The Trials and Tribulations of

T h e T h e T r i a l s T r i a l s a n d a n d T r i b u l a t i o n s T r i b u l a t i o n s o f B a b a Y a g a o f B a b a Y a g a

by Martin J. Manco

Each Halloween, I try and come up with a costume that is so incredible even people who don't know whom or what I'm supposed to be are impressed if only by the look and work. The problem with such high standards is that you often have to come up with something wildly different each time.

I was walking through a costume shop, looking for inspiration, when I saw some decorations around the house, like odd fences and tattered curtains. My mind flashed to the fence and hut of Baba Yaga, the witch who is practically everywhere in Russian fairytales, and her chicken-footed hut. I realized I had to do this, like a holy mission.

While I'd say the project over all was a success, I had a number of fails along the way to making my Baba Yaga costume. First, I decided to construct her hut (to be worn in a modified sandwich board manner) out of science fair project posterboard, but I despite my measurements, when I started cutting and assembling the hut, it immediately started to go wrong. I ended up with slanted walls, and the back wall attached more awkwardly to the ceiling than the front wall. "Ok," I thought, "... It is supposed to look ramshackle, so this is fine."

Then I started running out of the red trim for the roof and sides, and it was the last they'd had in stock and it was the day before the costume party. So I chose not to use it on the back of the hut.

Then, while I found some amazing bird feet shoe covers for the chicken feet, I couldn't find bird or reptile style pants anywhere closer than the U.K., so I ended up wearing slacks.

image by Monkhooroi Solongo

Then I spent all evening using glitter paints to decorate the sides of the hut with scenes, objects, and creatures from Russian fairytales, including the emerald heart of Katschei the Deathless inside the egg inside the goose inside the hare inside the box inside the tree, on an island; the three headed Gorynych dragon; the Firebird eating the golden fruit in a tree; and the Little Humpbacked son of the Mare of the North Wind, flying through the sky. Everything was going fine, until I was nearly finished, only to realize that the heart was supposed to be inside a needle inside the egg! I managed to barely squeeze a needle with a huge eye into my painting and, though it looked awkward, it would do.

The next morning, however, I checked it... and a lot of the paint hadn't dried! I ended up spreading it out, making any texture clumps become glittery hazes, and got ready to go to the party...

...only to find out that the hut was wider than my car doors! I managed to wiggle it inside with some agonizing squeals of the posterboard, and drove off to the party, where I had to take it out of the car without breaking it... I somehow managed that feat and made my way inside.

The party was packed, with no room for a witch to maneuver her house. With many, many "Excuse Mes" and apologies, I made it to the back porch where my host was amazed by the costume, much to my delight and relief.

Then, about five minutes after that, the straps holding the hut over my shoulders came loose from the glue, the extra layer of posterboard, and the staples I'd used to attach them, meaning I had to hold the house by the front gate as I looked out the window in my black and white wig, babushka, and apron.

Later, I had to squeeze the hut back into the car, and get it out again after driving home... only to have to do the same thing the next night at a (much less packed) bar party, where the drag queen hostess, after being told who I was supposed to be, announced over the microphone that I was Baba Yaga, a Russian fairytale character, and that the boy sitting at the bar whose "costume" was a red Soviet flag t-shirt, had, if representing the Soviet Union, had slaughtered my entire family.

Sigh. need to reconsider the distance and quality of Halloween parties if I'm going to go all out again (and knowing me, I likely will).

image from Mr. P’s Mythopedia

[continued from p. 40] decided it was time. He wasn't so sure; he was sure he'd rather be in the country with his horses and his books. He could no longer use the excuse of being in mourning for his parents or Julianna. The Duchess had him and she knew it; so did he.

“Ian,” she greeted, turning her cheek up to be kissed. He did so out of love not a sense of duty. “So good of you to come and join me at tea.”

The old lady was in her glory pouring tea. He'd much prefer a mug of it with a bit of scotch lacing the cream, but his grandmother handed out tiny cups and no hard spirits. She was prepared to pour his second cup by the time she had hers prepared.

“Now shall we talk?” she said as she passed a plate of cakes for him to select a morsel.

He wondered if ladies ever ate more than a tiny bite of anything. Rather than begin with a disparaging statement, he filled his mouth with butter cake and chewed while she continued with her statements. “I think it is long past the time for you to join us once again at the Valentine Masque.”

She took a sip of tea, he finished his second cup. She took his cup and poured another, passing him more cakes. “You might as well stop stuffing cakes into you mouth for I shall not take no as an answer this time. You are the heir to all of this, and Grandfather is more than willing to pass on the title to you. He and I wish to retire and enjoy our old age. But you must marry and we do need an heir.”

How many times had he heard this. He had grown up knowing that he would marry and produce an heir. Grandfather retire? The old man could outrun him; no way he was going to settle into old age. But when Julianna had died and their child had followed so soon after his mother, he had been so devastated that he had withdrawn from all of the social doings of his prominent family.

Grandmother had stood guard on his solitude for five years. Anyone who dared say a word to him about his duty had to face the old woman. Then both of his parents had died, leaving the responsibility of inheriting the title and securing an heir to the title up to him. Members of the family, that ran high into girls, learned that they had rather keep their opinions to themselves.

Grandmother might be a tiny woman, but there had never been a warrior more fierce when it came to protecting her grandson. He was grateful for all she had done; he had to admit that he did owe her. There had been Grandfather who had five sisters. Then Grandfather and Grandmother had his father and three sisters and his father who had him and his four sisters. There were plenty of grandchildren, lots of family—just no heir. That singular effort was his job.

For her, he would attend the infernal Valentine Masque. He would dance with the giddy fluffs of feathers and flowers, then he would go home and forget about it until the next year. Could it be he was dooming the family to extinction? He hardly thought so; there were grandsons among the many children who would do nicely.

“Yes, Grandmother, I'll attend the masque.”

His quick acquiescence immediately raised her suspicions. But two could play this game and she had years more practice at the game than Ian had.

“Thank you, dear Ian,” she smiled pouring him another cup of tea. ‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘I have just the one for you.’ “Could you put some more wood in to build up the fire please?”