BABA YAGA

On the night of my tenth birthday, I searched for my brother, Branko.

Everything happened so fast. That morning, Mama and Papa were giving me my birthday present: an abacus.

“For your tutoring,” Mama said.

I scowled at the wooden beads. I wanted to smash the abacus and watch them roll under the couch. But children mustn’t behave in such ways.

“You like it?” Mama asked.

“Yes,” I frowned.

“Bah! You’ll learn to love it,” Papa said. He rubbed the purple goose egg on his forehead. “Where’s Branko?”

“Juri, don’t!” Mama started, but Papa was already throwing open Branko’s door. 

“He’s gone, Ursula!” he said, shaking Branko’s sheets like he might tumble out onto the floor. 

Mama screamed. “Where’s our boy!”

It was obvious: Baba Yaga took him. Something had to be done.

So here I am: nighttime on my tenth birthday, and I’m going to behead Baba Yaga.

I slip Mama’s bread knife into my backpack and duck outside.

Everyone knows: Baba Yaga is an ugly old woman with stringy grey hair and boils on her nose. 

Baba Yaga roams the forest in her cabin with chicken legs. At night, Baba Yaga flies through the air in her mortar, clubbing willful children with her pestle. She brings them back to her cabin and eats them with her iron teeth.

(Everyone knows: Baba Yaga has iron teeth.)

Branko was a willful child and is now a willful teenager. Just last night, Papa found him behind the garage, drinking vodka with Nina, the priest’s daughter. Papa shouted until his eyes turned red and Mama cried. Branko hid his face and tried to rush past Papa, holding Nina’s hand, and Papa blocked his way, so Branko hit him in the head with the bottle. 

Branko’s becoming a willful man, and that is why Baba Yaga finally came to get him.

But Baba Yaga doesn’t understand: Branko’s willful, but he’s sweet too. He makes shadow puppets to help me sleep and, when I’m sad, he mimics my math tutor, Mr. Blahùt.

(Mr. Blaùt has hairy ears and smells of turnips.)

Besides, Branko’s not the only willful child. Sometimes I sneak my beets onto his plate. I’m as guilty as my brother. He’s just louder.

This is why I must save him.

But you can’t bargain with Baba Yaga. Everyone knows she’s tricky. Best to just lop off her head and be done with it.

I cross the road and duck into the birches.

Nobody’s ever caught Baba Yaga before, but I have a plan.

“Baba Yaga?” I call. “I’m a wicked girl who puts gum in her hair and feeds her beets to the dog.”

 (We have no dog.)

 “And I lie!”

There’s a terrible crunching sound like when Papa backed over Branko’s bike with the van. The wind howls, the birches creak, and there it is: the chicken-legged house of Baba Yaga!

It stands higher than my school, with talons and smelly grey feathers. Orange light flickers from cracks between the wall slats.

“Hey!” I scream.

The house plucks me up with its chicken foot and tosses me high in the air and through the front door, like when Branko throws raisins and catches them in his mouth. I tumbled inside.

Baba Yaga’s house is dark. The only light comes from the stove, and the air is thick and smells like old bread and socks. Branko is not here.

But someone else is, arms and legs spilling from her rocker like a spider’s, her back curled crooked against the ceiling. She is covered in dirty shawls. Her hair is stringy and grey. When Baba Yaga swings her face towards me, fire glints off her iron teeth.

“Who are you?” She croaks.

I gag on her foul breath. “Where’s Branko!”

“Branko?” She asks. “Who’s Branko?”

“My brother!”

She itches a hair on her chin. “How should I know? He’s your brother.”

I blink. “Because you took him! After he argued with Papa! You took him! To eat!”

Baba Yaga laughs, her grimy hair shaking, her iron teeth clattering. Beneath us, I can feel her house dancing with glee.

“To eat?” She wipes a tear with a rooty finger. “They’re still telling that old story?”

“Well–”

“Parents just tell children these things to make you do what they say.” She laughs again. “Why would I eat children? I’m vegetarian!”

“But your teeth!” I point.

“What about them?” she asks.

“They’re made of iron!”

“They’re made of implant-grade titanium. My dentist says they’ll never rust.”

I gasped. “And your mortar and pestle?”

“My knees won’t let me ride a bike anymore!”

“You… You came to get me when I said I tell lies!”

Baba Yaga blows her nose into her blankets. “Please! I was emptying my toilet! What?” She adds. “You thought this house had plumbing?”

I’m shocked. “Then where’s Branko?”

She only shrugs.

“But–” I sink to the splintery floor and cry.

Baba Yaga sighs. “There, there,” she says, extending an awkward hand. “He probably left on his own.” 

I sob harder.

“Come now, what?” she says. “You thought there was always someone watching? Ready to punish you?” Baba Yaga leans closer. “No one’s watching. You just do what you must and what you can stomach.” 

She gives me a little tap.

“Come now. There’s tea in the samovar. Have some kvass.” She passes me a bottle. “If you want, you can smoke my pipe.”

We stay up late, drinking kvass and tea and blowing clouds of blue smoke. (Baba Yaga can blow rings.)

I tell her about Branko and Papa’s fight.

“Over vodka?” She shakes her head. “So silly.”

“Mama and Papa are strict,” I say. “They gave me an abacus for my birthday.”

“Crummy gift.” She burps.

“Yes!” I drink more kvass. “Crummy! Baba Yaga, what shall I do?”

“Whatever you can.” Baba Yaga looks out the window. “Sun’s rising, and I’m tired of babysitting.”

And with that, the house on chicken legs tips to one side and pours me out like tea from Baba Yaga’s samovar.

“Jana!” Mama shouts as I come in the next morning. “Where were you!”

My head pounds. “Looking for Branko.”

Mama gasps. “Ridiculous girl!  Branko came home late last night.” She wipes her brow with the back of her hand. “He and Papa are talking.”

I’m shocked. “Branko’s not in trouble?”

Mama shakes her head. “He came back.”

I gape in awe. Baba Yaga’s words rattle in my head.

“Mama,” I say. “I’m not going to Mr. Blahùt anymore.”

She stiffens as she reaches for the bread.

“I hate him, Mama,” I tell her. “He makes me feel stupid.”

“Janika, he’s a kind man.”

“He smells like turnips.”

Mama chuckles. “He really does,” she says. “Fine. No more tutoring. By the way,” she adds as I turn to leave, “have you seen my bread knife?”