Timeless Tales Magazine: Baba Yaga by Timeless Tales Magazine

BABA YAGA

Timeless Tales 5

Editor Tahlia Merrill Kirk

www.timelesstalesmagazine.com timelesstalesmagazine@gmail.com

Design and Layout Geoffrey Bunting

004 Ruthless Adam Barron 0 1 6 Baba Bobs Her Hair Rebecca Anne C. Do Rozairo 0 2 8 Recipe for Success Dan Mickelthwaite 040 Visions J.S. Roberts 0 5 0 Home is Where the Bone is Andrea DeAngelis 0 5 8 Her Stepfather Shari L. Klase 0 6 8 The Quest for Daylight Don Magin 0 8 0 Mars Tea Kara Race-Moore 090 Her Scarlet Purse of Dreams Carina Bissett

Fiction

Words by

Ruthless

Adam Barron

About the story

This is a modern take on the Baba Yaga theme: the story of an ambitious small-town girl’s descent into what just might be madness, thanks to a creepy app and the (creepier?) power of the viral Internet. It started off as a third person narrative but, in the end, the epistolary blog format worked best to capture the character’s

MORE TIMELESS TALES STORIES BY ADAM:

Mighty Winter Issue 4 Perseus & Medusa

voice, which is hopefully a combination of happy-go-lucky, spacey, sickly-sweet, and a bit sociopathic, all wrapped up in “mostly likable.” She’s sort of an unreliable narrator, so hopefully you’re left wondering whether she’s truly stumbled across something supernatural or is just “kinda cray.”

ruthless adam barron

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Wednesday, June 30: Happy Wednesday to my precious minions, family, friends, readers, and all of the above! I thought I’d update y’all on the internship. It’s going great. Better than great, actually. Still not on the air (YET!) but I’m making nice with Jake, who IS on the air. We had coffee again today. Also, Dancing Hut’s forecast was right again. That means *I* was right again. Not sure where this app came from but it’s terrific ::checks app store:: Ursula Cyberia. THANKS URSULA. Probably a fake name, but whatever. Go download this app if you want the ACTUAL weather (it’s the app with the weirdo icon of a hut on a chicken’s leg...yeah not gonna ask). Jake is a good weatherman, but he’s been wrong all week. It’s actually kinda freaky now that I think about it...I downloaded Dancing Hut around the same time he started struggling, and the app’s been right every day… DUN DUN DUN! Watch out Jake, maybe I’ll start channeling Ruthless and come after your job! Nahhhh, jk...we all know Ruthless went away after graduation. She only comes out to play when there’s tequila. :) Love, Ruthie G. Friday, July 2: Hello once again to y’all 900 people of Pestle (yes, I assume you’re ALL readers, mwahaha)! I have some sad but exciting news. Jake was ill today (I hope you feel better, good sir) and GUESS WHO had to step up and give the holiday weekend forecast? Yep, this girl! Jake had his report prepared from last night, but we all know Jake’s been missing the mark lately and I thought

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that, if the people of Pestle are going to support their small, hardworking local station, they deserve an accurate forecast! Can you tell I’m ridic a little excited? I mean it’s too bad Jake is sick and all, but come on...it’s 4th of July weekend (happy bday ‘murica!) and y’all had to know if it’s gonna be BBQ weather! So yep...I risked life and limb (oh, and my job) and went with Dancing Hut’s forecast on the air. It promised fun in the sun and so did I (Jake’s forecast said rain, rain, and more rain all weekend). I saw everyone behind the cameras panic and check the teleprompts with faces like “WHAT is Ruthie doing???” I thought Tim’s hair was going to fall out. That would probably make me look pretty bad considering he’s the station manager. I guess we’ll find out on Monday (I’m off til then). Stay tuned! Love, Ruthie! Monday, July 5: Hey Pestle-ites! Well I guess you know by now that Dancing Hut was 100% right...I hope you had a FABULOUS 4th o’ July weekend! Jake is feeling better, in case you’re wondering. I saw him at the station gala get-together and had a beer soda with him outside, just the two of us. Don’t get any ideas! This was a one-time thing…probably… So anyway, apparently our station was the only station out of like five or six surrounding counties to get the weekend weather right. Every other forecast said it would rain all weekend and that people shouldn’t bother with outdoor plans. Good thing your girl Ruthie was here, huh!?

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And lucky I had Dancing Hut all fired up and ready to go when they put me on the hot seat (THANK YOU again, Ursula Cyberia, whoever you are). HOLIDAY WEEKEND SAVED! In other news, there was a pretty ridic storm out in Frisco. Lots of property damage but I don’t think anyone was hurt. I hope everyone’s okay. Is it weird that I feel a little bad, like personally? It’s almost as if I sent them the bad weather that was meant for us, lol. LOL I SAY! (To the silliness of what I just said, not to the destruction in Frisco.) I guess I shouldn’t really be laughing at all. ...Kay I’m just gonna shut up now. Love, Ruthie G. Friday, July 9: HELLO DARLINGS! I hope y’all have seen ME reading the weather all week. I’m right up there with Jake in the hot seat! He still does the research, but he’s been wrong every day so far...I tried to get him to download Dancing Hut, but for some reason it’s gone from the app store. URSULA NOOOO! Oh well. It still works on my phone so I guess its guts are still up and running somewhere. Maybe she’s planning an update. Either way, I’ll keep using it. No one has to know Jake isn’t really helping. Our station is starting to pop up in NATIONAL news because of my our spot-on July 4th weekend forecast vs. all the other local counties (which were all WRONG). It’s kind of weird...I mean, it’s GREAT for me and my oo-la-la career as a big time weathergirl internship, but I still find it funny what people think of as news nowadays.

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Anyway, sorry for the late and short-ish post but I have to run...busy busy with work stuff. Love, Busy Bee Ruthie G. Thursday, July 15: I’m so so SO sorry for the delay since my last post...been ridic busy. I DID notice all the additional followers that have popped in recently and I want to thank y’all SO MUCH for your interest and support...it really means a lot! I never in a million years thought I’d reach ears (eyes?) beyond the good ol’ “Pestle 900.” I’ve We’ve officially gone viral. I can’t believe the major networks are still talking about ME. I LOVE the exposure, but it’s a little unsettling, to be honest. Call me superstitious but I’m almost starting to believe the haters on the “she sent that storm to Frisco!” bandwagon. Dumb, I know, but now they’re starting to link my recent forecasts to other storms that have hit around the world. It’s like I can’t ever say that Pestle’s going to have sun without someone blaming me for their lightning. Blame Dancing Hut, I guess. BLAME URSULA! (jk Ursula, my dear...where would I be without you?) You might be wondering why I’ve been flying solo on the air for the past few days. Welp, I may have informed Tim the station finally figured out that Jake wasn’t actually doing any useful forecast research, so they let him go. I’m having mixed feelings over it. I mean, of course it’s terrible for him... he didn’t deserve that. And yeah, I like liked him, okay? But at the same time, it’s pretty exciting for me...YES, I’M A HORRIBLE PERSON, I KNOW. Well now that I’ve admitted that, I guess it’s okay if I gush a little (right...RIGHT?).

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Nailed it! Officially, they’re calling my solo run in the hot seat an “interim situation,” but Tim told me (off the record, obviously) that they’re willing to make it PERMANENT if I keep crushing the forecast. And of course I will... Dancing Hut hasn’t steered me wrong yet! I don’t mean to dance on Jake’s grave but...YAY! It’s so exciting. This is what I’ve always wanted. And really, I HATE that Jake had to fall for me to rise but it is what it is. We can still get together for sodas if I’m not too busy. Love, RUTHLESS (ugh! sad but true, I’m awful) Monday, July 26: Ok I think I’m officially freaking out here, lol. So I’ve been tracking the weather trends vs. my forecasts and I hate to admit this but...the theories? NOT SO CRAZY. These trends make SO much sense. It keeps me up all night. It’s 5AM and all I’ve been doing is cross-referencing national AND international weather with the last few weeks here in Pestle (all correctly forecast by yours truly, thank you very much). With all this crazy, thank god I still have Dancing Hut. My eyes are wide open. But seriously every time I’ve done a forecast for nice weather in Pestle, some other place gets hit with a storm. No joke...EVERY time. It started with the so-called Frisco Freak Storm and it’s branched out from there...there’s no pattern to it yet that I can see, but some of the theorists are looking into that too. RIGHT? Look it up if you don’t believe me...there are a TON of theory sites about this... oh, and most of them demonize me (and demonize the

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station...sorry Tim! Oh, the price we pay for accurate forecasting!), but just ignore those parts if you love me. Good thing I have a thick skin. I think this all has to mean something. Love, Ruthie G. Wednesday, July 28: Ugh it’s 5AM again and my eyes are burning. Some Russian girl called me “baba yaga” on my comments feed and like 4000 people thumbs-up’d it...I’m freaking out, can anyone please tell me WTH that means? By far the weirdest comment I’ve seen. Not sure if it’s good or bad but I think it’s bad...there were angryface emojis with it. Love, Baba Yaga (I guess?) Friday, July 30: LDSKJKJSDKHAHA I can’t even… Tim is starting to give me grief over all this. Apparently I, me, RUTHIE, am making the station look bad. Not the WEATHER that a person has NO control over, nooooo, of course not that. Besides, does he realize what century we’re in? Any attention is GOOD attention...and I’m bringing the attention. You need me. Get it together, Tim. Who else is going to give the weather? You? Oh and that rat you call a wig your hair, your precious hair looked TERRIFIC today! Jake has been leaving me messages all week...uhhh, dude, do you not READ MY BLOG? Too busy for your check-ins, sorry, thanks.

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I’m losing my mind. SORRY for ranting, but I had to! You readers/viewers mean everything to me. Love, RUTHLESS (here today, gone tomorrow?) Monday, August 2: The tornado in Prague? Dozens of people killed, hundreds more left homeless? Every other nearby county said there’d be a tornado in Pestle. I said it would be gorgeous in Pestle. Oh and FYI...Baba Yaga: a witch from Slavic folklore that flies around in a cauldron and uses a mortar and PESTLE to cook up storms. How are there still people who don’t believe this? ALL this info? The amount of research people are putting into this? This has to be real. I feel responsible. The haters are gonna LOVE this. Ugh. Love(?), Baba Yaga Tuesday, August 3: HELLO MY DARLINGS! I need you all so much right now. It’s 4AM and I’ve been violently sick all night from anxiety. The Internet hate is just too much for me right now. There are death threats about me. People from Prague are e-mailing me pictures of their dead relatives. Really? What the hell is wrong with people? Please leave me some love! I need it if I’m gonna make it through work today! Love, Ruthie G.

