Sunday, May 25, 2014


Evening came to the izba. The loom ceased its clatter. Vasilisa filled a dark iron kettle from a bucket of spring water, and set it on the shelf of the white-washed pechka, and the few droplets on it spoke with a satisfying hiss. She walked over to the wardrobe and took out a quilted coat. The coat was patched together from the odd ends of her woven work, and embroidered with curious symbols and flowers. Vasilisa slipped it over her shoulders, and reached for a pale spiderweb-knit scarf to cover her hair.

"Verochka," she murmured, "I'll be back in a bit."

Vera recognized the fire in Vasilisa's eyes. She nodded, and waited until the older woman's lapti were behind the door. Then she did what she had been wanting to do all day. She walked over to the shelf and touched the wooden matryoshki.

"Marya, Varya, Darya, Varya, Zarya," she chanted. She slid open the dolls, each smaller than the first, realigned them, and set on the table. She counted five dolls, which meant that one was missing. When she shook Zarya, she heard a rattle. Sliding the smallest doll open, she found a few sunflower seeds.

"There," said Vera. She placed a seed before each of the dolls, and waited. The eyes of the first doll began to glow like tiny fireflies.

"You have very good manners," she heard Marya say. "What do you need?"

"Tell me," insisted Vera. "Tell me who you are."

Marya laughed. "That is the correct question," she answered. "You might well ask, 'Who am I?' We belong to Vasilisa, but she loves you, so we don't mind talking to you. "

"Were you there when Vasilisa saw the first Horseman?" Vera wondered.

"Yes," said Marya. "That was the Bright Dawn. We first met him when Vasilisa was abandoned in the forest, beaten, hungry and terrified. She had been sent, by the ones who did not love her, to Baba Yaga to borrow fire. She gripped us tightly in her hand, while the first shining rays of light began glowing on the horizon. Then a horseman all in crimson galloped past: the Red Sun. She went further and further into the forest, until she came to a little hut built on hens' legs. The walls around the hut were formed from human bones, and crowned with skulls. There was a gate in the wall, whose hinges were the bones of human feet, and whose locks were jaw-bones set with sharp teeth."

The White Horseman, Ivan Bilibin

"I've heard something of this," said Vera. "And then--"

Marya interrupted her, "---Then the third horseman appeared, dressed all in black, and galloped straight through the gate. That was Black Night. With him came a dread chill, and a curtain of darkness covered the forest."

The Black Horseman, Ivan Bilibin

"I know that part of the story," said Vera. "Then  the forest was filled with a terrible noise; the trees began to groan, the branches to creak and the dry leaves to rustle, and the Baba Yaga came flying from the forest, riding in a giant mortar and driving it with a pestle. And the skulls atop the gate each began to glow like eerie lamps.  I have heard this. And they say that Vasilisa was ordered to perform all sorts of strange tasks, which you did for her. How did you do this?"

Marya laughed again, a teensy, tinkling giggle. "This is the part of the story you may not understand. Of course, she did all of the work herself, but she didn't realize it, because she sent part of her spirit into each of us, to keep it safe. A baba must do what she has to do."

The Red Horseman, Ivan Bilibin

Part II is here;

Part III is here.

Part IV is here.

Part V is here.


bluestorm said...

A wonderful write, Iulia. You, a great storyteller indeed.
Thank you!

Iulia Flame said...

Thank you, bluestorm. It is a work in progress; I'd like to tinker with it some more & continue.

Do you ever get the sense that the fairy tales are missing parts, or that they are broken somehow, and one needs to dig in them and find the original, deeper medicine?

raw poetry by donna snyder said...

enchanting. I can hear the doll laughter, see the forest, the chicken leg hut. I can barely remember, but I know when I was little I had a book with tales of Baba Yaga, and I can dimly discern through over fifty years of brain decay, the image of her in her mortar driven with a pestle, and the hut with the chicken legs. you've brought these dim recollections back to me, but with color and sound. thank you.

Iulia Flame said...

Thank you! What an interesting embedded memory that must be.

The images may have found their way into a few poems. :) *wink*

the song of a shell sapphire melting inside jade a color unnamed Ofra Haza's version of this song defies categoriz...

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