by Joy Preble
She says nothing. Around us, the air is thick and heavy. Exhaustion washes over me. I need to fight it. If I don’t, I’ll never help them. In the vision I see in Baba Yaga’s eyes, the horseman in black grabs Ben and lifts him up onto his horse. I have to stop this. But my head is drooping, and against my will, my eyes flutter shut.
I drift swiftly into dreaming.
“Auntie Yaga,” I say. Baba Yaga sits in her hut by the fire. I’ve been there with her. I know what this place looks like, this small wooden hut that may be larger than it seems, that may have twists and turns and hidden corners where things lurk that I don’t want to see. Auntie Yaga rests in her chair. Her huge gnarled hands—each knuckle the size of a small egg—hold a cup of sweet tea. Her long brown dress brushes against the smooth wooden floor as she rocks. Not far away sits the wooden table where she held my hand in another dream, cut the palm and watched the blood drip. Once, twice, three times.
The dream morphs. For a few precious seconds, the two realities exist as one. I know that I’m not me anymore. I’m Anastasia. But that can’t be. I saved Anastasia. Well, I tried to anyway. But I took her from the hut and let her choose her own path. I brought her back with me and watched her choose to die. She can’t be here anymore. I can’t be dreaming as her. I’m me. I’m Anne. I’m—
I’m sitting on my small bed with its red and blue quilt. My matroyshka doll lays next to me on the soft, goose-down pillow. I hear it whisper in a voice so tiny that at first, I almost don’t notice it.
Secrets within secrets, it tells me. When you wake, you must remember this. Even the witch doesn’t know. She has given you this dream, and she has lent you her magic, but there are secrets beyond what even she knows. I am the matroyshka. The little mother. And so I ask you this: Where would you hide something that you didn’t want anyone to find? Where could you place something and still have it be in plain sight?
“My journal,” I whisper back to her. “It’s inside you. Hidden away like I am. Tucked inside this hut in the forest where no one can find me.” I feel tears start to well in my eyes and squeeze them shut. I will not cry in front of the witch. I have not cried here for a very long time.
No, my dearest. It is more than that. There is always something more. Didn’t the rusalka tell you?
“Rusalka? Like in the stories my mother used to tell? The ones she’d heard from the women who worked for us? She used to tell me tales of village women scorned and lost and turned into something that took them beyond death. Women who met their destiny in the water and were never able to move on.” Even as I say this, I’m confused. Is this something I should know?
Ah, the matroyshka whispers. Across the room from us, Auntie Yaga stirs, turns, and stares into her fire. Inside it floats a skull, its bones bleached white, the fire gleaming through each eye socket. She holds out her huge hands toward it and hums a wordless tune. I have forgotten that you are more than one today. Both my girls inside the other. The one you are not will know what to do with this story. If she can remember it.
I hear a tapping sound then. Someone is at the hut’s door. Odd, I think. No one visits us here in this strange house that rests on chicken legs, ready to move if strangers approach. I hold my breath, expecting to hear the familiar sound of claws scrabbling for purchase in the dirt. But nothing moves.
“Go answer the door, girl,” Auntie Yaga tells me. “See who is there.”
This too is new. How can she let me do this? Does she not know that I will try to flee? Then again, where will I go? I have long since understood that everyone I love is dead and gone—long since understood how I was betrayed by my own foolish heart.
“Oh, my God,” says a girl about my age with long blond hair and a cut on her cheek. “You’re Anastasia, right? I mean, I guess you are. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m supposed to tell you something, I guess. I’m not really sure.”
I stare at her, wondering how this can really be and why Auntie Yaga doesn’t move. She just rocks in her chair by the fire, the koshka resting now at her feet but watching me at the door. Is this one of my dreams? Where will I be when I wake up? And inside my head right now, inside my heart, something feels different.
“Will you come inside?” I ask her, because I don’t know what else to say. She is not here to save me. I am in no position to save her.
