Tales from the House of Baba Yaga

Tales from the House of Baba Yaga

by Emory Kjelsberg Adapted from Russian Folk-Tales, by A. N. Afanasev, translated by Leonard A. Magnus

Dedicated to the family that supported me, the teachers who challenged me, and to all the queer folk that gave me their blessings along the way.

HE house of Baba Yaga, Vasily decided, was far less frightening when

it wasn’t in motion. With the giant chicken legs tucked beneath the old

wood foundation, it appeared to be merely dislodged from the earth,

rather than monstrously foreign to it.

Nevertheless, Vasily approached with caution. The house did not stir. A windchime of hollowed bones clonked in the cold breeze. A pair of crows beat their wings and clicked at each other on the roof tiles. The rhythmic creaking and bowing of the mossy frame gave Vasily the distinct impression that the house was breathing.

It was unnerving how little the structure resisted Vasily’s advance. No horsemen came galloping, no bats swarmed from the chimney, and no maggots erupted from the floorboards. The door wasn’t even locked.

Stories from younger days stayed Vasily’s feet on the steps. Hag. Witch. Deceiver. Child killer. Child skinner. Child eater. The traveler didn’t think to knock.

Crossing the threshold felt like being swallowed.

The breathing stopped. Not just the creaking, but the breaths of a sleeping someone that had rattled from atop the stove -- they too came to an abrupt halt as Vasily stepped inside. For a moment, there was darkness and silence, taut as a bowstring.

“Plucky thing.” The voice of Baba Yaga was a scrape of salt and shale, the rasp of the newly-woken gliding over low, rumbling bass notes. Hag. Witch. Child eater. “Mannerless rat.

What are you doing in my house?”

“Good babushka, I’ve come for work.” Vasily began, words coming out in a high-pitched gasp. “I’ve no home and no fortune, a mere traveler hoping to obtain your good graces--”

“Wretched thing. I’m not your babushka, girl.” Vasily flinched as Baba Yaga rose from her stovetop bed. She was a grand figure, wrapped as she was in woolen blankets and knitted shawls. “And I have no work for you here.”

“Please, sudarynya, I must work for you.” Vasily continued as the great witch circled the room. “I offer you my service, and I expect nothing in return.”

“Bah!” Baba Yaga spat, taking a seat in front of a large, cracked mirror wedged in the corner of the single-room house. “Ignorant girl. You speak your kind words, your pretty words, your humble words, but yet you break into my house, knife in your pocket, demands on your lips. Nobody comes to the House of Baba Yaga for work, little girl. And certainly not for nothing in return.”

Vasily said nothing.

“I could make you work.” Baba Yaga eyed Vasily from her position in the mirror. “No doubt about that. I could make you mend the holes in my cooking pots with a needle and thread, or boil my tea with water from the snow and the heat from the sun, or count all the poppy seeds in the cupboard… and if you fail, I can take your hands between my mortar and pestle, and grind them into meal for my crows and my cockroaches.”

Vasily said nothing.

“But I won’t.” She drew back, though it only seemed to further tighten the tension strung between them. “And why won’t I do that?’

“Because you are more interested in why I am here.” Vasily’s response was quiet, but even-toned. “You think I came to cheat you, or kill you, as many have done before.”

“As many have tried before.” The old witch’s voice simmered with satisfaction. “So tell me why you’ve come. Spin me a yarn, and for your sake it better be a fine one. I’m in need of another windchime.”

Vasily swallowed, and began the first tale.

1. The Tale of the Dead

ANY miles north of here once stood a stanitsa by the name of Kholm.

Kholm was a small village, made smaller by the removal of many of its men

to war.

But lo, on the road, a medic soldier had been discharged home, and after

many nights of travel he was at last nearing his village. Not far from the village there lived a miller in his mill, and in times past the soldier had been good friends with him.

Why should he not go and see his friend? So he went.

And the miller met him, greeted him kindly, brought a glass of wine, and they began speaking of all they had lived through and seen. This was all happening towards the evening, and whilst the soldier was the miller’s guest it had become quite dark. So the soldier got ready to take his leave.

But the miller said to him, “Soldier, stay the night with me -- it is late and you might come by some mishap. My bed is warm and my house is safe, and I cannot bear to let you go when such monstrous things roam about outside.”

“What things do you speak of?”

“A terrible witch has died, and at night it rises out of its grave, ranges about the village and terrifies the boldest; why, it might give you great trouble.”

“What nonsense!” The soldier was a servant of his tsar and his God, and therefore cannot be drowned in the sea nor burned in the fire! So he answered, “I will go, for I should like to see my relatives as soon as I can.”

So he set out, and on the road he crossed a graveyard. As he looked he saw a glow on one grave.

“I must look closer upon this,” he said. So he went up, and beside a fire there sat the red witch above their grave, grasping a needle and thread. “Hail, sister!” said the soldier.

And the red witch looked, and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I only wished to see what you are up to.”

So the witch smiled and stuffed their needlework into their kaftan, inviting him to a christening in town. “Let us go, brother, let us walk together. There is a great feast in the village, for children have not been born here in the seven years since the war, but tonight they celebrate the birth of twins, a boy and a girl.”