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Tuesday, August 3: Wow. Just wow. Showed up to work this morning and Tim pulled me aside. He said it’s not working out. While they “appreciate” my accuracy and enthusiasm, the negative press is just not something that makes sense for them right now. He had me escorted from the building. THANKS SO MUCH. Like this is really what I needed today. It’s okay though, I think. All your awesome words of encouragement this morning plus 2 pots of coffee really helped me deal with this head-on. I remember wondering last week if Tim knew what time we were living in. It made me realize that I don’t need the station. I don’t need any of them. I can do my own weather, right here on my blog. I mean I still have Dancing Hut, and it’s never been wrong. And I still have all of you. I’ll try not to tornado you (too soon?). Love, RUTHLESS (who are we kidding...gotta own it now)

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Fiction Ruthless

About The Author

Adam Barron was born and raised south of Boston, MA and now lives in Canada with his wife, kids and a dog/panda/sloth creature, where having his own driveway has squashed his once great love of snow. He still drinks iced coffee yearround--yes, even when itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s -40C/F. He is a stickler for minutiae and a serial procrastinator, often found putting off actual writing goals to obsess over research/world-building details or watch Netflix.

Fiction

Words by

Baba Bobs Her Hair

Rebecca Anne C. Do Rozairo

About the story

There’s an F. Scott Fitzgerald short story, “Love in the Night,” about a Russian prince who loses everything in the revolution and takes a job driving taxis in Cannes. It occurred to me that Baba Yaga may have found herself in exile in the early twentieth century, though I doubted she would go anywhere as glamorous as Cannes. Nonetheless, I wondered, what would Baba Yaga be like in the roaring 20s? Would she cling to her folk past and her hut on chicken legs? Or would she get her hair fashionably bobbed and live up to her wicked reputation?

Rebecca-Anne C. Do Rozario

“Do you believe in bobbed hair?” asked G. Reece in the same undertone. “I think it’s unmoral,” affirmed Bernice gravely. “But, of course, you’ve either got to amuse people or feed ‘em or shock ‘em.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” “копуша. You will stay at Baba’s house. She needs her bunions seeing to.” A moment earlier, Tatiana had been sprawled in her father’s chair, limbs askew. She revealed a length of leg below her badly sewn hem, the laddered stocking rolled loosely at the knee. The whiff of tobacco and whiskey about her was drenched in the cheap scent she wore. It was all she could afford on small wages from the laundry. She scrambled up and faced her mother. “Are you smoked? She’s a witch! Her house is full of chicken poo and the broken bits of old men’s hearts. And she’s not even family.” Her mother hissed. “Anyone who travelled with us in those dark days is family now.” When Tatiana was a small child, her family had left Russia. They’d met the old woman sitting by the road with her chicken. The woman had arms and legs like broken twigs with whorls of elbows and knees. The men had plotted to steal the chicken for the pot that night, but the women intervened, gathering the old woman and her chicken into their cart as charity. The men called her Baba Yaga. “She’ll cook me in her pot…” It was just a story the men told when they drank too much vodka – mutterings about

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finding watches, rings and belt buckles in her stew pots – but people didn’t entirely dismiss it when they were sober. “I’ll give you some borscht and a fresh loaf. It should complement your lazy rump.” The streets of her neighbourhood were filled with ragged, moist children and husbands sleeping off booze by the bins. Drying linens fluttered overhead on the clotheslines. Young, unemployed men wolf-whistled at her and babies cried from their perambulators, parked in doorways and draped with damp tea towels to keep the smut off their red faces. Tatiana stepped smartly down the centre of the cobbles. Baba lived beyond the tenements, at the end of a rundown lane. Her handkerchief-sized garden was filled with chickens. They scratched and pecked and there was not a bit of grass or greenery left, just rotting cabbages and lettuces. The house had the back door where normally the front door would be, opening directly into the kitchen with its coal-fired oven. The old woman bustled out, carrying her broom. Judging by the pristine condition of its bristles, it was only ever been used to threaten the dirt. “Which one are you?” demanded Baba. “Tatiana.” “Tatiana? Huh. Oh!” she cackled, lifting her skirts. “The little, fat one called Tatties, because you looked like a potato.” “The boys still call me Tatties, but not because I look like a potato,” said Tatiana, who resented her sturdy, peasant body with its unfashionably large bosom. Other Russian exiles, the ones she read about in magazines, were slim, glamorous, and aristocratic. They went to places like Paris

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and Monte Carlo. They did not go to places that were always soggy and smelled of smog and muck. “Here, Mother sent me with borscht.” “I hate borscht.” “That’s two of us, Baba.” “I prefer a bloody, meaty leg or some roasted kidneys. I still have my four good teeth.” She sniffed at the basket. “Dump the borscht out for the chickens and come in for a drink.” She and Baba drank vodka and ate a dish of fried kidneys with sour cream. Baba slammed her glass upon the table. “Time for bed. Why don’t you tell me a tale to give me sweet dreams? In the morning, you can see to my bunions. Then I’ll probably roast you – ha ha ha, little Tatties – in the oven.” Tatiana ignored her comments and grasped her arm. The two women wove towards Baba’s bed. It had a dusty, red velvet coverlet and pillows that quivered if you stared at them too long. “I’m no good at stories, Baba. But I filched The Modern Priscilla from cousin Olga. I wanted her Vogue, but she’d already passed it on to Ana. There’s still some good pictures of fashions…” “What’s this vac-um cleaner thingy?” asked Baba, rattling through the pages. “An advertisement, Baba. I think it’s to clean carpets.” “What do you need that for, girl? You just give them a good thump with your broomstick.” “Dry up, Baba. Get into bed and I’ll tell you how to make a pâté.” “And what’s that?” “Something swells eat.”

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“Sounds repulsive.” Tatiana laughed. “Here, it says it’s made of liver and cream.” “Well, that’s all right then. I like liver.” Baba stripped off her heavy dress, revealing a silk chemise, the once elaborate lace all frayed. Tatiana shuddered to see the ropey, purple veins on her gams and the wrinkled skin on her knees and was rather glad when she was all tucked up. She drew over a wooden chair and sat to read. Her voice was sluggish, the words slurred. “That’s enough tonight. Sleep on the spare bed under the stairs. Your breath reeks of drink and your mother will swear at Baba Yaga.” “Okay, Baba. Goodnight.” “Goodnight, Tatties.” Tatiana found the bed under the stairs or, at least, she supposed she did. It was concealed by great swathes of web. A fat spider sat among the decaying flies, gently spinning like a circus performer. Tatiana backed away and instead curled up in an old winged back chair, wrapping herself in her scarlet coat to sleep. In the morning, she was woken by the smell of meat frying. Baba glanced over at her. “Sleepy head. I could have chopped your head off while you slept. I keep the chicken axe just by the mantle.” Tatiana yawned, ignoring the axe. “Why do you always threaten to eat us?” Baba shrugged, pushed two plates of burned chicken hearts and onions onto the table, and sliced a loaf of brown bread with her serrated knife. “I like fresh meat. Tasty meat. Puts flesh on my spare bones.” She chuckled. “My

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sisters and I were starving in our dark Mother forests. We enjoyed a good rabble and burning, we did, but our forests were changing, fed on the blood of the fanatics. There were new and nasty things in the woods, too, nastier even than we. So I picked up my hut and left.” Tatiana, not paying a speck of attention, grimaced as she pulled on her long, unravelling braid. “It’s knotted. It’s such a pain.” “Cut it off, then,” Baba said sharply, annoyed at being ignored. “Mother won’t let me. I want a bob, just like Louise Brooks. Mother says I’ve already got too many flapper ways.” Baba took a pair of large scissors, sniffed, and chopped the braid off in one snip, “Nonsense. Good, practical way to wear your hair.” She hacked away till the ends formed points at Tatiana’s cheekbones. Then she cut bangs, heavy like a curtain over her dark eyes. Tatiana went to a milky mirror and regarded herself. “It’s the cat’s pyjamas!” She was mostly guessing at the results from her fuzzy reflection, but Tatiana, despite her life experience, was an optimistic creature. “Don’t know about cats wearing pyjamas. Only ever seen one in boots.” “You spay me, Baba.” Tatiana looked at her grizzled bun, stuck with sticks and leaves, and felt a shiver of genuine affection. “Would you like me to cut yours? Make you look all ritzy, too?” Baba cackled like an old piece of pork crackling straight from the oven. “Me? Ritzy as a film star? Why not? Old Baba the Vamp! I can just see my name in lights!” She stabbed the scissors at Tatiana, who took the heavy metal blades and set to work. “Oh Baba. Your hair! It’s like

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cutting rope! It needs a comb before I can get anywhere with it.” She went to Baba’s dressing table and scratched her newly shorn head, trying to make sense of the grooming implements lying beneath a viscid layer of dust. She pulled free the comb and dusted it off, revealing smooth bone teeth. It ran through the ropes and coils of iron-grey, dust, feathers, and twigs floating free. It would take special dedication to get one’s hair in such a state as Baba’s. Finally Tatiana tossed the comb over her shoulder and put her hands on her hips. “I don’t think your hair has ever seen soap.” “What did you do with the comb, girl?” Tatiana pushed Baba towards the kitchen pump and grabbed a thick cake of slimy soap. She didn’t notice the small pine trees beginning to sprout from the floor boards, curling and unwinding as they grew. She ducked Baba’s head under the cold water and lathered her hair. Baba sputtered and cursed. Tatiana felt for a towel and wrapped it firmly about the old woman’s head so she couldn’t speak. Then she snipped away, heedlessly throwing the towel over her shoulder with the shorn tufts. Baba’s remaining hair sprang and bounced, forming soft little curls, now white as snow. Tatiana didn’t notice the trickle of water by her feet, running between the floor boards. “My head’s freezing,” complained Baba. “What did you do with that towel?” “You look like a hot tomato,” said Tatiana, though it was a rather old, wizened tomato only good for the soup pot. “A tomato? Why would I want… oh, it’s one of those slangs again. As if it wasn’t hard enough for a woman of

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my years to learn correct English.” She stood up. “But I do feel properly modern now.” She took a step. Her foot splashed in the tiny stream. “You foolish girl! You dropped my towel!” “It’s just a towel, Baba.” Tatiana looked at the stream bubbling up from the boards. “Your floor has sprung a leak.” “My floor! Sprung a leak!” “Well, it’s usually the roof, I grant you.” “And I suppose you also threw away my comb?” “It’s somewhere here on the floor… among the little trees… Baba? Something very odd is happening.” Her uncle had always joked that Baba’s house was dirty enough to grow beets in, but Tatiana didn’t think he’d meant it literally. “Neglecting my magic.” Baba scowled horribly. “Fool that I am, I might as well be one of those damned fairy godmothers fluttering about and covering everything with spangles. Tell me what you wish for most.” Baba’s sarcastic tone washed over Tatiana, who promptly responded, “To go to the French Rivi-era.” The pine trees were snagging her stockings. “You could come, too, Baba, if we had diamonds to sell. The Grand Duchesses always sell off their diamond tiaras and baubles to rent hotel rooms… I read.” “But I’m a witch!” Baba stomped on an impudent tree that had poked up under her skirt. “That’s all right, Baba. Being wicked is very fashionable now. You’d be a smash. We could get you some fascinating lingerie and a jumper frock like we saw in the magazine. You’d be a smash in that get-up. You’d have plenty of old codgers buzzing around… you could eat them.”

