it.  Palatial estate might have been a better word to describe the building I found.  It was full to bursting with bales of very dirty, tangled, wool, as much debris as wool.  I hoped Baba Yaga would not return until the next millennium that I might have enough time to complete the task.  Instinct told me I had until dark at best.

 

I sat on a stool by the door and began to comb, as the Red Knight galloped past bringing the sunrise with him.   I was finished by the time the White Knight cantered past with the midday sun.  The shed was full of smooth, clean rolags of soft wool.  The colors ranged from the purest white to deep black and brown, and every shade between. 

 

Impulsively I climbed to the top of the shed and jumped into the wool, as I used to do in my grandfather’s hay loft.  More memories came back to as I lay in the wool, breathing its lanolin scent, as sweet as fresh hay in Grandpa’s barn. 

 

When I woke, it was to the clatter of mortar and pestle in the yard.  I scrambled through the wool to the door in time to meet Baba Yaga nose to nose.  Her breath is fetid.  I gagged and staggered out of her way.

 

“I see the wool is carded.  Let me see the house.”

 

As if I could prevent her!  She stomped across the yard to the door, jumped nimbly up to the threshold and in the door.  I stumbled behind her.  The inside shone, the cups gleamed bright, and the bread was steaming in a basket on the table.  The table was set for two, shining silver tankard, wooden bowl and spoon. 

 

Baba Yaga grunted.   Through the open door I saw the Black Knight trot past, trailing stars behind him.

 

We sat down to supper as we had the night before.  After supper we gathered round the hearth and watched the flames.  Baba Yaga puffed away at her pipe and I caressed the memories of being a child on a farm, climbing lilac bushes and collecting dandelions.

 

“Don’t you have questions?”  Baba Yaga’s voice was harsh as skin scraped across stone.

 

“Yes, but I haven’t really thought them over.  Some I think I have figured out.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I think so, the Knights.  The Red Knight is sunrise, the White Knight Noonday, and the Black Knight is nightfall.”

 

“You surmise correctly.  Anything else you wonder about?”

 

“Yes, but I want to think about them more.”

 

“So think.”  Baba Yaga snorted.  “Go to bed.  You will be as busy tomorrow as you were today.”

 

I climbed the ladder to the loft.  Tonight my mattress was stuffed with wool.  It was like sleeping on a cloud.  Again, I cuddled myself into the warmth of bed and blanket, gazing out the window, listening to the wind until I fell asleep.

Unknown Date, Baba Yaga’s Hut on Chicken Legs, Somewhere in the Dark Forests

Sleeping in a tree may be safest, but it is also very uncomfortable.  I awoke aching in every limb.  I clambered down from the oak with difficulty.  I broke my fast with my little doll, and then trudged onward through the dark forest.

 

After hours of walking I smelled the putrid scent of sulfur in the air.  Following my nose I came to a hot spring gurgling over rocks, illuminated by a sickle moon.  I shed my clothes and pack and worries to soak in the steaming water.  I closed my eyes and sighed.  Every kink in my body melted away. 

 

There may be troubles a hot bath won’t soothe, but I don’t know what they may be.

 

At least I didn’t until I stepped out of the spring and looked up to see Baba Yaga.

 

She looked just like my doll described her.  Her scent made the sulfur spring smell delicious.  She leered at me, her grin showing me her terrible iron teeth.  Worse, she had the advantage of being clothed while I stood dripping and skyclad before her.  Not that her clothes had much to commend themselves, they were dingy and grey.  My doll forgot to mention the necklace of little skulls around her neck.  Were they the skulls of spider monkeys or miscarried babies?  I shuddered thinking of it.

 

I sighed, and dipped a curtsy.  “Well met, Grandmother,” I said.

 

“Well, then, follow me if you are so eager to visit.”  Her voice rasped and grated like a rusty hinge on a heavy door. 

 

Hastily I gathered up clothes and pack and hurried after her.  She flew through the air within her mortar, punting with the pestle.  I could barely keep up, yet I understood she was allowing me to follow her. 