“Very well,” said the soldier.

So the two of them attended the celebration, and were royally feasted and given all to eat and drink.

The witch drank and drank, and grew more and more angry, until they walked about and drove the guests and the family from the izba where the twins slept. The witch then killed two sheep in the pens outside and removed their bladders, bringing them inside. From their kaftan they pulled the needle and pricked the hands of the twin boy and girl, drawing blood. The witch filled the bladders with blood until the two children lay grey and cold, barely breathing. “Now we will leave the house,” they said to the soldier.

On the road the soldier asked them, “Tell me, why did you fill the bladders with blood?”

“So that the son and daughter will die. Tomorrow nobody will be able to wake them up.

I only know one means of reviving them.”

“What is that?”

“You must pierce the heels of the twins and pour the blood again into the wounds; their own blood into each. In my right pocket I have the boy’s blood hidden, and in my left, the girl’s.”

So the soldier listened and never said a single word.

The witch went on boasting. “The village is my most wicked delight. I carry out whatever I desire there, you know.”

“Can you be overcome?”

“Yes certainly, but none have ever been bold enough to do it. But if anyone were to make a pile of aspen wood, one hundred cartloads in all, and to burn me on the pile, it can be done; then I should be overcome. Only you must burn me in a cunning way. For out of my belly snakes, worms, and all sorts of reptiles will creep; jackdaws, magpies, and crows will fly. You must catch them all and throw them on the pile. If a single worm escapes, it will be no good, for I shall creep out into that worm and rise again.”

So the soldier listened and remembered, letting the witch continue to boast well into the night.

“Now, my brother,” said the witch, “I suppose I must tear you to bits, otherwise you will speak of the tales I’ve told tonight.”

“Now! Let us talk this out!” The soldier cried. “How will you tear me to bits; I am a servant of the Tsar and of God! I cannot be drowned in the sea nor burned in fire!”

So the witch gnashed their teeth, howled, and threw themself on the soldier. But he drew out his sabre and dealt a fierce backstroke! The two of them tussled and struggled, and though he remained unmarked the soldier began to grow weary. Surely, this would be a sorry end for him!

Then, as the roosters crowed in the light of the coming dawn, the witch fell to the ground, sapped of all strength.

And the soldier got the bladders from their pockets, and went to join his family. He went and greeted them. They were rattled, eyes white with horror, asking him, “Have you heard what happened? There was a christening and a party at the house of the rich peasant, to celebrate the first children born in this town in seven years since the war! Only now we’ve learned that the boy and girl died that very night. We do not know at all of what claimed them.”

“Where is the house?” The soldier asked.

So they showed him, and he never said a word, and when he got there he found the family in tears.

“What are you wailing for?”

So they told him the reason.

“I can revive the twins -- what will you give me in return?”

“Oh, you may take half of all we own!”

So the soldier did as the witch had bidden him. Being a medic from the field of battle, he worked easily with blood and revived the baby girl and boy, and all grief was turned to joy and merriment. They feasted the soldier and rewarded him.

And then he turned to his second task, marching up to the stárosta of the town and bade him assemble the peasants. He had them prepare one hundred cartloads of aspens boughs and wheeled them into the graveyard. There they erected a great mountain of the gathered boughs, and raised the sorceress from their grave, and threw them onto the pile. With a swiftly thrown torch from the soldier, the pile began to burn.

The monument lit up gaily and as the witch caught alight, their belly burst. Out in all directions crept snakes and worms and vermin, and out flew jackdaws and magpies and fluttering ants.

But the peasants beat them all into the fire as they came out, and did not let a single worm escape. So the witch burned, and the soldier collected their dust and scattered it into the four winds.

Henceforth there was peace in the village.

“Charming.” Baba Yaga’s nose wrinkled at Vasily, unimpressed. “But that tells me nothing of who you are, or why you’re here. It seems things were tied up pretty nicely there.”

“No.” Vasily said, voice grim. “They weren’t. Maybe for the soldier. Maybe for the stárosta and the rest of his village. Not for me. Why am I here? I came here because I know you have something that can harm a man like that soldier, a man protected by his Tsar and by his God. I came here looking to kill that man, and wring unto him the suffering he’s caused me.”

Baba Yaga’s eyes narrowed. “Kill the soldier? Why? You are not the witch they burned.”

“I am one of the twins he revived.”

“Truly, a cruel fate indeed.”

Vasily looked away, ignoring her. “It is hard to be a peasant family raising two children, and harder still when half of your possessions have been given away. But the real trouble was in the blood. As a man of only basic medical practice and an ego bloated by position, the soldier was foolish enough to make a mistake when reviving my sister and I, and then too proud to recognize his error when it came to light.”

There followed another moment of silence.

“The twins were originally named Danilo and Vasilisa. Ideally, the blood from the right bladder should have gone into Danilo, the one from the left should have gone to Vasilisa. But whether the soldier was too hungover from the feast, too stupid to know his left from his right, or just thought he knew better about which twin was which, he switched the two.”