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Tatiana was a pragmatic girl. She had read about Cinderella and was willing to accept any fairy godmother – even a dirty, sneering godmother – at face value. She waited patiently for her dreams to come true. Baba had never been a handsome woman, but she’d always had style. True, that style tended to involve cackling, chicken poo, and twigs in her hair, but she was cunning. People sat in the dark, watching black eyed women in little more than their scanties, capering about with skeletons and ravens. Baba thought about a future of luxurious debauchery in sunny places. “I do have rubies. Colour of iron-rich blood. Those do?” “Oh yes, Baba Yaga. Rubies will do very nicely.” Epilogue: Along the Mediterranean coast, wealthy, old men have been disappearing in rapidly escalating numbers since the 1920s.

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Fiction Baba Bobs Her Hair

About The Author

Rebecca-Anne C. Do Rozario teaches fairy tales, fantasy, and children’s literature at Monash University. She publishes scholarly work on topics as princesses, wizard rock, and the materiality of books. She also publishes the odd short story, including ‘The Death of Glinda, the Good Witch’ in Aurealis, and the occasional knitting pattern. She has a Scottish Terrier and a shoe collection, which manage to co-exist somewhat peacefully.

Fiction

Words by

Recipe for Success

Dan Mickelthwaite

About the story

I first learned of Baba Yaga through Mike Mignola’s Hellboy comics, and it feels appropriate that I first encountered her in such a visual medium, as, like many enduring folktale figures, she comes replete with a series of physical trademarks -- not least of which is her chicken-leg house. Running with the idea of the house as a kind of logo for the character, I immediately knew I wanted to do something involving fast food. Initially, I had it in mind to attempt a big-business satire, but from the moment she became

Babs, it made much more sense for her to be an independent proprietor. This let me keep more of the mystery from the original tales, as well as adding a sense of precariousness to her situation, since she depends on her van as both a workplace and a home. Whether there can be such a shortcut to success without any sacrifices, however, is what both Babs’ and Vicky’s arcs are about finding out…

MORE TIMELESS TALES STORIES BY DAN:

Diva Issue 4 Perseus & Medusa

Impatient History Issue 9 King Arthur

Recipe For Success DAN MICKLETHWAITE

Babs, the locals called her. Everyone knew that wasn’t her full name, that she wasn’t from around here, but nobody could remember where she was from, or when exactly she’d arrived. It no longer mattered. Over the years, she’d simply acquired that moniker, been awarded it as a stamp of belonging, almost of ownership. She had become as much a part of their neighbourhood as the football team, the old bridge, and the ancient medieval church. In some ways, indeed, it seemed as though she’d been there even longer than that, roving the streets since before they were streets — since before they were even a glimmer in a town-planner’s eye — in her old corrugated steel Citroën, with the chicken drumstick-shaped sign bouncing along its roof. *** Vicky studied the Citroën every morning, counting off its various customary creakings and screechings and openings-up. She was fascinated and frustrated by its owner in equal measure. Not once, no matter how early she arrived, had she beaten Babs there, to that prime position just at the end of the short side-road that led up from the Tube station. Always, she was stranded here, just across from her rival, watching how much more business the veteran did than her, how much longer the queue stretched beside the ribs of that old silver van. Of course, getting there as early as she did, Vicky could have parked anywhere else on the street, opposite any of the newer, fancier stalls — but she didn’t want to.

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All those other trucks had come late to the party, compared to Babs and her Chicken House. The old woman had once had the pick of any and every location, flitting between them at will — Vicky distinctly remembered this from her childhood. Sometimes, she could swear she had just walked past the van, drumstick-sign wavering in the cross-breeze, squeaking on its springs and hinges, only to run into it again a street or two further on. Now, though, with the ever-increasing competition — which Babs herself had inspired — The Chicken House had been forced to join their massed ranks on the market street. As celebrated as her special spice-mix was, she couldn’t hope to lure enough customers away from this hub, a place of constant gentrification, full of fancy young chefs. Most of them were graduates (or drop-outs) from prestigious French or Spanish cooking schools, with a past in moderately-famous gastropubs and remote hotel restaurants that held a solitary Michelin star; all their trucks had wooden cladding on the outside, bunting strung across their open hatches, hygiene certificates proudly displayed just inside on the wall. Outside on the tarmac stood blackboard a-frame menu-signs that doubled as street-art, vibrant and punchy in a rainbow of chalk. Irresistible to bearded hipsters and businessfolk alike. Still, despite all of this, Babs continued to show up and to more than hold her own. And so Vicky thought that if anyone could help her to survive in this industry – could help her to thrive, even – it would be the little old woman in the old Citroën van. ***

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Every day for the past month, Vicky had found herself waiting for the moment when The Chicken House’s hatch opened, when Babs would appear at the counter to work on a fresh batch of her celebrated spice-mix with her antique, gnarly mortar and pestle, the dust and the scent of it drifting out on the breeze. She never acknowledged Vicky, nor anybody else, but at the same time this felt like a territorial display, a reminder to everyone just whose turf they were on. Vicky was mesmerised. She’d become convinced that the spice-mix recipe was the key to Babs’ success and professional longevity; the reason she was still able to command such a lucrative spot. If Vicky could perhaps convince her rival to pass on this recipe when she retired, then maybe she’d have her own future secured. The money-troubles of her present — even with a live-in boyfriend, the city was far from inexpensive — would quickly become a thing of the past. Watching Babs at work lately, she felt certain that retirement would come before too long. Other vendors had sensed this as well. They seemed to be parking their trucks closer and closer, nearly scuffing the bumpers of the Citroën, waiting for the opportune moment at which to make their offers — to bargain for that which all their expensive training and employment history hadn’t yet given them: a trademark taste. A recognisable brand. Standing hunched behind her counter, grinding away with that mortar and pestle, Babs was looking old. Well, she had always looked old, as far back as anyone could remember, but now she was looking even older. Not just in herself, but in contrast to those bright young chefs and their brand new vans.

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Her hands as she worked were knotted and wiry as the roots of storm-wrecked trees. Even from this distance, Vicky could tell she was growing more pallid in complexion, breaking out in strange flashes of eczema, skin as scaly as silver birch bark. If Vicky was to make her move, it would have to be soon. *** The first wave of workers arrived, seeking something to tide them over on their way to the office, and the stream of pedestrian traffic continued at a regular pace for the rest of the day — the city, it seemed, was insatiable. Some of the trucks had packed up and driven off early, not having attracted as much of that traffic as they’d like. But Vicky stuck around, no matter how many more went to The Chicken House than they did to her own, Frenchthemed stall: Le Coq au Van. Now, as she watched Babs tread gingerly down the Citroën’s steps, broom in hand, ready to sweep the street clear of the day’s accumulated trash — crumpled napkins, punctured polystyrene trays that, in the streetlight, looked almost like skulls — she felt it was time. “Hey, Babs, do you need any help there?” She said, reaching for the broom. The old woman shot a look at her, and then, despite the apparent weakness of her frame, continued to sweep the road, perhaps even more vigorously. “It’s just,” Vicky continued. “I see how much work you put in, day after day, and I know you’ve been doing it year after year, because I grew up around here.” Her aged rival’s dogged actions were pendulum-precise as she sidled along in front of her van. Vicky went on, “And,

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well, I was just wondering...don’t you think, perhaps, that you deserve a little break?” Babs stopped still. The bristles of her broom were pressed against one of the bone-pale polystyrene trays. Then she spun on her heels, and was at the back door again before Vicky realised what was happening. The young woman darted after her, but by the time she arrived, the door was slammed shut. “Babs, I didn’t mean any offence,” she said. “I’d just like to help, is all. I think if you and me were to combine, you know, pool our resources, I think we’d have the whole street to ourselves. No contest.” No reply. “And with all the extra money, you could afford to relax in your retirement—” The door swung open with a screech and a clang. “Listen, young girl,” said the woman who, this close up, seemed little more than skin and bone beneath dense layers of woollen shawl and cardigan “The future will be in your hands soon enough. But do not rush it. And do not rush me.” Before the door closed again, Vicky saw into the van. There was a camp-bed pressed close to the gas-fuelled stove, and a small bucket pushed away in the corner, beneath the small sink. It didn’t seem quite sanitary. *** Vicky knew now how Babs managed to beat her to that spot every day — she slept there, parked overnight. She

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really was part of the neighbourhood now. A permanent fixture. She’d set down roots. The younger woman felt somehow cheated. Felt disappointed as well that she’d not made any headway. Ignoring her boyfriend’s familiar protestations when she arrived home late, his reminding her—again—that rent was due that weekend, she’d been up until half-two, trying to puzzle out a new spice-mix of her own. Every day, when the scent of her rival drifted across the street, she felt she could detect just about every ingredient — coriander, nutmeg, cumin, star anise, paprika, and sundry others besides—but no matter how she combined them, there was always something missing. She watched as customers tried her spicy chicken, biting into it enthusiastically, only for the fervour to lessen the more they ate; only for their gaze to drift, subconsciously, towards The Chicken House, where it was clear they would have gone, were it not for the queue. She attempted new mix after new mix, working her own (shop-bought, gleaming) mortar and pestle until her arm felt as though it might drop off, and yet still the outcome was the same. She always ended up in that vacuum of demand, serving only an occasional straggler, as she looked across at the old woman, who needed no help, who never looked back. *** At first, nobody could believe the rumours. That there had been a minor but unpleasant outbreak of food-poisoning, and that someone on this street was to blame. That

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legal action was being threatened. That the authorities might get involved. All the young fancy chefs made sure to put their hygiene certificates out front, taped over the multi-coloured chalk of their menus. Vicky even had small copies of her own five-star rating made into bunting, which she strung out along the side of her truck. They all put bottles of hand-sanitiser, clearly-labelled, beside the mustard and ketchup dispensers. They all made certain to explain to their customers: “Hey, it wasn’t me — you’ll only get the cleanest, freshest food here!” Nobody pointed the finger, not so directly, but everyone could tell where it was leading. That day — for three days in a row now — the old woman had not emerged from her van. Had not opened the shutters. Hadn’t swept away the skull-like cartons forming a pile out in front on the street. *** On the fourth morning, the old corrugated steel Citroën was gone. So was the rubbish. In its place, all Vicky could find was the mortar and pestle, just as crooked up close as it had seemed to her at the start of the week, when, for a few moments, Babs had left it untended. Underneath it, there fluttered a note. Young girl — it read — I have decided to take your advice and put my feet up for retirement. I have made enough money and I will enjoy it. The future is in your hands now — Babs. On the back was a full recipe.

