Dim light trickles through the branches above and dapples the rent in the earth in front of you. With a brush of your birch broom, it disappears, the evidence gone. In your pocket, your free hand curls protectively over an egg. A scrap of paper, crumbled and damp from days of reading, brushes over your knuckles and you recall its instruction much like it had been tattooed on the back of your hand.
"If you must find the witch, do not leave traces others may follow."
It takes a moment to find the next score in the earth, yards away from the last one. You sweep the broom over it.
Ivan didn't have to follow a trail, you complain internally. Neither did Basil or Mara or . . .
You shake your head. No use complaining; if any of them had the opportunity they would have taken it. Orya had done the hard work; you were just taking advantage. Although, you wouldn't be here to begin with if she weren't so brazen as to return to the very place she stole the broom from.
The evening falls to dusk. In the remaining light, you catch a glint of metal near the root of a tree and take a closer look.
Bullet shell.
You roll your eyes. It was probably Ivan's.
For some reason, when he had shown up demanding hospitality from the witch, Ivan didn't get eaten on the spot. You don't try to understand why—it's like her decisions are based entirely on whim. The man had been asking to die.
. . . If only she was like that all the time.
Lights begin to flicker between the trees, almost like torches, and you hold the broom still. Another line from the note in your pocket comes to mind:
"When you see the lights, the gate is near."
Taking a step forward, something crunches underfoot. You think you know what it is and unease oozes over you when you look down to find—as expected—a bone. Picking it up, you raise your gaze to study the lights.
In the periphery of your vision, some of the lights hover in the air, gliding to and fro. You ignore those. As you get closer, the source of the brightness appears: skulls. They decorate a fence of bone, lighting the way to the gate with enchanted fire lit in the sockets of their eyes. Many are ancient, brown and stained. Others, though few in number, are pale and recent. One seems to hold your gaze, its face newly picked clean—and not from any carrion bird.
You open the gate, flinching as it creaks.
No curse nor drake nor green-haired rusalka confronts you and that is almost more concerning than if there had been. But, with nothing to stop you, you walk inside.
Not two steps past the fence you hear a growl. A wolf charges out of nowhere, its eyes glowing like those of the skulls'.
"Favors are paid for tenfold; be kind to all you cross."
You remember the bone in your hand and hurl it. The wolf skids to a stop, eyes locked onto the femur as it sails overhead. It turns and bounds after the projectile, tail wagging and anger forgotten.
Breathing a sigh of relief, you continue.
An extended hiss stops you in your tracks, another pair of glowing eyes staring right at you. They belong to a cat; its back arched and fur standing on end.
You hesitate, thinking of a solution. A fingernail catches the frayed edge of your sleeve and your eyes widen with an epiphany. You pull a thread loose and dangle it over the cat. Its fur lies flat and it bats at the string.
Stepping around, you squint into the dark.
Something screeches and black feathers block your vision. Wind flings hair into your face and you rake it back to see a bird swooping for your eyes. You fumble in your pocket and grasp a coin, flicking it into the air. Each rotation seems to turn in slow motion. Distracted, the raven's talons miss your face and snatch the coin. It retreats to a branch to examine its treasure.
You take a moment to breathe and rub your hands together, faint clouds forming from your mouth as cold claimed the night.
There is no house—none that you can see. You lean against a trunk and scan the area, your breath catching in your throat. You blink, recognizing the mortar and pestle from Orya's sketches, so conspicuously large you don't know how you had missed them right in front of you. They rest unattended, though recently used if the scrapes in the dirt beside them are anything to go by.
Branches sway in a sudden breeze and leaves stir around your feet. The tree at your back groans. You flinch away as it shifts, its "roots" more like a massive chicken's foot as it lifts over your head. It stomps. You dodge, tripping over your own feet.
Arms held up in defense, your gaze travels up the leg, one of four, supporting a shack.
"That Russian scent again!"
Instinctively, you clutch the egg in your pocket, heart beating madly. The voice is loud, annoyed, and sounds like gravel.
Clamoring comes from inside. The door slams open and you backpedal, already reconsidering your life decisions.