Vasily crossed his arms, leaning back against the doorframe. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t know if the witch was leering at him. “You may see Vasilisa’s body, but I’ve never been her. Sometimes I feel like her, sometimes she almost makes sense to me, but never for long. And even knowing I have Danilo’s blood in me, I know I’m not him, either. So I’m just Vasily, now. And for eighteen years, Danuta and I have been at war, with ourselves and with each other, not really knowing who we are or how to fix it.”

He sighed. “But at least we know who’s responsible. And he won’t admit his mistake unless I have something that can harm a man of his station.”

“So you’ve come for revenge.”

“Yes.” Baba Yaga gave him a long look. Dusk was approaching outside, but the angle of the sun finally allowed for some light to pierce the house interior. The woman sitting across from Vasily looked more like his grandmother than the hag from the stories.

“I don’t appreciate liars in this house.” Baba Yaga stood, shedding her blankets and reaching for the massive arm of the great stone pestle leaning against the wall. Vasily froze.

“But I know there was truth in that tale, Vasily, so I’m going to let you stay.” She picked up the monstrous pestle with a strength that had no clear origin. “I will not kill you, at least not tonight. You have until tomorrow to come up with a better story for why you’re here, and why I should give you your tools for revenge.”

“Baba Yaga?” Vasily asked, watching her carry the pestle out to her waiting mortar.

“How did you know the story wasn’t true?”

“You said you want to ‘harm a man like the soldier.’” the witch said simply. “I can tell you seek vengeance. I can tell you’re no girl, at least not quite -- despite your voice and dress. But I don’t think this story is yours. Besides, Vasily,” she scoffed. “you dress too well for a peasant.”

Baba Yaga returned just before dawn, her arrival signalled by the grinding of stone. “Get a fire going, boy,” she ordered a half-asleep Vasily. He didn’t hesitate-- the nights here were frigid.

There came the sound of something being dragged outside. He heard Baba Yaga’s scraping voice call out, “Make it hot! I’ve got some kids for you to cook up!”

Vasily’s stomach turned to ice. He froze in his place on the hut’s floor, heart pounding. Child eater. Child eater. Child eater. The early dawn’s light was a sickening shade of yellow, and he watched Baba Yaga carve the shadows in its rays as she dragged two motionless shapes behind her. The door creaked open.

Clutched in her wrinkled hands were two sets of cloven hoofs. Baba Yaga had brought back a pair of wild baby goats. Kids.

She laughed when she saw Vasily’s expression change. “Gets ‘em every time.”

That afternoon, Vasily began his second tale.

2. The Firebird

HERE lived once, in a certain kingdom, in a certain state, a certain Tsar

Výslav Dubravko, who had three sons: the first was Ivan Tsarévich, the

second Dmítri Tsarévich, and the third Vasily. This Tsar had a beautiful

garden, richer and greener than any kingdom’s, and within this garden there

grew a magnificent apple tree. The tsar was particularly fond of this tree, for its apples were all of pure gold.

But it so happened that the apples began to disappear, and the guards began reporting seeing a brilliant Bird of Light come during the night and sit on the branches of the apple tree and begin eating its fruit.

Tsar Dubravko was deeply afflicted by this, and called his children to him.

“My beloved Ivan, my beloved Dmítri, which of you will go into my garden and catch the Bird of Light? He who captures it alive, I will give him a half of my kingdom, and at my death he shall have it all.”

Dmítri and Ivan, the Tsarévichi, spoke in a single voice:

“Gracious lord, our father, Your Imperial Majesty, we will, with the greatest pleasure, try to catch the Bird of Light alive.”

Vasily stepped forward, bowing. “And what shall I receive, if I were to catch the Bird of Light for you, lord father?”

“Brash child Vasily!” The Tsar roared. “If you catch the Bird of Light for me, I may yet consider you a Tsarévich again!” Vasily nodded and bowed.

It had been many years since Tsar Dubravko recognized Vasily as his son and heir. The young boy had defied his father roughly once, when he refused marriage to Princess Elena of a neighbouring kingdom. Vasily had not loved her, for he found her as wild and frightening as the wolves that prowled her kingdom’s forests. And she had not loved him, claiming no interest in men at all. The refusal of both children had fractured any chance of alliance between the kingdoms, and left Tsar Dubravko with no love for his youngest.

“Gracious lord, my father, Your Imperial Majesty, I will, with the greatest pleasure, try to catch the Bird of Light alive. You will call me your son again.”

On the first night, Ivan Tsarévich went into the garden and waited an hour, but before the Bird of Light could appear, Ivan grew bored and stole away into town to dance with the twelve merchant’s daughters. And so the Bird of Light flew up and plucked many apples from Tsar Dubravko’s tree.

On the second night, Dmítri Tsarévich went into the garden and managed to wait for two hours, but before the Bird of Light could appear, he was pulled away by his friends who asked him to go night-hunting with them. And so the Bird of Light flew up and again plucked many apples from Tsar Dubravko’s tree.

And on the third night, Vasily told his two brothers to get their rest, for he would go into the garden and wait for the Bird of Light. He waited one hour, then two, and by the third hour he was blessed with a sight more beautiful than anything in his father’s garden. The flowers and trees lit up as though they were aflame, as the Bird of Light flew in to sit in the apple tree. The firebird began to pluck the apples from the tree, singing a soft melody. Vasily stole under it, and was so alight with wonder from the light and the song, he nearly forgot what he was meant to do. However, managing to climb the tree with great speed, Vasily seized the bird by the tail!