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The full recipe. Vicky felt a slight tremor of guilt within her excitement, having at last managed to uproot her competitor from a place that had become as good as a home — but this had passed by the time she’d manoeuvred into that space herself. Her boyfriend had been threatening to leave her, claiming she hadn’t been paying enough attention, saying he didn’t think she had her mind on the important things, like rent, like saving for their future together. But, as she opened her hatch to the market street and began to prepare the day’s supply of spice-mix, she found that she didn’t quite care. She didn’t look down to see how already her fingers were growing more withered and wiry; how already the skin of her forearms was taking on the pallid and scaly appearance of birch.

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Fiction Recipe for Success

About The Author

Dan Micklethwaite does most of his writing in a small, wet town in the north of England. He escapes via his short fiction, which has travelled extensively to such wonderful, exotic locales as Birdville, Eunoia, BULL, 3:AM, Litro, and The Missing Slate, in whose New Voices competition he has been a runner-up. His debut novel, a contemporary riff on Don Quixote set in the aforementioned small, wet town, was released in 2016 through the brilliant Bluemoose Books. In the meantime, if youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re curious, feel free to pop over to his website www.smalltimebooks.blogspot.co.uk and/or follow him on Twitter @Dan_M_Writer.

Fiction

Words by

Visions

J.S. Roberts

About the story

This story was written specifically for Timeless Tales. I love the creepy feel of many old fairy tales, and I wanted this one to feel like a horror story. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve always paid attention to supporting characters in stories, so I decided to write the story from the point of view of Valissaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not-so-horrible stepsister.

visions j.s. roberts

Evangeline didn’t move a muscle. She couldn’t let Valissa know she was awake. It was no use trying to comfort the distraught girl. Every time she spoke to her stepsister, the girl cried out as if in pain and raced from the house. Valissa lit a candle and placed it on her bedside table revealing a small bowl and a glass of dark liquid. She stole a glance around the shadowed bedroom before pulling the doll from her pocket. “There, there,” she crooned, stroking the tiny doll’s hair. “I’ve brought you a little food and a little drink. You’ll feel better soon.” The spicy aroma of beef and peppers filled the air. Valissa pressed a spoon against the doll’s wooden lips. Evangeline grimaced as soup spilled over the doll’s face to stain the already grimy dress. If only she could sneak it away long enough to clean the dress, but Valissa always kept the doll at her side. A smile lit up Valissa’s beautiful face. “I knew you would be hungry. Here, have some juice, and then you can listen to my grief.” Evangeline tensed, scarcely daring to breathe. Valissa sat on the edge of her bed and drew the doll closer. “Do you know what happened? My stepmother sold Papa’s beautiful castle, and moved us to this shack in the forest. I’m sure he’ll never find us when he returns from his quest.” She burst into wailing sobs. Evangeline remained quiet, lying rigid in the darkness that shrouded her bed. Shouting the truth wouldn’t help. Valissa would only scream insults and run into the forest and be lost. The home they’d left was hardly a castle, and it hadn’t been sold at all. Mother simply stayed in the cabin while Papa was gone because it was easier to maintain. Across the room, Valissa’s sobs quieted to whimpers as she stared at her little doll. “Are you certain he’ll know where to find me?” Evangeline scowled. How could Papa not find them when he’d been the one to bring them here?

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“I know,” Valissa continued as if the doll had answered her. “But I don’t know how I’ll survive. Stepmother has told me to gather the wood, and tend the gardens, and clean the house. When I’m finished, I’m to prepare the meals. How shall I ever accomplish it all?” Evangeline gritted her teeth. These horrible lies were almost too much to bear. Valissa fell silent again, her blue eyes shining in the candle light as she leaned closer to her toy. “Oh, but it’s so much for you to finish. How will your tiny body sustain?” She paused. “Of course I shall feed you tomorrow.” Valissa hugged the doll, staining her nightgown with the remaining grape juice. “I’m so glad Mama left you for me. I couldn’t bear this horrendous place without you.” Evangeline remained still until Valissa returned the doll to her pocket, and crawled out the window. She tossed back her blankets and hurried from the room. Mother sat quietly in a wooden rocking chair, her knitting needles clicking a contented rhythm. Lavinia perched in a chair nearby. Her dark braids fell over her shoulders as she inspected her own knitting. Mother looked up in surprise. “Evangeline, what are you doing out of your bed?” “She’s done it again, Mother. She left through the window, and will spend the night working her fingers to the bone. In the morning she’ll thank the doll for doing it all.” Mother rose from her seat. “I’ll send one of the servants to look after her. At least she rests during the day.” Lavinia leaned forward dropping her knitting into a basket. “Mother, she is surely mad. She tells horrendous tales of us. It’s time she was sent away.” Evangeline glared at her sister. “How can you say such a thing? One day she’ll recover from her grief, and return to her senses.” Mother’s fingertips rested briefly on Evangeline’s shoulder. “We can only hope you’re right, dear. Losing her mother

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so young has broken her heart. Perhaps soon we can help her mend it.” The following night, Evangeline watched again in silence as Valissa fed and spoke to her doll. When the girl disappeared into the night, Evangeline rushed to the sitting room once again. “Mother, she said the most awful thing tonight!” Mother frowned. “Evangeline, I asked you to remain in your room. I’ve already appointed servants to watch after Valissa. It’s all we can do.” “But Mother, she claims you have sent her into the woods to a witch. I heard her tell the doll that you have traded her to Baba Yaga who lives in a hut supported by the giant feet of a chicken.” Lavinia crossed her arms and huffed a dramatic sigh. “I don’t know why you listen to her nonsense.” “She’s unwell, Lavinia. She needs our help.” Mother clapped her hands together. “Settle down, girls. Babbette Yagel is the only one who lives in the woods. She is a medicine woman with a cabin on stilts near the river. She’ll see that Valissa comes back to us by morning.” Evangeline returned to her room, but left the bed untouched. Valissa was too young to face the dangers of the forest alone. She didn’t need a servant to look after her. She needed a friend. Determined to treat Valissa as a true sister, Evangeline slipped on her coat, and climbed out the window. Fog clouded the forest, hulking black trees appearing suddenly out of the mist. She shivered. How could Valissa move so quickly without being impaled by the branches that materialized before her? A haunting shriek echoed through the night. Evangeline gulped and glanced back to the warm light filling the cabin windows. She should go back. She could slip back into bed without Mother knowing she’d left. A flame flickered in the bushes ahead. A glimpse of the familiar white cotton nightgown explained Valissa’s swift-

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ness. She carried a lantern. Evangeline rushed forward, twigs snapping under her feet. Perhaps she could also be led by her stepsister’s light. Ahead, Valissa took on a ghostly form as the light rose above her. Evangeline gasped. There was no lantern in the girl’s fist. She held a torch high above her. At the top of a long twisted stick a skull bared an evil grin, his empty eye sockets glowing red with flames. As the girl plowed through the bramble, a lonely whistling tune flowed from her lips. Evangeline shuddered. Could Lavinia be right about their stepsister? She picked her way closer, careful to stay in the shadows. Valissa froze. Her whistle grew louder, then stopped abruptly. In the clearing ahead the mist parted. A cabin loomed in the darkness. “Little hut, little hut. Stand the way thy mother placed thee. Turn thy back to the forest, and thy face to me!” After reciting the strange rhyme, the girl shrieked with laughter. “Do you hear this, Baba Yaga? I know the words to stop your spinning hut. What will you do now?” Evangeline drew in a sharp breath. Perhaps another of Valissa’s disturbed visions made her believe the little cabin spun. The door creaked open. A dark shadow fell across the porch and a frail old woman appeared leaning on a cane. “Ah, Valissa, you poor tortured soul. I see you’ve returned again. Come inside before you catch your death of cold ... and leave that filthy animal skull outside.” Evangeline breathed a sigh of relief. Of course the skull belonged to an animal. How could she have thought otherwise? Valissa obeyed. First blowing out the flames, then gently placing the skull on the ground. She lowered her head and followed the woman inside. The heavy door swung closed behind them. Evangeline crept up to the lowest of the cabin’s windows and peeked inside. Valissa perched at the edge of a large

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wooden chair while the old woman stood at the stove. The woman spoke constantly, but the window was sealed tight, and Evangeline heard not a word. At the table, Valissa’s eyes grew wider and wider. When the woman set a cup of tea in front of her, the girl’s lips stretched into a scream of horror. Valissa jumped up from the table and ran from the cabin. She tumbled down the stairs, and streaked past Evangeline without a glance. Evangeline recovered her shock and followed. “Valissa wait! Whatever is the matter? Please let me help you!” Valissa came to a halt so suddenly that Evangeline almost collided with her. Her wide blue eyes settled on Evangeline’s face. “Run for your life!” she rasped. “Baba Yaga is coming, and she’ll eat you for her supper.” “That’s nonsense!” Evangeline grabbed her stepsister’s arm. Valissa’s fingers clutched the tiny doll. “See for yourself.” She pushed the doll into Evangeline’s hand. Evangeline fell backward her own fingers gripping the doll, somehow unable to let go. Valissa’s eyes bored into hers, and suddenly she saw the world in a different light. Valissa’s altered memories flooded her mind. Mother, with a gray face and tangled hair, screeching orders. The forest, a bone yard with reaching fingers. And finally, the old woman as a witch, preparing the soup to cook poor little Valissa. “No!” She slung the doll to the forest floor, and the visions disappeared. She grasped her stepsisters narrow shoulders. “You are not mad, dear girl. It’s only the doll.” Evangeline wrapped her fingers with a leaf, unable to bear the idea of seeing the visions again, and lifted the doll and threw it into the river. A howl rose from Valissa’s throat, and the girl crumpled to the ground. Color drained from her face leaving her

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cheeks ashen and her eyes black. “What have you done?” she cried, and plunged into the river. The following night, Evangeline laid as still as a statue. How Valissa managed to get out of the river remained a mystery. Evangeline had raced home to tell her mother the horrible news, but Valissa was already there. Again she stroked the hair of her tiny doll and crooned. “There, there. Have a little food and a little drink. Then you can listen to my grief.”