Warm light from inside the house highlights an old woman with tangled hair, a long nose, and stick-thin limbs. Her teeth are sharp and cast from iron, each like miniature daggers. Though hunched, her stance suggests nothing but power.
The Baba Yaga.
"And this one has stolen my broom!" Baba Yaga points at you, her nails hooked like claws.
You fight back a shudder. Something tells you that if she had aimed a gun at your head instead, you would feel no more targeted than you do now.
"Do not try to hide unless you can outwit her; she can scent a lie a mile away."
Or a Russian, for that matter.
Though intimidated, you tighten your grip on the broom handle and argue, "It is not stolen; it was a gift from a friend of mine. I'm afraid it can't be yours."
Baba Yaga grinds her teeth in a sneer, the motion making screeching noises like too many blades on a whetstone.
"I came to ask a favor." You swallow your nervousness. "I'm looking for the bones of a woman who came here a few days ago. It won't be any loss to you; I assume you've eaten her already. I'm willing to do a favor in return."
Baba Yaga stops grinding her teeth, a dangerous smile replacing the scowl.
"As long as there are tasks to complete, she will spare you another day."
Holding the broom to your chest, you peer over Baba Yaga's shoulder into the hut. Not much could be seen; your eyes have not adjusted to the difference in brightness.
Baba Yaga steps inside.
The hut is a single room with a large stove at one end and a spinning wheel in the center. You step over the threshold and stumble, the legs of the hut straightening into position.
"If you want her bones, then start by making a stew." Baba Yaga gestured to the pot hanging by the stove. You get started immediately, looking in the cupboards for ingredients. But they are bare.
"There's no meat . . ." you start, but Baba Yaga pays no attention.
Gathering your courage, you inhale. "Last year, Ivan asked you for a gun that can shoot anything within a mile. If you told me how I might retrieve one—"
"Bah!" Baba Yaga chucks a jar that whizzes by your ear and smashes into the wall. "I know a hundred Ivans! You think I remember what I said to who? Maybe if you want meat so much I'll throw you in the pot instead."
. . . Fair enough, you think.
The witch leaves and you find yourself spiraling into a panic. You check the doors and windows, ready to abandon the situation altogether. But they are sealed.
What would Orya do?
Probably shove the problem to someone else to solve, a bitter part of you mutters. But that isn't fair—even if you had repeatedly warned that Baba Yaga's goodwill was completely arbitrary. Habitually, your hand slips in your pocket to hold the egg and brushes against the crumpled note.
"Don't despair when there is nothing you can do. Help will come from unlikely places."
A whine startles you from your thoughts. You whip around to discover a wolf, the one with glowing eyes, holding a duck in its mouth.
"Is that for me?" you ask.
The dog drops the duck and tilts its head, tongue lolling from its mouth.
You almost give it a pat in thanks but your hand stops midway. The wolf's eyes are too disconcerting. Thankfully, it doesn't seem to mind your hesitation and lets out a bark before curling up in a corner to sleep.
You clean the bird quickly, hiding the feathers in the opposite pocket to the egg and the note. Soon there is a fine broth boiling. You've never been so thankful to your babushka for teaching you how to cook.
The sun barely had a chance to rise when the door slams open.
Your eyes, drooping from staying alert all night, snap awake, and the ladle in your hand plops into the stew.
Baba Yaga marches in. She grins from ear to ear but the smile falls when she sniffs the air, her nostrils flaring. "So. You made stew." Her voice is mocking but it doesn't hide her disappointment for not being able to have Russian for breakfast instead.
She slurps up the pot in one go.
You don't know whether to be impressed or disgusted. Though, you suppose your opinion is inconsequential; Baba Yaga is who she is and does what she wants no matter who thought what.
"May I have the skeleton . . .?"
Licking her lips, Baba Yaga makes eye contact with you. "Not bad. For a Russian." She reaches into her sleeve and tosses a pile of bones at your feet.
You examine each one as you place them in your satchel, the birch broom strapped to the side. The porous texture of the bones makes your stomach churn and you try not to think too hard about who they belong to. "These are just the limbs."