Despite his quickness, he could not keep hold of it for long.

When the light drained from the garden, Vasily was left with one single tail feather burning bright in his hand.

In the morning, when Tsar Výslav Dubravko awoke, Vasily went to him with the feather.

“Lord father, I was able to succeed where my brothers could not; I have brought you a feather from the Bird of Light!” Vasily bowed. Tsar Dubravko snatched the feather from his hand and had it locked into his personal cabinet, and Vasily could not bear to see it go. Never had he seen something so beautiful, not in his father’s garden nor in his entire palace and kingdom.

And his father locked it away!

“Boastful child Vasily!” The Tsar roared. “Only when you bring me the ENTIRE Bird of Light will I call you Tsarévich again. Journey forth! Find it! I will have that bird at any cost, is this understood?”

“Yes, gracious lord.”

Ivan and Dmítri both agreed that their father seemed unnecessarily cruel towards Vasily.

They had no jealousy toward their youngest, as there was never any doubt towards their own inheritances, bird or no.

To help Vasily on his journey, Ivan stole their father’s prized golden-maned horse, a creature of unending stamina and incredible beauty. Dmítri stole their father’s golden bridle, a handsome piece of tack to steer the steed. If their father desired the firebird at any cost, then a horse and bridle were a small price to pay.

Both brothers gave Vasily their blessings and sent him on his way.

And Vasily took his father’s horse and went on the road and away -- and the path of the firebird stretched near and far and high and low, leading him soon to an open field in a cold, green meadow. He’d been led to the outskirts of the kingdom of Princess Elena from years ago, a country that he’d been told was now overrun with monstrous wolves. And standing marker to the kingdom’s boundary stood a stone column, and on the column these words were written:

“Whosoever goes straight on from this column, he shall have hunger and cold. Whosoever goes to the right, he shall have health and life, but his horse shall be slain. And whosoever goes to the left, he shall himself be slain, but his horse shall have life and be healthy.”

Vasily read this inscription, and he went to the right, bethinking himself, he would not be able to catch a firebird if he were sick and cold, nor if he were dead. If his horse were to be slain, anyhow he would remain alive. And after all, if his father desired the firebird at any cost, then a horse and bridle were a small price to pay.

So he went on for a day, and a second, and a third day, and suddenly a fierce grey Wolf met him and said:

“All hail to thee, golden rider! Doughty of might, Vasilisa, hast thou read how it is written on the column that thy horse shall be slain? So why hast thou ridden this way?” And the Wolf, speaking these words, drove Vasily from the saddle and gobbled the horse down in a single swallow.

Vasily wept bitterly for the horse, for although it had been his cruel father’s, and he found there was little sympathy in his heart for the tsar’s treasures, he knew there would be no sympathy for him at home now if he did not return with the Bird of Light. He went forward on foot, until he at last came to the castle of Princess Elena.

The castle in fact was not overrun with wolves, as had long been believed, but instead held a grown and powerful Tsarina Elena, who sat atop her throne with her lover, whose gender Vasily could not easily discern.

“Greetings Vasily, and hail to thee,” Tsarina Elena, beautiful and big, spoke to him.

“What seek you in my palace? Come to escape the cold embrace of your lord father’s hand?”

Vasily spoke with shock. “Not at all, Tsarina Elena, great lady of wolves. I seek the Bird of Light for him. Do you know of where it travels?”

“You seek a kingly gift for your father, though I do not think him worthy of it. It belongs to the young Tsar Dolmát, in a land east of here. Have caution. He keeps the bird in a golden cage, and if you plan to take it you must not touch the bars with your bare skin, or the alarm will sound, and Tsar Dolmát is not fond of prisoners.”

Vasily thanked Tsarina Elena and went on. The path was hard on foot, nearer and farther and higher and lower than it had been on horse, but at last he reached the trees that ringed the garden of Tsar Dolmát.

Vasily slipped between the tree trunks and saw the Bird of Light in its cage, and was at last very pleased. As he took the great cage in gloved hands, finding it light and easy to carry, the firebird within began to sing to him. The melody was so sweet but so quiet, and as Vasily leaned in to hear it clearer, his bare cheek pressed hot against the golden bars.

As his skin touched the metal there was a great clamour and a clangour in the garden, and all the guards and watchmen came running, along with Tsar Dolmát himself!

Tsar Dolmát was angry with Vasily, and roared at him: “Are you not ashamed of yourself, young man, to come stealing? Who are you -- of what land? Who was your father? What are you called?”

Vasily fell to his knees, feeling not only the Tsar’s anger, but his father’s as well. “I am a child of Tsar Výslav Dubravko, and he calls me Vasily. Your Bird of Light flew into the garden every night and stole the golden apples from the apple tree my father loved, and for that reason he sent his sons to find it! But I came not just to seek this bird, but his approval as well. You see, patient lord, if I bring him your Bird of Light he will call me Tsarévich once more.”