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Fiction Visions

About The Author

J.S. Roberts spent every spare second of her childhood with her nose in a book, and still loves childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s books. She lives in North Carolina where her husband, two sons, and writing keep her very busy. While this is her first published story, she has a middle grade mystery novel entered in an exciting contest called Pitch Wars. You can learn more about her and her mystery on her website jsrobertsbooks.weebly.com

Fiction

Words by

Home is Where the Bone is

Andrea DeAngelis

About the story

Recently, my husband and I had been overdosing on the Tiny House shows on FYI and it started my mind thinking about the costs of gentrification. I was also reading quite a few articles on hipsters moving to Detroit (like this one) and started to wonder what Bushwick Brooklyn hipsters would think of Baba Yagaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house and how would gentrification affect her, as well as how she would fight displacement.

MORE TIMELESS TALES STORIES BY SHARI:

Let Them Dance Issue 3 Twelve Dancing Princesses

HER STEPFATHER Shari L Klase

Her stepfather’s eyes narrowed and followed her movements , like a spider to a fly, as she moved silently through the room. He cleared his throat and tapped his foot ominously as he watched her. Barbara always knew when he was spying on her by these movements. Even when she wasn’t in the same room she could hear the tapping behind her. There was a feeling of foreboding in the cabin as if it died when her mother passed away. She dropped the armload of firewood beside the fireplace. Her half siblings frolicked around her noisily. Drew tugged at her skirt. “I’m hungry, Baba,” he told her. “Honey bread.” Honey bread was her brother’s favorite. Barbara sighed. “I don’t have time. I have to keep up the fire. It’s going to get cold tonight.” “Make Drew some bread, you lazy good for nothing,” her stepfather scolded. “The wood will always be there.” “Yes, Papa,” she replied. The man’s eyes took on a hostile glint. His voice was ice. “Don’t call me Papa. Call me Sir. I’m not your Papa. Your father was scum, do you hear me?” “Yes sir,” Barbara squeaked. She rushed to the kitchen to make honey bread for Drew. Sara crawled into her father’s lap. He ruffled her hair affectionately. “Little dove.” Barbara shivered, but not from cold. “He hates me,” she whispered, spreading the honey on the buttery bread. “Are you talking to yourself, you imbecile?” He chuckled. “What can you expect from a knucklehead?” “Baba is a knucklehead,” Sara giggled. “Knucklehead! Knucklehead!” Drew sang. Barbara bit her lip until it bled. She dropped the knife from her hand and drove her fingernails into her other arm until blood seeped from the skin. Relief cascaded over her. Then she delivered the bread to Drew. “Baba’s bleeding,” Drew said as he took the bread.

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“The little klutz cut herself,” he said, laughing. Drew and Sara laughed, too. She put her arms out to shield herself from them. “Stop it,” she said. “Putting a spell on us, witch?” her stepfather asked. “Yaga,” he muttered under his breath. “Baba Yaga,” Drew chanted. Sara joined in. “Baba Yaga,” they sing sang together. “Why don’t you use your magic to start the fire, witch? The children will freeze.” Baba returned to the cinders. She picked up the logs and arranged them in the fireplace. Then she ignited the fire. For a moment she basked in the glow of the warmth. “What two magnificent children I have,” her stepfather said. Barbara turned her head to see her siblings clambering over her stepfather. He never minded their pawing. It was what he lived for, but whenever he looked at her, there was nothing but disdain in his eyes. She was a mongrel. She left her place by the fire quietly. Her silence guaranteed her safety. When noticed least, she was most wanted. When his children were born, she’d cooed over them, but now she knew they would be exact replicas of her stepfather. They would grow to despise her as he did. Witch, he called her. Baba Yaga. It was ironic who the real witch was. After nightfall, when all the children were tucked into their beds and her stepfather was loudly snoring, Barbara slipped out of bed and padded softly into the kitchen where she moved a chair directly in front of the corner cupboard. Then she stepped up on the chair. If she stood on her tiptoes, she could open the door of the highest shelf. Then, with a stick, she eased the book over the edge until it dropped into her hands. When she first found the book, it turned her whole body cold. But there was something about it that drew her. The fact that it was her mother’s book made it even more

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compelling. Her mother had circled some spells in it. She was shocked which ones she favored. Spells for twisting her husband to her inclinations. There were spells to cause accidents. “This worked”, it said in her mother’s handwriting. She began to empathize with the level of hatred in her mother’s heart. Before this, she did nothing more than page through the book. She had both fear and trepidation in her heart that kept her from practicing what the book contained. But now things would be different. Until now, she had always said to herself, “I will not become what he is.” She could not deny the truth any longer. The darkness was in her, too. She would not be what he was. She would be much more. Her body quivered as Barbara lifted the pot from the wall. It wasn’t from dampness or even fear. There was daring in the air and it excited her. She ran outside to retrieve a bucket of water from the well. The night didn’t frighten her. There was so much more terror within her house than without. She poured the bucket of water into the pot. Then she started the fire in the stove. She needed only a few things; some straw from the hair of Sara’s doll, a patch of cloth from Drew’s blanket, hair from their heads. All these items were easily obtained. She added two day lilies to cause forgetfulness. Two crow’s feathers would ensure the darkness of the deed. Lastly, she reopened the earlier wound and dripped blood into the pot. It was a wound they caused. With eyes tightly shut, she chanted the words of the Lost Spell. It was a kindness, really, to sacrifice them. She would spare them the horrors of growing up to be like her stepfather, both cruel and evil. Now, while the blackness was only seeping into their hearts, she would spare them the full embodiment of his dark soul. When she was done, she poured the water over the moist, dark soil outside the house. Then she crept into her bed and slept soundly for the first time in her life.

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She woke the children while it was still dark, before her father was even up. She wanted nothing to complicate her plan. She grabbed the hands of the sleeping children and threatened them with beatings if they should wake their father before it was time for him to rise. In the early dawn she coaxed them into the woods. “Where are we going?” Sara whispered. “Shush. It’s a surprise for your father,” Barbara said. Drew yawned. “Oh good. Papa deserves a nice surprise.” “Don’t worry,” Barbara told him. “He will get everything he deserves.” She took them far into the woods and sat them in the deepest, densest forest. She hardly needed the spell, but it ensured that they would wander forever without finding their way home. She would take no chances that they’d be found. “You must wait here,” she told them. “Close your eyes. I will come get you when it is time for the surprise.” “I’m scared,” Sara told her. Barbara hesitated, but Drew spoke boldly. “I’m not scared.” “Good,” Barbara said. She left them and returned to the house. When she reached her door, she stopped. What had she done? Had she really sentenced two innocents to death? A pang of guilt seized her. She turned and raced back into the forest. She followed her previous trail directly back to the spot she left them, but they were not there. More correctly, the place she’d left them was not there. The Lost Spell had taken effect. They were gone, never to be found again. She ran helter-skelter all around the area. Her breaths came in short gasps. They couldn’t disappear. They were here somewhere. They must be. She brushed her cheek against a sharp vine. Blood trickled down. She fell and scraped her knee. At last, she collapsed like a lump of clay.

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She laid motionless and silent on the ground. There was no hope. The magic was too powerful. She retraced her steps back to the house. Her clothing was torn and bedraggled. Her father was up, standing in the doorway. “Where are the children?” “Gone,” she said. “Gone where?” Her shoulders sagged. “To Neverland I suppose, where all lost children go.” “What are you talking about? Have you lost your mind? Where are Sara and Drew?” She pushed him aside and forced her way wearily through the door. On the table rested the Spell Book. She picked it up and carried it with her. She brushed past her father once more who was still standing senselessly. She walked on without looking back. “Where are you going, you stupid girl? Tell me where Drew and Sara are.” She said nothing, but continued walking. “Barbara!” he called out. “Don’t call me, Barbara. Call me Baba Yaga. That’s my name.” “How will I live without my children?” he wailed. Without a backward glance, she whispered. “You won’t. You’ll die of loneliness just as you deserve.” In the deepest part of the forest, in the exact spot where she’d left the children, she fashioned her cottage. She enshrined it in a protection spell. To remind her of her deed, she stood the dwelling on living crow’s feet. During the day, it would wander from place to place with her inside while she practiced sorcery. But in her nights, she searched until her feet bled, for two lost children. If she perchance found any forgotten youths, she took them home where she pretended they were hers for a little while. Sometimes

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she returned them, sometimes she found other uses for them, realizing them all poor copies of the originals she could never find. As for her stepfather, he died of loneliness just as she predicted.

Timeless Tales 5 65

Fiction Her Stepfather

About The Author

Shari L Klase writes in the beautiful Susquehanna Valley where she shares her home with her artist husband and incorrigible corgi, Lucy. Writing fantasy is her favorite genre and fairy tales are in her top ten. She blogs at sklase.wordpress.com.

Fiction

Words by

The Quest for Daylight

Don Magin

About the story

I admit Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d never heard of Baba Yaga before this issue opened for submissions. So I did a fair amount of research and for several days read many stories about her from a variety of Eastern European countries. She fascinated me. At times she was a kindly old lady and at times she was the perfect witch. I tried to incorporate as many of her quirks and menagerie of strange companions as I could, and I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help myself from introducing elements of humor and pun. I wrote the story while on vacation in a cabin in the woods in the Pocono Mountains, which seemed a perfect setting to discover Baba Yaga.