“I don’t think I can. I think I’m stuck here. Are those real skulls on that fence? I keep hearing them scream. Do you know they’re screaming? Oh, Anastasia. I’m sorry you had to live like this. I seriously didn’t think—I’m Anne’s friend. I don’t know if you know who Anne is yet, but I’m her best friend. I love her like a sister. So if I don’t get out of here, and somehow you see her, tell her that I tried to help. Tell her that I tried to stay brave. And tell her that Ethan loves her. I think she needs to know that. He didn’t actually say it—mainly because we all got dragged away by those horsemen guys—but I could tell anyway. Ethan loves her—and even if I think he’s kind of an idiot, that doesn’t matter. Most guys are, anyway. And—I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry. I’m just pretty freaked right now, and I’m not really sure if any of this is real because Anne already got you out of here. I know it didn’t go well after that, but she did. It’s Viktor who’s supposed to be here now, not you. I guess if none of this is real, then it doesn’t matter, but—”
“I don’t understand,” I tell the blond-haired girl. “Who are you again?”
“Tess. Sorry. Tess Edwards. And I—oh, crap. I forgot. I have to tell you something else. You have to listen carefully. Baba Yaga is going to ask you what I said, and you have to repeat it exactly. That’s what the guy on the horse told me. He said he’d know if I lied.”
The blond girl—Tess—reaches up to push her hair out of her eyes, and I see that her hand is shaking. Her face is very pale. I think of offering her some water, or perhaps some of Auntie’s tea, but she is intent on telling me her story. Stories are something I understand. Auntie Yaga tells me many of them. Sometimes, they are even nice.
I open the door a little wider. It is a mistake. Although she sits behind me, I feel Auntie rise from her rocking chair, hear the koshka pad off to some dark corner.
Tess Edwards’ breath catches in her throat, but still she speaks to Baba Yaga. And when she does, her voice is strong. I think I could like this girl if she were my friend.
“You helped save me. That’s what Ethan just told me before all the rest of this happened. I know you probably did it for some reason other than helping me, but you did it. I’m alive because you helped Anne save me. So even though you’re scaring the crap out of me right now, I guess what I need to say is thank you. Because no matter why you did it, it got done. I’m here and talking to you because you let me be here.”
Auntie Yaga’s laughter spills into the air. It is not often that she is amused. I turn to look at her. She is smiling, and her iron teeth gleam in the firelight. Her mouth gapes hugely as she laughs.
“It seems,” she says, and her voice is deep and smooth as the wooden floor on which we stand, “that my girl has chosen her friends wisely. But I am an old, old woman, Tess Edwards. So could you please finish what you have come to say? That heart of yours is quite large. It will be tasty if I choose to sample it.” Auntie Yaga licks her tongue over her cracked lips, rubs it against her iron teeth.
It’s that gesture that does it, that pulls me up and out of Anastasia’s head. It’s the same thing she’d just done after she’d wiped the blood off my face. I’m still seeing things through her eyes, but Tess is right. This is all some sort of illusion because Anastasia is dead. Or maybe she’s not. Maybe she’s somewhere else now. But I’m not her. I’m me, Anne. And no matter what else happens, no matter what else I am, my best friend in the world is standing here and has just managed somehow to save my ass.
I close my eyes and concentrate as hard as I ever have. When I open them and look down, I see me: plain old Anne Michaelson in my filthy jeans and tank top, my bare feet standing on Baba Yaga’s wooden floor.
I turn back to Tess. She still looks totally terrified, but she’s grinning.
“Is that you, Anne? Really?”
The hut door is open. I grab her hand. “Run!” I tell her.
“Are we dreaming?” Tess yells as we push through the gate and ignore the screaming of the skulls. One of them opens its mouth and attempts to nip at my elbow. It grazes my arm, and I smack it with the back of my hand. It howls louder, then spits out broken shards of what used to be teeth. This is not only frightening but seriously gross.
“Maybe. But I don’t think so. I can’t believe you thanked her. You’re crazy, Tess. Have I mentioned that?”
“It is no dream now, Anne Michaelson.” Baba Yaga’s voice echoes around us. “You are a clever girl. And perhaps you are worthy. Your friend has told you without telling you. She would lose many things, but she would not lose you. It is your first lesson. Let’s see what you make of the others. Is your heart as big as hers? Would it be as tasty?”