"A whole skeleton for a stew? Ha! I have another task for you, then we'll see about the rest." She points to a pile of gold thread by the spinning wheel. "Weave a tapestry by tomorrow morning and if I don't like it, I'll spin your innards into one myself."
"No one can do that in a night." You frown, then open your mouth as you notice an embroidered piece of fabric sticking out from Baba Yaga's pocket. "But if you like the chirinkas Basil gave you, I have some at home I can bring—"
The door shuts in your face.
Biting your lip, you can't help but envy Basil. At least Baba Yaga was reasonable when she accepted your friend's embroidery collection in exchange for a cure—though Basil does still occasionally croak during the day. Perhaps getting cursed into a frog is a chronic kind of condition.
The pile of thread sits impatiently on the floor. You're beginning to wonder if you should try putting that knitting class you took two years ago to good use when something fuzzy rubs against your shins.
"Meow."
You nearly step on the cat in surprise. It looks up at you, eyes glowing. In its mouth, it drags a tapestry woven into red, gold, and white patterns—just like the Kilim rug at home. You're almost jealous; it's far better than anything you could hope to make with a month's worth of knitting class up your sleeve.
You thank the cat and hide the string from Baba Yaga's pile in your pocket in case she became suspicious as to why you had used no thread.
The same time as yesterday, the door slams open. And again, Baba Yaga's smile falls to a frown when she examines your "work."
"May I have the rest of the skeleton?" you ask.
Baba Yaga reluctantly chucks more bones at your feet with a scowl—but you notice one is missing.
"Where's the skull?"
"Where's your gratitude?! I gave you most of the remains, so make due."
"That wasn't the deal." You clench your fists to stop them from shaking and suck in a breath. "I need the full skeleton."
Baba Yaga spat on the floor. "Fine. If you want it so much, then I have one last task for you." She whips around and stalks outside, the house tilting as it shifts to ground level. You stumble and run into the doorframe, stifling a grunt.
That definitely bruised.
You jog to catch up to Baba Yaga. The witch is quick for someone with a full head of gray but that is quite honestly the least surprising thing you've noticed about her. She stands in front of a barn—though you hear no animals.
That mystery is solved when you enter to see rows and rows of barrels filled with grain; a mix of all types, though you can't accurately name which is what.
"I lost my ring in here and can't find it. Sort all the grain by kind and return the ring by morning."
"What—?!" You can't help but complain, gesturing vaguely with your arms. "That's so unnecessary. Mara didn't have to pick all the mushrooms on her way to save Ivan just because you wanted them sorted by lethality."
You turn to Baba Yaga but the rest of your words die out as you realize the witch that was beside you moments ago is now gone.
"All of it? By morning . . . ?" you mutter in disbelief, uncountable piles of seeds expanding before you. They tower like mountains and you feel minuscule in front of the challenge.
"Crrraw." A deep, gurgling croak comes from the window and you jump. But it is only the raven. Your hand lowers from your chest and you calm somewhat, though you don't know how a raven could help in this situation.
Then the setting sun reflects off something metallic in the raven's beak. A ring falls to the floor and the bird flaps its wings, disappearing from the window.
You rush over to pick up the jewelry and a wide grin breaks across your face. "It can't be . . ." You hear a laugh and realize it's yours.
It's over! You've done it, and you can get the skull and everything will be—
Your elbow nicks the edge of a barrel and a handful of grain spills on the ground. As it does, reality crashes down like a hockey stick to the head. The barrels are still here. They leer at you, a reminder that this problem is yet to be solved.
You slide the satchel off your shoulders and set it against the wall, slouching beside it.
The final task is to sort all the grain by kind. The raven is gone; it can't help you, and there's no way to do this yourself. You wring your hands, a nervous habit. After a while you force yourself to stop; if you keep it up you'll rub your skin right off.
There's no solution. Maybe if you leave now Baba Yaga won't notice? Appealing to her better nature certainly wouldn't help, not when it is as capricious as the weather in spring.
The weight in your left pocket suddenly feels heavier. Your fingers curl over the egg, reminding you why you are here. Who you are here for.
"Even if you complete every task, she may still decide to eat you."