The Quest for Daylight DON MAGIN

“Come here and see who’s coming now,” the skull gate said to the black cat. “You’ll find it amusing, I’m sure.” Blackie’s eyes followed the path leading to the bony fence and saw a young boy upon a stuffed lion. She padded her way forward till she stood in the gate, right between the rows of iron teeth that were the gate’s lock. Taking a closer look, she remarked to the gate, “Looks like a kid playing Knight of the Round Table. You don’t see many medieval varlets around here anymore.” “I am the powerful knight, Sir Vasily the Young,” said a small voice trying to sound mighty. The sight of a small boy with a sieve for a helmet, a birch twig for a sword, a trash can top for a shield, and a tufted lion for a steed, was altogether too funny a vision for the cat not to howl with laughter. With a low bow, she entreated the boy, “For what purpose does a noble knight as yourself venture into our humble woods?” “I am on a quest to find my twin sister, the fair Vasilia,” he responded. “We are travelers from a far-away country, sailing on our houseboat for two years now, following the stars by night and the sun by day. We landed at a quaint beach not far from here and rested in the warm sunlight. A fortnight ago we prepared to leave and continue our cruise, when we were plagued with darkness when a Black Horseman passed by. Without sunlight, Captain Father felt it wouldn’t be safe to depart.” Vasilia has a faerie doll who told her of an old woman who had power over light and darkness, and who lives in this very enchanted forest. Vasilia set out, guided only by her faerie doll, in search of the mysterious woman who goes by the name ‘The Baba’, to persuade her to end the

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darkness and restore the daylight.” She went without telling Captain Father that she was going. When he discovered she had gone, Captain Father sent me to find her, and protect her, and bring her home. We are all he has, and he is all we have.” “Ha, and you think this path leads to old woman?’ asked the black cat. “Surely,” replied the young adventurer, “so my valiant steed tells me”. At that the lion raised his head, shaking the mane from his eyes. The lion said, “Cat, you are a tempting morsel, especially since we have been traveling many hours and I am hungry. However, I sense that you, too, are famished.” “Quite so,” replied the black cat, “for I have had nothing to eat except a gulp of stagnant water which is my daily allowance from The Baba.” So!” exclaimed Sir Vasily. “The Baba does live nearby. Perhaps you can lead me to her house.” Blackie, realizing she had given herself and her mistress away, replied,” And why should I”? Fearing the wrath of The Baba, Blackie was determined to keep her deception as long as possible. Sir Vasily reined in his steed and, taking off his sieve-helmet, which did double duty as a foodinator, whispered some magic words into it. Reaching in he withdrew some desicated mouse liver, which he held out. “You have two choices, my dear cat,” Vasily said in a cavalier manner. “Agree to take me to The Baba and eat this food, or I let Leo feast on you.” Pondering the alternatives, Blackie quickly made the prudent choice, secretly grateful that no viable choice

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existed that would allow her to protect The Baba. After greedily devouring the treat, the black cat thanked him profusely and said, “You are correct, fair knight, and I will lead you to the old woman’s hut. But I warn you, she is a formidable foe. The way lies down this path, but you must placate the toothy gate, as you did me, or you will be eaten.” Captain Father had raised him to seize the initiative when faced with problems. The young knight dismounted and boldly approached the iron-toothed gate. Taking an oily rag from his tunic, he flossed the rust from between the teeth. With a satisfied sigh, the gate said, “Pass, kind sir.” Climbing back on the stuffed lion, Vasily the Young followed Blackie though the dark woods to a clearing. In front of them stood a gleaming silver bowl standing on an equally gleaming pestle two stories high. The cat fearfully pointed at the structure, her voice shaking as she said, “Here is the home of The Baba, which she calls the Hut, but no one can enter unless The Baba wishes.” “How did you get down,” asked the young knight, suspiciously, “for I see no ladder or entrance portal?” Blackie replied, “Every morning the old woman tells the hut to bow and rotate so the door is near to the ground. Then she shoos me out to protect her domain. If she then senses danger, she bows the hut again and sends the wolf out. See, she knows we’re here and look, Wolf is on his way.” Sure enough, the Hut dipped and rotated and a ragged beast leaped out. As the bowl rotated back and began to straighten again it shook, and poor Vasilia slid off a sapphire spatula and tumbled out, clutching her precious doll. As

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quick as the proverbial flash, Leo bolted forward and Vasily deftly caught his sister before she could be dashed to the ground. Teeth bared and howling, a skinny wolf stalked Sir Vasily. Leo roared, but the wolf held his ground. “You shall not pass,” he declared. “If I let anyone past, I do not get the moldy crust that is my only sustenance, such as it is, from The Baba.” “Beloved Wolf,” said Vasilia. “Have we not become friends over these past days? Did I not brush your fur and remove cockles from your tail? Did you not tell me stories to soothe me and help me sleep? Will you not help us?” Recollecting those most pleasant days with the young maiden, the wolf bowed as gracefully as the cat had earlier, and declared himself to be at the service of the twins. “Are you one of those huffing, puffing wolves of lore?” asked Vasily, remembering a tale his father used to tell him and Vasilia. “I used to be,” said the wolf mournfully, “when I was well-fed and loved, before Baba took me away from my own country and forced me to serve her. Oh, those were the good old days, when I would blow down stick and straw houses to feast on tender piglets.” “How many pork chops would it take to get your strength back up, oh mighty wolf?” asked the young knight, apparently wise beyond his years. “No more than six or seven, kind sir, but there are no such treats in this land, so my mistress Baba tells me.” “Perhaps not, but I am able to provide them. As a matter of fact, they are Leo’s favorite as well.” At that, Vasily again removed his sieve-helmet-foodinator, whispered some

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words, and produced a dozen center-cut chops, which he distributed equally to Wolf and Leo, as well as providing another chicken leg for Cat. Thus lion, cat, and wolf ate together and all were sated. “Now,” said Vasily addressing the wolf, “do you think you can blow yonder hut over, spilling Baba out, for we need to convince her to help us.” “If I can’t my name’s not Bigbad,” said the wolf, and he huffed, puffed, and huffed some more, sending the Hut wobbling on its single leg. A horrifying scream erupted from the teetering Hut. Looking up, the twins saw an old woman of uncommon ugliness, not the least striking because of a nose so long that it curled upon itself in a loop-de-loop. “Where did my pretty little companion go?” The Baba demanded. Assessing the strange assemblage of brave knight, fair maiden, Blackie the cat picking her teeth with a chicken bone, and Wolf puffing his lungs out, The Baba called for help. Instantly, three pairs of bodiless hands appeared. “Kill them all,” shouted the old woman to her new servants, “and bring their bodies for my lunch.” “Keep huffing,” Vasily told Wolf. “I’ll take care of the hands.” Putting one end of his birch twig sword to his mouth, for it was in reality a magic flute, the prince began playing a haunting yet lilting melody. The hands, mesmerized by the hypnotic music, halted their sinister advance and began to snap their fingers in time to the tune. Leo trotted off slowly, carrying his master and his sister away from the blustering wolf and screaming old woman. The wolf kept up a steady stream of puffing and the Hut tottered more and more.

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The Baba, with no more servants to call upon, had to escape before her Hut collapsed around her. She dragged a teacup to the doorway and climbed in, her knees bent up to the tip of her nose. Baba uttered an incantation. The teacup began to rotate like an amusement park ride, and lifted itself and its occupant clear of the Hut just seconds before the earth shook with a crash as bowl met ground. Using a demitasse spoon as a rudder, Baba steered herself away from the curious group of creatures she thought of as enemies. Vasily demanded The Baba halt and return to them. Vasilia chided her brother severely. “You came to dear Baba with nothing but malice in your mind. Is it any wonder that she feels she must flee? Had you not behaved in such a churlish way, I would have been able to convince her to come to our home. She then called out, “Come back Baba, please. We mean you no harm.” The Baba, frightened for her life, paid little heed. The old woman paused only momentarily, but it was time enough for Vasily to toodle a new tune on his birch flute. One of the bodiless hands flew toward the spinning teacup and hooked a little finger onto the handle, for it was only big enough for a single pinky. Upon playing the tune backwards, which itself was a pleasing melody, Vasily caused the hand to fly back dragging the teacup, much to the futility of the old witch who was furiously paddling the air with the tiny spoon. The other two hands continued their snappy backbeat. “Grandma Baba,” said Vasilia sweetly, “we mean you no evil. We know you are from the land of light and shadows, and that you are mistress of the coming and going of the

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light. You alone have the power to summon the Horsemen that bring dawn, day, and darkness.” “I used to have that power, but recently, one of my Horsemen, the Black one, has fled and has been gone for two weeks. He no longer answers my call, and I know not where to find him,” she replied. “I’m afraid my disposition has suffered from lack of sleep, for I am unable to doze with this eternal light.” “In this we can help you, dear Baba,” said Vasilia sweetly, “and in doing so, you can help us. Our houseboat is under control of your Black Horseman and has been plunged into utter darkness, which is a tragedy for us, for we cannot continue our journey unable to see where we are going.” “Take me with you, and I will bring first my Red Horseman to usher the dawn, and then my White Horseman to bring daylight, and in doing so, recapture my Black Horseman,” pleaded the now not-so-frightened Baba. At that, Vasily and Vasilia spurred their leonine steed back along the gated path to Captain Father and their own home, followed by Wolf, Cat, and the flying hands, one of which towed Baba and her teacup. As they approached the beach where their ship was moored, darkness enveloped them. Baba sent forth the Red Horseman, and the blackness receded, replaced with the glow of sunrise. Then The Baba sent the White Horseman and the red skies flared into bright sunshine. With daylight restored, Baba regained control of all her Horseman. The Black one had not fled, but had simply wandered off and lost his way. Captain Father rushed forth, gathering Vasilia in his arms and sweeping Vasily off his lion. “Father, meet kindly old Baba,” said Vasilia.

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“She controls the dawn and the daylight and the darkness,” said Vasily. Bowing politely, Captain Father thanked Baba for banishing the darkness. Over tea and crumpets and jam, the youngsters told their father all about their adventures. “Oh Captain, father of these lovely children, I am so sorry that my Black Horseman caused you such inconvenience,” apologized the old woman. “Nonsense,” replied the Captain. “If he had not gotten lost near our houseboat, we never would have had the pleasure of meeting you, and Vasily and Vasilia would not have had such a wonderful adventure,” said Captain Father, adding, “even if I did worry so much about them being gone.” A stern frown crossed his face, but his arms squeezed his precious children a little tighter. Afterwards Captain Father supplied Baba with a mail-order source of pork, chicken and desiccated mouse liver of the highest quality, much to the delight of Wolf and Cat. Captain Father said he would delay their travels and he and Vasily promised to visit The Baba the next day to restore her hut. Vasilia would bring along all the fixings for another tea party, which Baba so thoroughly enjoyed. The Baba then reseated herself in her teacup, and with her former servants, now companions in travel, rowed along happily to the rhythm of a finger-snapping beat.

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Fiction The Quest for Daylight

About The Author

Don Magin is husband (of 1), father (of 5), grandfather (of 13 so far). Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a retired chemist and currently teaches middle and high school science and math. This Santa-Claus-look-alike has lived in Bon Air, Virginia for 40 years, although he and his wife Margaret will always call upstate New York home. He has had stories and poetry published by Raphaelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Village, Short Humour, Necrotic Tissue, Microhorror, Flashes in the Dark, The Shine Journal, Everyday Musings: Poetry Collection, and a small sci-fi anthology called What If?