And then we’re back in the forest. I glance behind us, above us. Only Baba Yaga’s laughter follows us. I sense this is not a good thing, but what option do we really have except to run? Hang out and have tea with her? I think not.
In the trees to my right, I catch a glimpse of something black, its gold eyes glinting in the shadows. The koshka is staying close, watching what we do. This only makes it clearer to me that we haven’t really escaped. She’s just let us go.
“Where did you leave them? Ethan and Ben? Do you know where they are?”
Tess shakes her head. “The horsemen grabbed us. There was this huge fire. But they rode through it with us behind them on the horses’ backs like it was nothing. My guy brought me here. Said he had different plans for Ben and Ethan, but I was going to have to say what it was I’d die for, what I couldn’t live without. So I’m sitting on the back of this red horse, holding on to this creepy guy in a red outfit and thinking, ‘Hell if I know.’ I’m seventeen. I don’t plan on dying for a long time. And then he’s asking me what’s in my heart. So what am I supposed to tell him? I just broke up with Neal in a text message, for God’s sake. But I love my family. And I love you. That’s what I thought. I thought about how ridiculously brave you’ve been. Well, you’ve been kind of stupid too. And pig-headed. Making a bargain with a witch—are you kidding me? But he’s asking me, and I’m thinking that I’d be there for you no matter what. I can’t say I’d die for you—no offense or anything—but I’d be there as long as I could. Because who else would put up with me? I’m pretty high maintenance, you know.”
I try to stop myself from laughing, but I can’t. It’s funny and it’s not funny all at the same time.
“Did Ethan really say he loved me?”
“Do you really think we have time to talk about that now?”
“Yes. Did he?”
“Well, yes. He’s crazy about you. He’d do anything for you. Have you not caught on to that? I think he’s nuts, if you ask me, but yes, he loves you. If we get out of this, I’m going to have a serious talk with him. And you, for that matter. Because speaking as your best friend, I’m thinking you still might not know how you really feel about the whole Ethan thing. At least, in my humble opinion.”
I don’t respond. We continue running through the thick forest, the koshka keeping pace with us. But no matter what direction we move, we end up back in the same little clearing in the woods. The smoke from Baba Yaga’s chimney is still visible through the trees, and we’re still only steps away from the hut.
“Wait.” I pull Tess to a stop. “We’re not getting anywhere. I don’t think we’re going to unless Baba Yaga lets us.”
“Well, great. So now what?”
The question isn’t even out of Tess’s mouth when a woman enters the clearing. She’s tall and slim and wearing a long, gauzy saffron-colored dress that reaches to her ankles. Around her neck hangs a chain of flowers. She’s barefoot, and another ringlet of flowers circles one of her ankles. A crown of leaves rests in her long brown hair.
“She’s beautiful,” Tess whispers. “So graceful.”
Tess is right. Every step this woman takes is like a dance.
She raises one slender arm and beckons to us. “Come, daughters,” Her voice is full and throaty, like a bird singing. “It is time for another story.”
I catch her gaze then, and my heart stops in my throat. Her hair is long and lush, and her body is young and firm, but in each of her eyes, there’s tiny glowing skull.
“C’mon.” Tess pulls on my arm. “We need to follow her, right? Or should we try to keep running?”
I can barely make myself say the words. “It’s her, Tess. It’s Baba Yaga. Look at her eyes. See?”
I don’t want to follow her, but my feet move without my permission. The same happens to Tess. We shuffle behind the woman in saffron to the middle of the clearing. Our knees bend of their own accord, and we sit on the ground.
“You have chosen without understanding,” the woman who might be Baba Yaga says. “So now you must know. There really is no more time, even here where time is fluid. Come back with me, Anne. Your friend too. She has earned this for you. Her gratitude has made me generous. But do not worry. It will not last. Still, this is what I am, and I do not question my moods. So I will tell you a little secret. Sometimes, I grant favors. Sometimes, I do not. Today, I am of a mood to do so. I can heal, or I can destroy. This is the nature of my power. Both please me. But beware. Favors like this—they come only once. And only of my free will. As you are well aware, no one likes to be commanded. No one likes to be used. Nothing good comes of that kind of power or that kind of magic. And nothing—absolutely nothing, daughter Anne—comes without a price. There are no simple answers. But there is, as always, a story.”