“Oh, thou brave youth, Vasily.” Tsar Dolmát helped him rise. “I see you are sad and beautiful, and deserving of my love. I would certainly have given you the bird, but what did you do? If you had come to me, I should have given you the Bird of Light as an honour to both our kingdoms; but, now, you act so disgracefully in my garden.”

“Forgive me, great Tsar Dolmát!” Vasily shook. “I had not known you would be so kind and fair. What must I do for your lordship to right this?”

Tsar Dolmát thought on this. “I know of your father, and I know he prizes a golden-maned horse with a golden bridle. Bring me this horse as a trade between us, and your father shall receive my Bird of Light and its golden cage.”

Vasily could not speak. The Tsar’s words were so kind and fair, and the Tsar’s face was so handsome, he could not tell him that the horse had already been lost, been swallowed whole by a monstrous wolf. He nodded and bid the Tsar farewell.

After another long travel on foot, Vasily returned to the kingdom of Tsarina Elena. Her androgynous lover took him into her throne room, smiling as if they knew something Vasily did not.

“Tsarina Elena the beautiful, Slayer of Wolves, I seek your aid once more. Tsar Dolmát is a man like no other, and I must bring him my father’s horse, which has been eaten by a wolf of your kingdom!”

“Very well. I will help you in this.” Tsarina Elena laughed. “And do you know why I will help you?”

“I do not.”

“It is because I know now you will do this for Tsar Dolmát, and not for your father. It is because you no longer wish to bring your father the Bird of Light, but instead wish only to please Tsar Dolmát, who will love you in a way your father will never. Tsar Výslav Dubravko may as well have sent you to die to the wolves.”

The Tsarina’s words about his father were harsh, but indeed Vasily saw there was truth within them.

“Go, Vasily. Take my dear Borna with you, they are a skilled hunter and will help you find the wolf who took your horse. And take this pearl knife, for it will cut the beast’s gut but not pierce the prey inside. And finally, take my blessing, to find your own path as I did, many years ago.”

Vasily took all she promised, and he and Borna journeyed into the woods. They tracked for one hour, then two, then on the third hour they came across the slow, bloated grey Wolf. It raised its bloodied jaw to speak—

“Hail to thee, Vasilisa and Borna, doughty of might--” Borna raised their bow and shot the wolf cleanly through the throat. Vasily looked at them in shock.

“Tsarina Elena’s kingdom survives on a simple truth.” Borna spoke grimly. “Peace only flourishes when you do not give the wolves a chance to speak.”

Vasily took the pearl knife and cut open the grey Wolf’s stomach, freeing the horse from the entrails. The animal was no longer golden, covered thickly in its predator’s blood and gore; but it was alive. Vasily kissed Borna on both cheeks, and sent them back to Tsarina Elena with the wolf’s pelt as a gift.

On horseback once more, bloody and exhausted, but guided by Tsarina Elena’s blessing, Vasily went on his way. The path was near and far, and high and low, but it at last led him once more to the kingdom of the Bird of Light.

Vasily then wept bitterly on the steps of Tsar Dolmát’s castle, bringing forth the Tsar himself who clutched the weak Vasily in his arms. “Why do you cry, Vasily?”

“Tsar Dolmát, I could not bring you what I promised!” Vasily wept, and told him of his troubles. “My father’s horse is no longer golden, stained with the blood of the wolf that devoured it. And I know now my father does not love me, and only cares for your Bird of Light. I do not know what to do, even with the Tsarina’s blessing to help me find my path.”

And then Tsar Dolmát kissed Vasily. “Vasily dearest, I am only happy to see you alive, and escaped from bloody struggle, and returned to my arms with the blessing of Tsarina Elena. Let her love you, and let me love you, for you have journeyed far for us and deserve greater gifts than what your cruel father has to offer.”

And Vasily knew that Tsarina Elena had been right, and so he offered the crimson horse as a wedding gift to Tsar Dolmát, who offered the Bird of Light in return, which was so contented with the attention of Vasily that it never left to steal golden apples again. And the two men were married in Tsar Dolmát’s kingdom, living together lovingly for days to come.

“Well hurrah for you, child,” Baba Yaga gave Vasily a slow clap, her hands knocking together like the bones of the windchime outside. “You must be the luckiest third son in Rus. Though I suppose the story does not end there, for once again, you’ve given me no reason to explain why you darken my doorstep and plead for my help.”

“Of course.” Vasily nodded. “As you can imagine, when my father discovered his horse stolen, and awaited many days with no Firebird forthcoming, he grew quite angry. He sent scouts to find where I had gone, and after much searching, they reported back with news that I had married Tsar Dolmát.”

“I take it he didn’t send wedding gifts.”

“No.” Vasily shook his head. “He sent assassins.”

Baba Yaga scoffed. “Typical.”

“He believed I was keeping the Firebird for myself, which I suppose I was, and that I was allying with Tsar Dolmát to overthrow him, and maybe I should have. But truly--” Vasily stopped to think, as if putting something together that he hadn’t originally planned on saying. “... but truly all I wanted was to be away from him, and to move on with my life -- a life I chose for myself.”

Baba Yaga let that hang in the air before leaning forward again.