 

As I ran I was passed by a knight in red armor astride a red horse.  As he passed the sky began to lighten.  When the sun broke over the horizon, I was passed by a white knight upon a white horse.  They looked noble and formidable.  They passed without a glance at me.  I wondered who they were.

 

We arrived at her hut on chicken legs when the sun was high.  By then I was scorched as well as scratched from head to toe.  Baba Yaga flew over her fence and landed in her yard.  I was outside the fence looking at the gate as if it might bite.  Indeed it looked like it would.

 

Baba Yaga said nothing, but looked at me.  Carefully I took the skull holding tight the leg bone which made up the fence post between my hands and tried to pull it open.  Nothing.  I had a sense the skull was chuckling, and the skulls atop the fence posts were gazing at me for amusement.

 

I picked up a thick stick from the ground and levered it between the teeth to pry the jaws open.  The skull bit the stick in half.  I tried a bone I found lying nearby.  The bone splintered. 

 

I glanced at Baba Yaga.  The wrinkles on her face hid all expression.

 

I found a stone that fit securely in my hand and pounded on the skull.  The teeth snapped open, releasing the gate to admit me.   Once inside, I heard a crack behind me.  The sound could only be the gate closing once more.  I would not be able to leave until allowed by my hostess.

 

Baba Yaga shoved a bag into my already full arms. 

 

“Here.  Peel these, chop them into pieces no bigger than a grain of sand, and dump them into the brew.”  She jerked her head in the direction of a cauldron. 

 

Before I could ask, “Where is a knife?”  she was in the house, the door slammed closed hard behind her.

 

First, I dressed.  Then I took out my little doll and we shared a bit of bread, cheese, oil and wine.

 

“Did you hear her order?”

 

“Yes,” answered my doll.  “Peel with your fingernails and leave the chopping to me.”

 

The roots were the size of my fist with thick waxen skins enclosing a rubbery ruby center.  They peeled like an orange.  I don’t know how they chopped as my little doll would not let me see her at work.  It did not take long to fill my apron with the sand-like choppings.

 

I shook my apron out over the pot, sighing at the dark red stains left on my apron.   Just as I finished Baba Yaga came flying out of the house.  She grabbed the wooden ladle near the cauldron and began to stir.  Seven times clockwise, seven times widdershins. 

 

Baba Yaga looked at me.  “Don’t just stand there.  Take the peelings to the pigs.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

As directed I picked up the peelings into my apron and went round the hut to a pig sty.  The peelings left a garish green stain on my apron. 

 

I returned to Baba Yaga.  “How else may I serve you, ma’am?”

 

Baba Yaga grunted.  “Go in the house and check the bread in the oven.  If it is ready, take it out.”

 

Getting into Baba Yaga’s house is not easy.  The chicken legs must be from some prehistoric, dinosaur chickens, as the threshold of the door came to just above my waist.  Then too, the house moved about a good bit.  Make those prehistoric, dancing dinosaur chickens.

 

I took a running jump and managed to pull myself into Baba Yaga’s famous hut.  It took a moment to get used to the movement, rather like getting one’s sea legs aboard ship.  The hut was comfortable inside.  The wooden floor was covered by rag rugs.  The one window looked out to the bubbling cauldron.  Under the window stood a table and two chairs.  The table was set for two- bowl, tankard and spoon.  Above the brick oven was a closet bed, straw stuffed mattress covered with homespun blankets and down pillows.  Across from the table was a ladder leading to a loft.  Next to the ladder was a cupboard. 

 

I crossed to the oven and looked for hot mitts to open it.  There were none.  I wrapped my hands in my gown and apron to pull open the oven door without harm.  The bread was in small round loaves that I grabbed quickly, dropping them into my apron.  Now I had soot stains to go with the red and green.

 

I set the loaves on the table.  As I did so Baba Yaga flew into the room.  She carried a steaming pot of something.  It smelled like the earth after a rain.  She ladled it into the bowls and sat. 