Fiction

Words by

Mars Tea

Kara Race-Moore

About the story

I read every version of a Baba Yaga tale I could get my hands on, from tiny cardboard books for nursery schoolers to scholarly analysis for grad students. I also read up on current events of Russianâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s participation on the International Space Station, types of space food Russians bring up, and possible near-future Mars explorations. I then blasted some Russian techno music videos and commenced writing. One of my goals was to present our possible future as Katenkaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s distant past, and I was very much inspired by how much Buzz Aldrin is still working to push and inspire people to keep moving forward with space exploration.

Kara Race-Moore

Mars Tea

Historians agree that the discovery of navius novavitae’s unique properties was the beginning of the end of the Martian Colonial Period. – Mars: A Human History, second edition, 2468 Dr. Katenka Mikhaylova was the third human, second woman, and first Russian to set foot on Mars. Her exalted status as a founder of Martian human exploration and settlement meant she could do as she pleased, and it pleased her these days to live in semi-retirement at the edge of the colony in a broken down shuttle she had retrofitted into her home. Anne Kennedy was the first human born on Mars. While this gave her a celebrity status back on Earth, here on Mars it had meant growing up burdened with the responsibility of always being the “good example” to the younger children. As an adult, this meant taking on a leadership role in the colony. Anne had trudged out to visit because she cared for her old teacher. And because it was something on her To Do list for that day. Katenka Mikhaylova’s cancer was at Stage 4, and since she had refused proper medical supervision, it was important to keep tabs on her, even if it was through polite fictions such as dropping by to borrow a flashlight. Anne climbed up steps that had been soldered onto to the ship once it had reached its final resting place. The old landing gear legs that dug into the red terrain creaked at their joints as the wind moaned through the colony structures. In the evening light, the shuttle cast deep shadows over Anne. An old space helmet had been turned into a lantern above the door, eerily casting a small light for those making their way to the old woman’s home. Anne hammered a gloved fist on the docking bay door, annoyed, as always, that the old woman refused to live inside the main area of the colony. There was a rasping

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groan as the doors came open. Anne rolled her eyes, mentally adding ‘Oil Katenka’s Doors’ to her To Do list. She ducked into the airlock and impatiently waited for the light on the wall to turn from red to green. Shucked out of her bio-suit with the ease of long practice, she entered the main section of the ship. The once military neat interior was now a cozy nest of domestic chaos. Decades of Katenka’s life on Mars lay scattered about, as well as a few precious souvenirs brought from Mother Russia. “Katenka?” Anne called out. She passed the part-kitchen part-laboratory where she saw Katenka’s old brass samovar, sent by the Russian government to celebrate the 10th anniversary of humans on Mars. In fact, the teapot on top was still steaming from recent use. “Up here, solnyshko,” an old voice called back. Anne stepped over a discarded oxygen tank to climb up the steps to the cockpit and found Katenka sitting in the pilot’s chair, calmly drinking a cup of tea as she watched a particularly fine sunset, the sky a gorgeous array of purples and oranges. Anne ignored the natural beauty and grumped, “I am not your little sunshine. I’m here to find out why you haven’t been taking your medication.” “I’m fine,” said Katenka, taking another sip from her teacup, her eyes never leaving the sight of the sun slipping down beneath rocks on the Martian horizon. “No, you’re not,” said Anne in her most firm and grown up voice. It usually worked. At least, it worked on colonists born after her. It was futile to order around one of the ‘Original Seven’ who had landed on Mars, but she had the responsibility to at least try. She moved around to block Katenka’s view of the sky. Hands on hips, she opened her mouth to keep arguing, but stopped, shocked at seeing Katenka face to face. Between Anne’s responsibilities and Katenka’s reclusiveness, Anne was somewhat ashamed at how many weeks

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it had been since she’d seen her. Before, Katenka had been more than just old, she had been shriveled and worn, bone thin and haggard. The cancer clearly waving its victory flags as it finished consuming her. Now, still old and worn, she had a flush in her cheeks, more flesh on her bones, and even though her nose was still sharp as a beak, she wore a look of the contentment on her face like a cat that has just stolen a bowl of cream. With a slow, dramatic flourish the old woman reached up with her free hand and pulled the red scarf off her head. Her face glowed, her eyes dancing with triumph as she gave a small, pleased smile to see Anne’s eyes widen at the reveal of a fine new growth of brown-gray hair on her previously bald scalp. “You… look good,” Anne croaked out. Katenka chuckled. “Not like I’m dying, you mean? Yes, I’m well on the road to recovery.” “I don’t understand.” “Here.” Katenka put her teacup on a damaged fuel tank she’d converted into a side table. She picked up a slim reader from the dashboard and tapped the surface to wake it up. Anne’s eyes flicked over the screen. She promptly collapsed into the co-pilot’s chair. “The cancer’s gone?” Her voice scaled up in disbelief even as she scanned the readouts in front of her. “Mhmm,” confirmed Katenka, picking her tea back up. She propped her feet up on the dashboard, stretching out languorously, filling the cabin like a bird extending its wings indoors. She may have long ago given up her dreams to dance on stage as the Firebird in order to leap across the sky, but she was still proud of her dancer’s legs. “But, we tried everything--” “Not everything. The cancer was winning, so there was nothing to lose. And I was curious to see how that specimen Navya found would taste if boiled up. I was pleasantly surprised by the side effects.”

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“The specimen--no! You drank the alien!?” shrieked Anne, jumping back out of the seat. “Are you saying that frozen mold we scraped off the bottom of a rock cured your cancer?” “And it really makes a lovely tea. Very wild and smoky in flavor.” “Tea,” repeated Anne, stunned. “You turned navius novavitae,” her voice rising in a panic. “The alien plant we have only just begun to examine...into tea!?” The alien life form had vaguely resembled the kind of mildew found growing in swimming pools back on Earth, but the media insisted on calling it a plant to make it sound more interesting. In a bid for better ratings, reporters all focused less on the discovery of life outside Earth and more on the discoverer, Navya Patel. Navya, eighth human born on Mars, had found it after falling down an icy crevice while exploring the northern polar region. She’d nearly gotten herself killed bringing the samples back, and ended up getting a new life form named after her. Anne rubbed her temples at the thought of just how much trouble Navya had brought out of that rabbit hole. Katenka saluted with her teacup. “I give you the waters of life. And some advice, if you sit down and listen like an adult instead of yelling like a toddler.” Anne sat back down, lips pressed tight together, glaring at Katenka, but not willing to say anything more at the risk of proving Katenka’s point. “Good. I want to warn you. This news will get out sooner or later. They already have samples back on Earth that are being studied. Even if we don’t tell them, someone is going to figure out that the moldy stuff we found here on Mars has extremely marketable properties. And they are going to want more.” Anne blinked slowly. “Like an oil boom. Or a gold rush.” “Think back to your history lessons. What happens to people inconveniently living on top of something valuable?”

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Anne made a face. “Eviction at best. A shallow grave at worst.” “Exactly. War is coming. So you best get ready.” “And what would you advise? The traditional Russian method of burning your own home to the ground before the enemy can take it?” Anne knew she was being flippant, but she was having a hard time wrap her head around how much her To Do list had just expanded. “Never invade Russia in the winter,” Katenka sing-songed, delighted at her homeland’s constant military strategy of letting the cold do the work for them. Anne dragged a hand through her own short red hair in agitation. “So, what next?” “Would you like to stay for dinner? My appetite has come back. I feel like I could eat a horse.” “If we had horses on Mars,” snarked Anne. She sighed. “Do you have anything here, or do I have to trek to the supply depot?” “I’ve got some ReadeeMeals in the cubby beneath the oven. Heat me up one or three, will you? There should be a beef stroganoff in there. And I know I stashed some grilled salmon ones back there, too.” Anne stomped off to the kitchen area, feeling like a teenager again, making sure all the kids got fed while the adults were off exploring or in the lab examining findings. Anne had already eaten, so she brought a plate heaped with re-heated fish, beef and noodles to Katenka, still in the pilot seat, eyes on the bright white dot of Phobos rising. The old woman dug in and had the plate clean in an astonishingly short time. She sighed with contentment as she set the plate down. “I had forgotten how good food tastes. Thank you.” She glanced at Anne. “Speaking of eating, do the youngest children still play ‘who gets eaten first’?” Anne groaned. “Just one of the many problems dumped in my lap when you retired from overseeing the history classes. That stupid game never goes away, no matter how

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many times someone explains we planned this colony a lot better than Jamestown.” “I always said the children of Mars would be the death of me, with all of your pestering questions and utter lack of respect for proper scientific study.” Anne shrugged. “You called it a lab, we called it a playroom.” Katenka laughed. “Well, you’ve got that same look on your face of not being sure if you should ask something or not. Ask away.” Anne hesitated a moment, then asked, “What should I do?” “If I was in your position I’d be tempted to stage a coup and declare myself czarina of Mars. You already run most of this place anyway. But since you are a good child, you’ll probably do the noble thing and set up a republic. You probably won’t even charge that much when you sell navius novavitae to folks back on Earth.” “Declare independence, that’s your advice?” “You’ll do great. Now, time for you to go back, start thinking how to triumph over greedy, selfish people. “Here,” she leaned down to rummage in a crate underneath the dashboard, then straightened up to hand Anne a flashlight. “It’s dark out.” “What are you going to do?” Katenka smiled as serene as an icon. “I’m going to stay up all night and watch the sunrise and cackle with delight at all the busy days to come that I’ll be around to see.” Reluctantly, Anne chuckled. She went back to main area of the ship to pull on her bio-suit and exit through the airlock. She strode back to civilization, flashlight in hand, and didn’t look back. She knew she was at the beginning of something monumental, and as afraid as she was of the dangers to come, she couldn’t wait to get started.

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Fiction Mars Tea

About The Author

Kara Race-Moore studied history at Simmons College as an excuse to read about the soap opera lives of British royals. She worked in educational publishing, casting molds for future generationsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; minds, but has since moved into the more civilized world of litigation. Ms. Race-Moore attended 6th grade in a one-room schoolhouse on an island, an experience that taught her how to live with limited resources on any planet. She first came to science fiction through reading Anne McCaffreyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work and is still grateful to her for showing an impressionable teenager that women can be in, and write, science fiction.