“Tell me, how did you fend off those assassins, Vasily? You’re not exactly a dangerous target.” The witch’s eyes gleamed, sifting through his facial features as he spoke.

Vasily paused, swallowing, and regaining his focus. “I didn’t have to. He sent my brothers to kill me, not realizing they’d been the ones to steal his horse and bridle in the first place. They came in the night and told me to flee, for our father plans an attack on Tsar Dolmát’s kingdom. I fled, hoping he would not focus his anger on my husband if I was gone, but I hear he is amassing his army regardless. You must help me, and give me something that will harm my father, Tsar Výslav Dubravko, to punish him for what he’s done and what he plans to do, and to stop a war before it begins.”

Baba Yaga leaned back, considering him. “A noble cause, if a bloody and political one. But why come to me?” She gave a needling smile as she tested his tapestry for holes. “ What makes you think an old hag like me would get involved in those ragged affairs of the State? I’ve not lived by those laws since before you, or your father, or your father’s father were ever born.” Vasily blinked.

“But then, you have lived by them?”

Silence, then There rose a great groaning in the house as Baba Yaga turned, closing the distance between her and Vasily, faster than the boy had time to lose his breath. The words had not been intended as accusation, but it was clear they carried weight for the witch. For a moment the two stared each other down, Vasily’s heart grinding in his chest. The witch thrummed with a sudden anger, a ferity that vibrated like a poorly-plucked balalaika string. It radiated through her eyes, piercing Vasily as he waited for it to either slow or snap.

“Brash Vasily.” Baba Yaga growled, after a time. “I think I was going to kill you, just then.”

Vasily silently released the breath he was holding, quickly adding: “That story was not real either, sudarynya Yaga. You could kill me for that, if you so desire.”

The witch cracked another wrinkled smile, backing off of him. “I was considering that as well.

But I will leave you to live another night. That tale was outlandish, and a little melodramatic for someone of your education, but there was truth enough within it. More than I think you realize.”

“What do you mean, ‘someone of my education’?” Vasily asked.

“No more lies, Vasily, Marko’s son.” Baba Yaga said simply, walking away to grab her pestle and fly off into the dark. “I let you live another night. Tomorrow, you will tell me all, and pray to your God above that I find your cause to be worth indulging.”

3. Marko the Rich, and Vasily the Unlucky

N a kingdom far from here, once upon a time there lived a merchant,

Marko the Rich; and what with all his estates and revenues, you couldn’t

count them. He lived with his wife and young daughter and was merry, and

never suffered the poor man to come to his door, so ungracious was he.

One day he had a dream: “Make ready, Marko the Rich, and wait. God Themself will be thy Guest this day.” So in the morning he rose, called his wife, and bade her make a banquet. He covered all his courtyard with scarlet velvet and golden brocade, and at every side-path he posted journeymen and servants to keep out all the hunger-brothers and scare them outside.

With feast prepared and table set, Marko the Rich sat awaiting the Lord. The hours went by, and never a guest. And then the poor heard there was a great feast at the house of Marko the Rich.

They all gathered round for the hallowed gifts; but the journeymen and servants drove them all away.

But the young daughter creeping by the gate had never seen such hunger in the eyes of the beggars, and she pleaded to her father and mother to let them in: “Please, the flies will eat our food before the Lord does. We have feast and drink for many, can we not let them sit at our table?”

And Marko the Rich nodded and thought, but he would not let so many beggars enter his home.

He bade his daughter go and let in only three.

There were indeed three beggars at the back gate, and they were laughing and teasing the guardsmen, and the young daughter found them to be quite queer, for in their tattered cloaks they seemed to move with the stature of monarchs. So she bade them forward: “Come to me, you poor old beggars; we will feed you and rest you.”

The three beggars laughed at the child as she said this, which she found to be quite rude, but let them follow her inside without protest.

“A fine son you have, Marko the Rich,” the shortest beggar said, and as he removed his cloak it was revealed! he was no beggar, but a man of wealthy dress! A noble perhaps, or displaced king! “I see he will travel far beyond your reach, and learn of all the things kept hidden from him.”

Marko began to protest, for as far as he was concerned he had no son! but no sooner could he speak than another prophecy came from the fairest beggar: “A loving son you have, Marko the Rich.” She handed him her own cloak, revealing not rags, but embroidered finery. “ I see no heir from him, though he will care for many all the same.”

And finally the tallest beggar raised their finger at Marko the Rich. “A deserving son you have, Marko the Rich.” Their own cloak was cast aside, and beneath it lo! Cabochons and cut gems glimmered ‘round their wrists and neck! “He will one day give away every coin in your wretched little purse, and undo your fortunes all.”

And before Marko the Rich could say anything else, the three beggar-prophets laughed and laughed and swept up the food on the table and carried it outside to the waiting peasants.

“God has cursed me on this day!” Marko fumed to himself. One would think he’d be overjoyed to hear he actually had a son, not a daughter, such was the preference of most fathers.

But alas! he only could only fume. “Riddles and tricks! I cannot have a daughter who invites charlatans and devils through my door! I cannot have a son who will give me no heir! I cannot have a son who will one day be my downfall!” So at night, Marko the Rich sent guards to abduct his own child and carry her far into the winter forest, take her coat and shoes, and throw her into a ravine to die.