 

“Aren’t you going to sit down?”  she asked sarcastic. 

 

I sat.  I looked uncertainly at the red broth before me, chunks of unidentifiable somethings floating languidly in it.

 

“One bite won’t kill you.”

 

One bite did not kill me, nor did finishing the whole bowl.  The stew was tasty and satisfying.  After eating Baba Yaga directed me to fetch a pail of water from the well.  While I winched the bucket up from the depths of the well, I saw a knight in blue black armor on a black stallion canter past.  As he passed the twilight followed him and stars blossomed in the sky.

 

 Back inside Baba Yaga instructed me on washing the dishes.  After drying them and putting them away in the cupboard, I joined Baba Yaga at the hearth, pulling up the chair I used at supper.

 

Baba Yaga was smoking a pipe.  From it floated the sweet smell of cherry tobacco.

 

“My grandfather smoked cherry tobacco in his pipe,” I said, surprising myself.  First at speaking to my terrible hostess and second at remembering my past.  Baba Yaga made no reply, and I closed my eyes and lost myself in memories of my grandfather.   

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me anything?”

 

There were many things I wanted to ask, but not before I thought about them very carefully.  Did I really want to know from whence came the skulls strung about her neck?  Probably not.  And I was tired.  And I was irked that my pleasant reverie about my grandfather was interrupted.

 

Remembering Bluebird Woman’s warning that Baba Yaga was angered by untruth, I answered honestly.

 

“There are many things I would like to ask.  But I am tired and confused.  What I want to know most right now is where am I to sleep and may I go to my rest now?”

 

Baba Yaga made a chortling sound.  She waved her pipe at the ladder to the loft.  Taking her gesture as assent, I stood and curtsied goodnight. 

 

The loft was large enough to hold a straw stuffed mattress.  It was covered by soft cotton sheets and homespun wool blankets.  At the head of the bead was a small window covered by a shutter.  I opened the shutter and looked out at the stars.  The moon was a half moon, but I was uncertain as to the season.  In this place the plants were in bud, blossom, fruiting and rest at the same time.  Likewise the weather could be hot, balmy, chill or downright freezing.  Sometimes I saw whole meadows or forests of snow, yet deciduous plants would be unfurling green leaves despite the frost.

 

Looking at the serene stillness of the stars, listening to the voices of the night soothed my heart.  I undressed, hanging kirtle, apron, and petticoat on a peg at the foot of the loft.   My little doll ministered to my burned skin and many scratches with a salve she had in her miniscule pocket.  The jar may not have been any larger than a poppy seed, but it held enough ointment to smooth over my entire body.  I wrapped myself in the blanket and drifted asleep gazing out my window, listening to the wind.

 

 

Unknown date, the Road to Baba Yaga’s

Unknown Date, The Road to Baba Yaga’s

 

The music of the

Island of
Ancestors, the voices of the women whose lives gave birth to my own, haunted me.  I did not talk on the way back to the mainland.  Anita Marie was sensitive to my mood and shared my quiet.  I did not hear the tale of her decapitated friend, perhaps another time.

 

Bluebird Woman and Wren Woman were quiet as well.  I spent the morning pondering the story my ancestor gave me, the retelling of the Creation myth of Genesis in language and order very different from the King James Version. 

 

One of the few things I recall from college Anthropology is creation myths are vitally important because they provide the paradigm upon which the entire culture is based.  I compared this new story with the old.  The first obvious difference was the gender neutral language.  

 

What would life be like if God were whole?  The popular male god is diminished because half of itself is denied to exist.  Male and female are both The HOLY ONE.  To be blunt a skewed vision of god is a screwed vision. 

 

But what has that to do with who I am?

Sitting on a stone bench in the shade of an apple tree, my thoughts drifted with the fluttering of sun between leaves.  My thoughts flowed like water over stones.  My heart opened like clouds of rain.  And I just knew.