There is no guarantee Baba Yaga will make good on your deal. If she doesn't want to, then she won't. If she wants to help you, she will. It hardly matters if you accomplish this last task—perhaps it is best to leave it and find the skull yourself . . .
Wait. Wasn't there a skull near the gate that looked more recent than the others?
Then again, it could just be the leftovers of some random folk who stumbled into Baba Yaga on one of her bad days and didn't live to tell the tale. But if you're right, you can't waste any time. You suck in a deep breath, gather your resolve, and march outside. Glimpses of the moon shine through the pines, guiding you onward. Your pace falters as you near Baba Yaga's house and you swerve to avoid it.
"Finished already?"
The sound causes you to nearly jump out of your own skin. You turn, a little too fast, and meet face-to-face with Baba Yaga.
"No! I mean, I-I," you stutter, then clear your throat. "I found the ring and wanted to give it to you early. I'm sure you missed having it." You offer the ring and she takes it, holding it close to one beady eye and then sniffing it. Baba Yaga tosses the ring into the air like popcorn and swallows it whole.
What even . . . ?
"Go sort the grain—unless you want to stay here with your friend, ha!" Baba Yaga rubs her belly and rambles to her house.
That was close.
A blast of music nearly sends you out of your skin a second time. You whirl this way and that, arms raised in defense. Realizing the music is coming from Baba Yaga's house, you lower your arms, confusion clouding your mind. Is that Sabaton?
You're not sure what to think about Baba Yaga's taste in music being just like Basil's. Perhaps it's best to ignore it. Like how you're pretty sure you never saw a radio in there during the two nights you spent trying not to die.
You adjust the satchel on your back and continue; leftover adrenaline pushing you faster. Once you reach the gate you shrug it off and carefully dump the collection of bones out.
Okay, the humerus goes there . . . or is that a tibia? No, it's too short. These ones are definitely part of the spine though.
You lay out the skeleton to the best of your ability, the feet and hand bones in piles at the end of each limb.
Anatomy is not your strong suit.
Hmm. Your hand bumps against your pocket, the one full of feathers and thread, and it gives you an idea. Didn't Orya mention that Baba Yaga spins the thread of life?
Ironic, given she's a cannibal.
Irony aside, you take the thread and wind it around the bones, not accomplishing much but making things more complicated. You give up and skim the fence for the newest skull to complete the skeleton. It is stuck, but you manage to rock it loose from its post. The eyes glow but they are empty, dead. Now that you look closer, the teeth do seem familiar.
Bones accounted for, you empty your pocket of the egg and the note. The edge of the paper ruffles in the breeze you create as you set it down. You skim it for—hopefully—the last time. The ending lines, as always, make you simultaneously want to roll your eyes and commit an act of violence.
"If she decides to eat you, have a backup plan.
Also: I don't think Koschei the Deathless is willing to give more advice on hiding one's soul in an egg so you'll have to think of something else. He only spared me because I'm hot.
(If I'm not back in a week you know what to do.)
—Orya"
You take the egg and crack it against a stone.
The shell splits around your fingers and a soft gold light emerges. You guide it to the skull and it seeps into an eye socket like a yolk. Gold spreads down, traveling through the thread that binds the skeleton. You back up.
There's a flash. Dots swim across your vision and you blink them away, letting out a shuddering breath of relief. Orya lies on the ground, (thankfully) fully dressed in a sarafan.
She groans.
Your mouth drops, a million and one things you want to say to her about to spill out, but you are interrupted as an exclamation of fury comes from Baba Yaga's barn.
You share a panicked look with Orya and then turn your head to the sky. It's morning.
Orya is up in a second, her body as alive as it ever was. There's no need to say anything; both of you rush to the gate. You beat her to it and pull, but it doesn't budge.
"Move." Orya shoves you out of the way. "The gate needs positive reinforcement." She leans in to coax it, muttering compliments and asking it to open.
"Positive—?" You shake your head, leaving her to it while impatiently watching behind you. Baba Yaga appears in her mortar and pestle, closing in fast. You grab Orya's shoulder and as you do the gate opens. She steadies you as you stumble.
"Is there anything you can throw to slow her down?" Orya shouts as the both of you sprint like your lives depend on it, which they very much do.