The daughter landed softly in a snowbank, but she was cold and hungry, and did not think she would survive the night. But as it so happened, many hunters passed by the ravine and heard her cries, and they pulled the child from the snow.

Many years passed by with the young daughter in the hunters’ care, and it was here the first of the beggar-prophets observations came to fruition: she found she was no daughter at all, and in fact she could shed the name her father had given her as easily as she could shed clothes that no longer fit her. Marko’s son, now, was welcomed into the ranks of the hunters.

They showed the boy great secrets of the forest, the way to draw a bow or tan a hide, the way foxes and wolves hunted, and how to mend clothes and wounds alike. Some of the hunters confused the young son, for many in their family were old and stiff, or were injured permanently from frostbite or wolf attacks, and they could not draw a bow or swing an axe. Yet the hunters still called them their own.

“This winter would seek to claim the world, if given a chance.” One of the bowmen explained. “Take this lesson with you, young boy, when you judge the worth of others: If they are alive, they carry warmth. And whatever be their skills or strengths, that warmth is all that will matter when the blizzard comes.”

It did happen that Marko the Rich went out to the winter forest one day to catch stags, and came upon his former son who was now a young man, and some of the hunters. He asked about the boy, heard his story, and knew it to be the same child he’d cast out many years ago.

So Marko the Rich invited the unsuspecting young man onto one of his many merchant vessels under the guise of a trading voyage. But when his son slept, Marko threw him on one of the lifeboats and cast him adrift in the open sea!

A storm raged upon the young man, and the waves did crash, and all hope seemed lost for him, until at last the skies parted and the small boat landed on the island of a small monastery.

The monks took the boy in, and many years passed in their care. They showed the boy great secrets of the arts, the way to read a poem or weave an actor’s tale, the way to pluck a balalaika, and how to write letters of love and beauty. The young man had never heard stories like the ones told to him in the monastery, nor had he heard their songs or seen their art.

“You are a rich man’s son.” One of the monks told him. “The rich will only buy the songs and paintings that reflect them, or that they think will make them look better in the eyes of their God. Remember these tales, for they will guide you in a world your father cannot buy.”

It did happen that, years later, Marko the Rich came to the monastery to seek prayer for the soul of his recently-passed wife. The young man saw his father, and, not wanting to be recognized, threw on the disguise of a veiled young widow, seeking prayer of her own. Marko the Rich was so taken by her beauty that he insisted she return home with him. He promised her a carriage all her own for the ride back. The son was so very amused by this.

“What else will you promise me, if I join you on your journey home?” She asked from behind the veil.

“A thousand golden dresses, I promise you this!”

“And what else will you promise me, if I let you take my hand when I step down from the carriage?”

“A thousand rings for your beautiful fingers, I promise you this!”

She chose her next words carefully. “And what, dear Marko the Rich, will you promise me if I gave you a son when we returned home?”

Marko could not believe his ears. “I would give you all my possessions and every coin from my purse, and all that you deserve!”

“And all that I deserve.”

And you may think the son had been very cunning and clever in his words, and perhaps this is how he’d bring the truths of the beggar-prophets into existence. But as Marko the Rich was preparing for the journey home, he overheard two monks laughing over the young son’s ploy and his father’s sheer stupidity. This enraged him but he kept his temper, and told the veiled widow (who he now knew to be his disguised son) to go home on her own, with a letter; but in that letter he bade the guardmaster of his home to slay the deceitful woman and dispose of her.

So the son began the journey home, unknowingly moving towards his doom, but was stopped on the road by three beggars. They wore ratty cloaks and told the son they were starving. The son gave them food and water and several fine cloaks from his father’s trunks, never one to let an act of kindness go to waste.

“Many years it’s been, Vasily, Marko’s son.” The shortest beggar-prophet said, revealing himself and his two fellow prophets to the son. It was then that Vasily remembered them from years ago, and the fury his father wrought upon him after they gave their prophecy. “How lucky that we caught you here.”

“Love the veil.” The fairest added.

“Your father is trying to kill you, Vasily.” The tallest wasted no time. “He knows of your ruse, and the letter he gave you orders your death.”

“Then I will destroy the letter.” Vasily insisted. “And I will run away.”

“You could do that. But we know of future things to come, and find it only fair to warn you: your father will stop at nothing to prevent you from undoing his fortunes. We’re sorry to have set you on this course, but the least we can do is warn you of your father’s anger. With his money and his power, there is little earthly resource that can aid you against him.”

“Then surely there might be some unearthly resource that could help me?”

The tallest prophet laughed. “Oh, good Vasily. We know of one, and if you do enough work for her she may see fit to give you her blessing. She holds no love for us, however, so do not tell her we sent you.”

“Waken your wits and take your learnings with you, Vasily,” the fairest advised. “For she cannot be hurt by blade or poison.”

“And above all else, be kind.” The shortest nodded. “For she may not be as unfamiliar as you think.”

And so Vasily, still dressed in the gowns of a widow, fled the carriage to the House of Baba Yaga.

Baba Yaga was silent, her eyes coldly staring at Vasily.