 

“I am created in the image of The HOLY ONE.  I am loved by the ONE WHO MADE ALL.  Because The HOLY ONE WHO MADE ALL THINGS created and loves me, I have worth simply because I exist.”

 

This is who I am.  Beloved.  Human.  Valuable.

 

I sat until evening, basking in the all encompassing love of The HOLY ONE.   I meditated on the identity of The HOLY ONE.  Goddess.  God.  Neither.  Both.  Life giver.  Life taker.  Hope.  Seasons turning and returning.  Being born.  Being born again.  Immanent.  Transcendent.  Infinite.  Eternal.  Temporal.  Ephemeral.  Everything.  Always.  Everywhere.  Everywhen.  Ever within.  Without beginning.  Without end.  This infinite power created me.  This infinite heart loves me.

 

The song of my Ancestors swelled in my heart to flow out of my mouth.  I sang until I could sing no more.  I danced as I had never danced before, not the dignified, worship dance of the

Island of
Ancestors, but a jubilant dance of praise.  I danced until I could not dance more. Then I sat still, resonating with the echoes of the Music of the Spheres, my heart pounding the rhythm of Creation’s Dance.

 

Bluebird Woman and Wren Woman came to me, holding out their hands and smiling.  I rose and went to them.

 

“You know who you are.”  Their happiness for me shone from their faces. 

 

“Yes.  I know who I am.  I do not know my name; I do not remember who I was.  But I know who I am.”

 

Wren Woman pulled a small hand mirror from her pocket.  “Look.”

 

I looked.  My hair was grown to my shoulders.  It was the radiant copper of my ancestor.  It was my hair and it was beautiful.

 

We sat in the garden to eat a simple supper.  I sat on the ground between them.  Bluebird Woman stroked my hair as we ate.  They fed me apples, bread, cheese and wine, placing each tidbit in my mouth with their own hands.  I lay my head on Wren Woman’s knee, exhausted and ecstatic.  We watched the sun set and the moon rise, full of pregnant light as my heart was full of love.

 

Bluebird woman sighed.

 

“Dear one, it is time for you to go.  You are wholly healed now.  You can continue your journey.”

 

“Go?”  I didn’t understand.

 

“Go.” Wren Woman was firm in her reply.  “You need to go back over the mountains into the dark

forest of
Baba Yaga.”

 

“Baba Yaga?”  The name was familiar, but I could not recall how.

 

“Baba Yaga is a hag, hagia, a wise woman,” Bluebird Woman explained.  “Her name means ‘to know, to see, to foresee’ in Russian.”

 

“She’s a witch and dangerous,” snorted Wren Woman.

 

“Yes, that too,” agreed Bluebird Woman, drawling out the words as she thought them over.  “Wise Women are dangerous, sometimes, if you aren’t honest with them.”

 

Bluebird Woman reached in to her pocket and pulled out a small doll.  The doll was smaller than a coin, pale with dark eyes and rose-red mouth.  Golden hair was crowned with a white lace headdress as Russian folk heroines wore.  It wore shimmering white, moonbeams woven with gossamer.  On her feet were gold slippers.  She quivered when Bluebird Woman laid her in my palm.

 

“I give you this doll with my blessing.  She will guide you, advise you.  Feed her when she is hungry.  Give her drink when she is thirsty.  Keep her close and keep her secret.  Ask her anything, and she will answer with truth.  Plain truth, no oracles.”  Bluebird Woman chuckled.

 

Wren Woman helped me to my feet.  She gave me a bag.  “Here.  These are provisions for your journey.  They will last you until you get to Baba’s.” 

 

They walked with me up the mountain path to the peak. 

 

“Well, here we leave you.”  Wren Woman was matter of fact.  “Walk at night and sleep by day, you cannot find Baba Yaga in the light.”

 

“How do I find her?”  I asked.

 

“Just follow your nose.  It is rather hard to not find Baba Yaga, even when you would rather not.”  Wren Woman answered.