"Uh, feathers?" you reply, gathering a bunch from your pocket.
Here goes, I guess.
You empty the feathers behind you, expecting absolutely nothing to come of it. But then you hear a cacophony of . . . quacking? Glancing over your shoulder, you see dozens of ducks swarming Baba Yaga, who swings her pestle back and forth to clear a path.
That didn't come from the feathers, did it?
"This way!" Orya snatches your wrist and drags you to the right. A log catches your foot and if not for her iron grip you would have tripped over it.
Baba Yaga isn't in view anymore, but you can certainly hear her cursing.
"Wait!" You dig your heels into the dirt and Orya jerks as you force her to stop. She opens her mouth to protest but you shake off her grip and take the broom from your satchel. Orya's lips form an "o" in understanding.
You sweep over your tracks as you run, though it slows you down. But with luck, this method will keep Baba Yaga off the trail as much as possible.
"I told you it'd be useful," Orya comments.
You send her a glare, conveying with your eyes how much you dislike her at the moment. Orya takes the hint, shutting up.
Long after Baba Yaga's cursing falls out of earshot, the two of you stumble to a halt and take a minute to breathe.
Orya sucks in a deep breath and lifts her head. You raise a hand in her direction, palm out, and say, "If you try something like this again I'll kill you myself; and no, I will not revive you."
Orya purses her lips and nods. "Understandable."
You push off the tree you're leaning against and start off again, too tired to sweep anymore.
"Uh . . ." Orya trails off.
"What?" You turn to face her reluctantly, unwilling to deal with another problem. She is several feet away, examining something on the ground, and you trudge over to her to see what the issue is.
Oh. The blood drains from your face.
Scores in the earth. Recent. And they could only be from Baba Yaga's mortar and pestle.
"We have to go. Now." You distance yourself from the scores like they are poison. Orya gasps, motioning behind you and you freeze. Slowly, you turn.
Baba Yaga leans down from her mortar but she still towers over you. Your back bumps into Orya as you retreat and she holds onto your shoulders. Something messes with the straps on your satchel but you can't pay attention to anything but the witch glowering at you.
"H-hey!" Orya pushes you behind her and presents a broom to Baba Yaga.
You pat the side of your satchel and find the ties that had strapped the birch broom in place are unbound.
"I noticed the bristles on this were coming undone and I wanted to surprise you by fixing it up. I hope you don't mind; I forgot to bring it with me when I visited last."
You can't see the fake smile but you know it's plastered on her face like a quick-drying cement. Despite the direness of the situation, you can't help but inwardly sigh. Orya's antics aren't going to get either of you out of this.
"How are you liking the CDs by the way? I stole them from Basil; I'm sure you've met . . ." Orya rambles on and on.
Baba Yaga snatches the birch broom. She examines the bristles with a raised eyebrow, then flips it around, using the handle to itch her back. "About time you returned it," she grumbles. The mortar rotates and jumps, landing far off with an echoing thud. And then another, and another, until the forest falls silent.
You blink at the empty space. ". . . That's it? She's not gonna eat us?"
"Not today, looks like." Orya shrugged. "You know, she's really not that bad when you get to know her."
You choke on air and have to cough. "She ate you!" You hold out your arms and gesture to Orya.
"Everyone has bad days. Hers are just . . . most days."
God, you want to strangle her. You pinch the bridge of your nose; a headache is beginning to form and you are looking at the source of it. Quietly you curse out Orya and Baba Yaga and this whole damn forest.
Orya rocks onto her toes and drops back to her heels. "Maybe, since now you've met Baba Yaga you'd like to join my next adventure—"
"No!"
She opens her mouth and you cut her off again. "Absolutely not." You trudge in a direction you hope is north and leave Orya in the dust. She catches up, completely undeterred.
"You'll come around. Today's just not a good day to ask; kinda like how someone else we know tends to be fickle, huh?"
You grunt, her confidence absolutely grating. Orya doesn't stop, chattering all the way home, and as your anger simmers down you realize how much you had missed her. A corner of your mouth twitches up.
There is no way you'll go on another "adventure"—but you suppose it wouldn't be the worst, so long as it's with Orya.