‘That’s--” he swallowed. “That story isn’t done yet. I don’t know how it ends. But that’s why I’m here.”

“You came here on the advice of those three wretches?” Baba Yaga growled.

“I mean, it really felt perfectly logical at the time.”

“Don’t be smart with me, Marko’s son. Those three have been trying to get me involved in their prophecies for eons.” She drummed her cracked nails on the arm of her chair. “They’re witches, you know. Not prophets. But they’re young, brash, and meddle endlessly in human affairs.”

“And you don’t?”

“Stupid boy. Human affairs meddle with me. You’d think they’d know to stay away by now, yet you just keep showing up, asking for golden needles, or candles, or daughters to marry, or just looking to kill an old, child-eating hag.” She let out a long, rattling sigh. “It’s insanity, seeing all I’ve done to keep fools like you away, when it was they who cast me out in the first place.”

“I’m sorry, Baba Yaga. I will not press you on your past, and I do not want to waste any of your time,” Vasily lowered his head. “God knows I’ve already wasted three nights of it. But this is the truth, the real truth: I did travel far, and I did learn of things my father would have kept hidden from me. I know I cannot give him an heir and that he will never accept me. And, while I may not be his undoing, I do know my father is a man of great power, and he is trying to kill me regardless. He hates me for what I am. And I hate him for everything he’s done to me.”

Baba Yaga gave him a long look, letting the house inhale and exhale several times before she spoke again.

“I’m going to help you, Vasily.” She rose, going to one of the rotting old cabinets nailed crookedly to the wall. “And do you know why I’m going to help you?”

“Why is that, Baba Yaga?”

“Because vengeance isn’t the reason you came here. Not really. I think you think it is, and I know you want it. But we both know you can’t live a life on hatred for your father.”

Vasily nodded. “How shall you help me?”

Baba Yaga pulled something from the cabinet. It looked like a skull, but it was made from wax, and even without a flame its eyes still glowed bright in the darkened hut. She turned and offered it to Vasily. “I will not mince words. Your father is a selfish and dangerous man, who deserves everything I will bring down upon him. But I give you this not because he deserves it, but because I now know you’ll be able to move on when it is done.”

“What will it do?” Vasily asked as he took the skull candle. But he already knew.

“Travel safely, Vasily.” Baba Yaga said. She stood her full height, looking down on the boy with a grim mix of love and despair. “I give you this candle and I give you my blessing. May both of them light your way.”

4. Death

ASILY thanked Baba Yaga and left the house. Night had ridden in on

the back of a black veiled rider, and Vasily began the long journey home by

light of the skull’s glowing eyes.

The trek was hard on foot, but before long, Marko’s son had returned to the kingdom that was once his home. He approached the great white stone of his father’s mansion and knocked four times, at which point several guards came rushing. Vasily kept the hood of his cloak pulled low over his head as he came forward.

“Halt!” One guard yelled, blocking Vasily’s path. “Who are you? What business do you have here?”

“I come with a great gift for Marko the Rich! Is he home?”

The guard nodded and went to fetch him. It was early morning by this time, and Marko came down the stairs, blinking and befuddled by the hour.

“What gift do you bring, fair maiden?” He asked sleepily.

“I bring death.” Vasily let his hood fall back, and crossed the threshold with the skull raised. “And all that you deserve.”

There was a great glowing and hissing as the skull sputtered alight, fire pouring from its eyes and mouth! Marko the Rich screamed and ran away, but wherever he went he could not escape it, for the fire followed him through every room in his mansion. It burned him, it burned the velvet and brocade and every dalmatik in his closet. It scorched the white pillars to black and ate away at every portrait of Marko the Rich hanging on the walls. The guards fled the blaze as it filled the halls, leaving the home empty of all but Vasily, who remained untouched by the fire.

At last, Marko would hunt his son no more. But Vasily did not easily forget the words of Baba Yaga, nor the lessons learned from the hunters and the monks and the beggar-prophets three.

He buried the skull so it would harm no one else, and set about doing all the good he hoped to accomplish. He kept little of his father’s remaining wealth, giving it away to those that needed it.

When the three beggar-prophets came by again, he gave them a feast but warned them fiercely not to tangle his fate again.

And at long last, Vasily the merchant’s son, Vasily the tsar’s son, Vasily the peasant’s daughter, returned to the House of Baba Yaga, to live a life as he chose it for himself.

Emory Kjelsberg is an illustrator from New England, who studied illustration at Ringling College of Art and Design. He creates art for books, fashion, and any variety of fantastical endeavor.

“This book represents not only an accumulation of artistic education as gained from the teachers and peers at Ringling, but also the awakening of a longdormant passion for historical Slavic clothing and storytelling, combined with a very personal yearning for queer presence in fairytales of all kinds. The art and writing in this thesis is, with luck, the first of many hidden love letters to the queer community. Their support and creativity, especially as originating from queer communities of color, has been so influential in my life so far, and I wanted to acknowledge their contributions as best I could in this book.

“I’d also like it to be very clear that, despite my many projections onto the protagonist, I have plenty of love for both of my parents and would never wish death by fire upon either of them.”

-- Emory Kjelsberg