 

“Blessed be, my dear.”  Bluebird Woman kissed my cheek. 

 

Wren Woman hugged me fiercely.  “Blessings upon you.”

 

With my little doll tucked safely in my pocket, a bag of provisions over my shoulder, I carefully worked my way down the mountain in the darkness. 

 

I walked until day break.  I found a venerable oak and climbed up into its gnarled branches until I was hidden away in a nook behind branches.  I opened my pack and found wine, bread, cheese and oil.  As I began to eat, I felt a quivering in my pocket.  The little doll!

 

I pulled her out, apologizing profusely.  Then I gave her bread and oil and a little wine. 

 

“Thank you.”  Her voice was clear and melodic, like water rippling over stones.

     

“You are very welcome.”  I looked at her until she blushed.  I apologized again.

 

“I must seem very rude,” I felt as if my mouth were full of marbles.  “It’s just that you are so remarkable, so tiny and so perfect.  I can’t help but admire you.”

 

“I understand,” the little doll murmured.

 

“Can you tell me about Baba Yaga?”  I asked, eager to change the subject from my ineptitude to something more cheerful.

 

“Oh, yes,” she replied.  “Baba Yaga is evil and ugly.  She is ancient old, older than god, older than dirt.  She is very tall, and bone thin.  Her eyes are jet black, and her vision is very good.  She can tell the difference between a she flea and a he flea at fifty paces.  Hair grows out of her ears, but she can hear a snowflake fall.  She understands the speech of every living thing, plant and animal, and things that are not living as well – the stones, water, wind and fire.  Her nose is like the beak of a vulture, her chin pointed as a spear.  She is gnarled and grey.  She has never bathed and stinks of decay.  What little hair she has is matted and greasy. Her hands are covered in warts, her feet with corns.  Her fingernails are long and jagged.  You don’t want to know what is encrusted under those nails.  Her teeth are iron and spark when she gnashes them.

 

“Baba Yaga is a Black Goddess.  She cannot die and cannot be fooled.  She eats children and drinks blood.  She commands the sun and it obeys her, she changes the stars in their course, she causes clouds to form in the air and makes it possible to walk on them and travel the country. She can transform herself into anything.  She can turn herself into a young woman and then, in a twinkling of an eye turn herself back into an old woman.   She likes to transform into toads, snakes, flies.  She has to the power to turn people into animals.

“She travels hither and yon in a mortar propelled by its pestle, and covers her tracks with her broom.  She travels freely over the world and gathers herbs and other things for potions.  She casts spells, discovers secrets for blackmail.  She is wise, and if she befriends you there is no better ally.  If you offend her there is no escaping her doom.

 

“Her house is on chicken legs, it travels through time and place.  It is surrounded by a fence of human and animal bones and skulls.  The gate is latched with a skull clenching tight its teeth.  Her cauldron boils in the yard day and night.   To be sent to Baba Yaga is to be sent to your death.”

 

The little doll looked at me.  “But you have faced her.  You have died and been reborn.  You have nothing to fear, as long as you treat Baba Yaga with the respect due an elder.”

 

The doll looked at me again, as if to gauge my soul.  “Yes, you have nothing to fear.  Respecting others, even the mean spirited, is imprinted on every fiber of your being.  You will succeed.  If you need help, I will help you.”  

 

“I have faced her before?”  I was staggered, as if the little doll had hit me over the head with a rock rather than spoke to me quietly.

 

“Yes, when you met Ereshkigal.  When everything you were was taken away.”

 

“Oh.”  I was tired and my head hurt.

 

The little doll looked at me with empathy in her eyes.  “Be at peace.  When you gave up everything you were, it left everything you are.  Let us rest now.  Night will be here too soon.”

 

“When do you think we will find Baba Yaga?”

 

“Tonight at the soonest, seven nights hence at the latest.”

 

“Thank you.” 

 

I curled with in the tree branches as best I could, pondering what the little doll told me.  At last sleep overcame me, and I had one more night of peaceful sleep.