And the rest of the story unfolds as if we’re in a movie. Somehow, in my head, there’s a voice narrating—slow and gentle and mesmerizing. I couldn’t stop listening even if I tried. I catch myself smiling. It’s like a fairy tale, even in the way it begins.
Once upon a time, the voice tells us, I was young and beautiful. You see the woman before you now. I loved, and I lived. But I cursed my beauty, because I knew it was fleeting. Beauty is power if you’re a woman, but for me, it was not enough. To have the life I wanted, to have the power I wanted, I needed to be more. But how? So long ago, this was, so long that the Old Ones still roamed among us—goddesses who granted boons to foolish girls and wise girls and some of us who were both. I had seen what happened to women whose only power was physical. Nature changed them as nature does, and then their power faded. Still, I did not believe it could happen to me. I was lithe. Young. I would live and love forever.
But then one day, the man I loved told me that he loved another—a common story until it happens to you. Then it is not so common at all. Pain is unique to each of us, and mine was unbearable. Perhaps the Old Ones were listening that day. Perhaps it was my destiny. That part I do not know. But I made a bargain. I would give up my youth, and I would give up my beauty. No longer would I be governed by how someone perceived my face. In return, I would have the power I craved. I did not ponder the choice for long. I knew the whims of the Old Ones, how swiftly they might cancel an offer such as this. “Are you sure?” they asked me, although later, I knew that they had already made their choice. I answered yes. Oh, yes. Beauty is power, but I wanted to be feared on my own terms—to help or hurt as it pleased me. No predictability, even if the cost was a heart of stone.
But hearts are strange things. Even when they’ve stopped beating, sometimes they still feel.
Her name was Marina. I had been Baba Yaga for a very long time when she came to me for help here in this forest. I no longer counted my time by days or years. Such markers are of no consequence to one who lives as I do. The world had changed around me, but the midwives and the herbalists and those who
still secretly followed the ways of the Old Ones—they still knew what I was, what I could do. Their mothers and grandmothers had passed the secrets down to them, and thus to the woman named Marina.
“Help me,” she said. I can still see her now, half hidden behind one of my birch trees. “I love him. I gave him his precious son even before he became the tsar. Even before he married. But my Nicholas has eyes now only for Alexandra. My son should have everything, but he has nothing. Alexandra has borne him girl after girl. Only I have given him a son. What can I do? If you do not help me, I will have nothing left. There will be nothing left for me but the river. Or worse.”
This is what she told me. And because—like today—I was feeling generous, I listened. Or rather, I almost always listened. But I had not chosen to act in a very long time.
“I am not afraid of you,” she said. “I am too desperate to be afraid. I should have known that Nicholas would not stay with me and with the boy. But my heart could not give up hope. My darling boy, Viktor. Do you know that his name means “champion”? Nothing will give me happiness if he cannot have what is rightfully his.”
It was this last part that intrigued me: the absolute certainty with which she believed her son deserved the legacy of his bloodline. How deliciously perfect! I could both reward and punish her arrogance with one single spell. Heal and harm with the flick of a finger.
I placed my hands on her shoulders and sent forth my will into her. “Go home and hug your son,” I told her. “Tell him that Baba Yaga gives him her blessing. If you do this, he will get what he deserves. He will have the legacy of a tsar. Your son, and his children, and his children’s children.
She thanked me over and over. And that very evening, when she returned home, she clasped her son Viktor to her, held him tight, and whispered my words in his ear. “Thank you, Mother,” he told her. “Thank you.”
The woman in saffron dances closer to Tess and me, presses one slender hand against my cheek. “Power has a price. It is the way of things—not only here in my forest, but in all places, in all things. A balance. I had willed Viktor a legacy, a passing down. We do not own the magic, not even witches as ancient and skilled as I. Just as I paid the price of my beauty, Viktor would pay for what he craved, even if he did not know he was paying, did not understand that his blood would allow the Brotherhood its strongest of magics. My power passed down through his blood from child to child to child. And then the best price of all for his arrogance. Each of those children would be female.”