Fiction

Words by

The Scarlet Purse of Dreams

Carina Bissett

About the story

I’ve always been obsessed with women’s stories, but Baba Yaga was a character I’ve shied away from in the past. In some tales, she helps the protagonist on his journey. But more often than not, she is a cannibal witch, a malevolent ogress, eager to bring death and doom to her victims. She holds the keys to mysteries shunned by the young and feared by those old enough to understand the threat she poses. I decided that I am one of the

MORE TIMELESS TALES STORIES BY An author of note:

More Wings than the Wind Knows Issue 4 Perseus & Medusa

Bonus Poem Issue 10 Snow White

later, which is why I approached Baba Yaga as the central figure of a cautionary tale, rooted in the eternal cycle of life and death. The result was an exploration of modern luxuries and the old ways, a strained mother-daughter relationship, and the difficulty of letting someone go. Along the way, I added dashes of inspirations from biblical accounts in “Revelations” and the fairy tale “Godfather Death.” And, in the end, I found the promise of hope

Her Scarlet Purse of Dreams Carina Bissett

Ah, scattered gold rests on the twilight streams; The poppy opes her scarlet purse of dreams. Night with the sickle-moon engarners wheat, And binds the sheaves of stars beneath her feet. – Excerpted from “Early Nightfall” by Scharmel Iris Although the familiar scents of herbs and flowers drifted out of the open doorway, all Lisa could smell was the underlying stench of death and decay as she entered her mother’s bedroom. “Why didn’t you call for me sooner?” A deep breath rattled in her mother’s narrow chest. “There is a beginning and an end for all living things.” Lisa’s hands curled into fists, which she kept hidden behind her back. No need to display her rage, not now. “Vasilisa?” Her mother coughed as she struggled to sit up. “Vasilisa?” “I told you not to call me that, Marina.” Lisa’s training took over and she released her fists before marching over to the bed. She gently pressed her mother back into the pillows and began tracking her vitals. “You should rest.” “There will be plenty of time to rest later.” The shell of the woman who’d raised her smiled and relaxed under her touch. “I’m no hedge witch, remember? I’m a doctor. Modern medicine treats ills far outside the realm of tisanes and tonics.” “I’m glad you are here with me now.” Marina sighed and her eyelids fluttered to rest against her cheek. “You are a good daughter.” Lisa bit back a sharp retort and pulled the sheet up to cover her mother’s frail hands. While Marina rested in the bedroom, Lisa roamed the cottage. She stoked the coals in the wood-burning fireplace and added fuel to stave off the cold as dusk approached. Helpless to do anything else, Lisa worked her way around the main living space, lighting

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candles as she went. Cluttered shelves and tables were stacked high with glass bottles, tattered books, and dried herbs. She scanned the contents for anything useful, even knowing there was nothing in this world that would be able to keep her mother among the living for much longer. Even the advanced medicines stolen from the hospital pharmacy were worthless in Lisa’s race to cobble the pieces of her mother’s soul back together. She’d almost given up hope when she spotted the doll in the corner cabinet. Lisa reached up to touch it, but then hesitated. Don’t be silly, she berated herself. It’s only a doll. But she knew better. The doll’s obsidian eyes glittered, watching her from the dim recess. Memories of the doll eating from her hand made her fingers tremble. Ridiculous. Lisa pushed the childish superstitions aside and plucked the doll from its dusty resting spot. Even though the cloth creature could easily fit in one hand, it demanded attention with the weight of its presence. To all obvious appearances, it appeared as nothing more than a poor child’s toy. The doll’s arms and legs dangled from the thick torso. Its head was misshapen and lumpy. Jet beads were inset as eyes and its pale lips gaped like those of a land-bound fish gasping for air. The stitches holding the doll together were thick and clumsy, completely at odds with elegant clothing that covered its body. Lisa fingered the pale-green watered silk that fell from its shoulders. White embroidered doves flitted along the sleeves and hem of the beautiful dress. “I remember you,” Lisa whispered under her breath. “You were always so hungry.” She bit off the last word and squeezed the doll with all of her strength. A series of dry rasping coughs sounded from her mother’s room, but the doll lay limp and silent in her tight fist. Lisa released her grip on the doll and smoothed the silky dress absently as she crossed the floor to the kitchen. The sounds of labored breathing receded as her mother fell back into the seductive arms of an opium-induced sleep. Her mother

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was right and Lisa knew it. Despite all her accomplishments in modern medicine, it was outside of her ability to save the woman she both loved and despised. Sitting as it was on the forest fringe, the cottage had always felt as though it was balanced between the new world and the old. The people living in this part of the country remembered the old ways that she’d tried so hard to forget. The doll was a reminder of the stories from her youth, the gossip of the witch who sold bits of her soul for her healing abilities. And the knowledge that those gifts were also hers for the taking—if she was willing to pay the price. Decision made, she plucked a ripe raspberry from a basket sitting on the counter. There’s no going back, she thought as the doll’s demanding presence increased as a weight in her palm. Lisa pressed the red berry against the creature’s full lips and closed her eyes, but not before she saw the lips move to engulf the sweet fruit and the red stain bloom on the pale face. “More,” croaked the doll. Lisa obeyed, blindly reaching for more berries. Even then, a part of her refused to acknowledge the horror coming to life in the palm of her hand. No such thing should exist in the real world. It belonged to the old tales of the forest and its fey inhabitants, not here. Still, the child witch inside her obeyed the commands. After the third morsel, the doll stopped her. “Look at me, Vasilisa.” “That’s not my name,” said Lisa. “Yes, it is.” The doll struggled to sit up in the cup of Lisa’s palm. “Look at me.” Lisa obeyed. The ugly stitches holding the doll together looked even more obscene as the cloth moved in a simulation of human flesh. The doll watched her with its eyes of jet. Its thick lips, stained red from the berries, twisted in a grotesque parody of a smile. “You’ve gotten fat,” said the doll.

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Lisa swallowed a protest. “My mother is dying. Can you help?” “There is no stopping Death.” The doll ran its lumpy mitten of a hand across the white doves embroidered on the tiny dress. Resisting the urge to throw the doll against the wall, Lisa persisted. “Surely, there is something that can be done.” “Perhaps. If you are bold enough.” The doll tilted its head to look up at her. “Are you as fearless as when you were a child?” It chuckled. “I think not.” “Tell me the way and I will show you.” The doll grinned, lips curled back to reveal sharp iron teeth. “As you wish.” Not an hour later, Lisa kissed her mother’s brow in a silent goodbye before slipping out the back door with the doll in her pocket. I’ll see you soon, Mother. Without faltering, Lisa walked into the shadowed forest. As she travelled deeper and deeper into the tangled darkness, evidence of human intrusions dwindled until they finally disappeared altogether. It was almost as if the wooded landscape had shifted, allowing her entrance to a different dimension. Finally, just as dawn reached its pale fingers to claw at the horizon, a rider on a white horse charged past her. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the brilliance of his white armor until he was once again swallowed by the forest. “He was always my favorite,” said the doll. Lisa dismissed the doll’s comment and pressed onward, ignoring the roots that reached up to trip her and the way the tree limbs scratched at her arms. She wondered if her mother was awake, if Marina had noticed her absence and had guessed her daughter’s destination. “Feed me,” the doll demanded. “How could you be hungry again? It isn’t even mid-day.” “Oh yes, it is.” It smacked its lips. “Don’t argue with me. We’re running out of time.”

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Lisa pressed a berry against the doll’s mouth, but the creature pushed the fruit aside and bit down on the tender skin between Lisa’s thumb and forefinger. Lisa stifled a cry and tried to fling the doll away from her. The iron teeth ground down harder, forcing her to her knees. “Stay down,” the doll whispered through a mouth painted scarlet with blood. Before she could wrap her head around the command, a red horse burst through the trees and came to a crashing halt in front of her. Dressed from head to toe in crimson, the rider glared down the length of his unsheathed sword. Lisa bowed her head and stared at the ground, waiting for the red rider to speak. “There is no sport here,” he said after a long silence. In each syllable he uttered, she heard the sounds of countless people dying on a battlefield, the hoarse call of crows, and the clash of metal on metal. Dust kicked up in a cloud to choke her as he wheeled the red horse around and departed down the long winding path. “We must hurry,” said the doll. “Marina will not survive to see another sunrise.” Without replying, Lisa clutched the doll to her chest and pulled herself to her feet. She started out at a brisk pace and then fell into the easy lope of a marathon runner. Finally, as the last rays of daylight pierced the forest canopy, a horseman on a black horse cantered past her. The black rider wore a cloak the color of the deepest shadows and carried golden scales in his hand. Unlike the previous riders, he neither looked at her nor acknowledged her presence. “Hurry girl,” said the doll. “We are almost there.” Lisa picked up the pace and sprinted around a corner just as the darkness of night fell. She stopped and stared, unable to comprehend the vision before her. A row of skulls, illuminated by a ghastly light, topped a fence of bone and steel. The dusty scent of feathers clouded the dead air and tickled the back of Lisa’s throat. She didn’t need to turn around to know that she was being watched.

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“It’s good to be home,” said the doll. A crone’s cackling laugh sounded behind her. “What took you so long, Vasilisa?” “That’s not my name.” Lisa’s protests sounded hollow in her ears. “Yes, it is. It has been your name for countless generations just as your mother has and always will be Marina.” As she spoke, Death rode around her. The witch’s bony legs jutted out from her place on the pale horse, bleached bones showing under flayed skin. Lisa flinched as the white-haired woman dismounted at the gate. The skeletal horse collapsed into a heap that bore an odd resemblance to a mortar and pestle. “It took you long enough to claim your birthright,” said the crone. “Like your mother before you, you will have the gift of healing. But beware. Each time you heal a dying person, you will lose a little piece of your own life.” “My mother?” Death shook her head. “There is a price to be paid for everything, my dear.” The crone’s gaze lingered on Lisa’s stomach. “But, you will be reunited with her soon enough.” Lisa dropped the doll to the ground and splayed her fingers across the gentle swell of her abdomen. Deep in her womb, her unborn daughter kicked. She’d never wanted to take Marina’s place, never wanted to bear the burdens that slowly devoured her mother. But there are some cycles that can never be broken and her reincarnation as Baba Yaga’s granddaughter was one of those cycles. “You’ve always been a good poppet.” The witch bent to pick up the doll and then hobbled to the spiked gate. Death gestured to Lisa and grinned, exposing sharp steel teeth “Come inside, Vasilisa, and warm yourself by the fire. We have much to discuss before the break of dawn.”

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Fiction The Scarlet Purse of Dreams

About The Author

Once upon a time, Carina Bissett wrote travel articles and books about the Southwest. These days, she spends her time crafting twisted fairy tales and cross-pollinated mythic fiction. Her short fiction and poetry can be found at the Journal of Mythic Arts, The NonBinary Review, and other assorted journals and anthologies. For links to stories and poems, stop by www.carinabissett.com.

ÂŠ Timeless Tales Magazine 2018

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