by Anna Tan
“Maybe you should chase Keelut away, not me,” he called as he left. He didn’t think anyone heard him.
Ataneq travelled for days on end, over tundra and ice alike, following the setting sun. Days turned to weeks and months and his supplies ran out. He hunted, searching for stray foxes or weak and elderly seals. Before long, he left the familiar places of his youth, continuing on until even the trees changed and the snow melted and prey grew aplenty. He slowed his pace then, marking his way with care, always hoping that once he found Baba Yaga, he would be able to retrace his steps back home. Soon, he reached settlements where the people gawked at him in astonishment and wonder, rather than fear. He knew then that he had left the land of his people far behind. The old wives’ tales of his childhood had not taught these people to fear him. Now it was the name Baba Yaga which made them tremble.
For many months, his search was fruitless as those he met could not answer him or would only give him vague replies. Eventually, word about his quest spread and at every village he passed, the people would peer out at him from behind their barricaded doors, begging him not to bring her evil eye upon them. Ataneq counted that it was almost a year before he found Baba Yaga waiting in a snowless clearing.
“Mother, can you help me?” Ataneq asked, approaching the old woman with caution. He tried to stop himself from gaping at the hut that squatted behind her on long, spindly legs.
“Why should I help you, foreigner?” She didn’t lift her eyes from her mortar and pestle.
“Because no one else can, Mother. The shaman of my home has sent me to you.”
“He has, has he? And why does he think that a crone of Rus has power over that which the seas break against? Is not the sea more powerful than a mere woman?”
Ataneq shrugged. “I do not know, Mother. He said you are my only hope. Please, can you help me?”
The old woman inspected him with her sharp, dark eyes, as if she were reading his soul. “What will you do for me in return?”
“I have nothing to offer,” Ataneq stammered. “What do you wish for?”
Baba Yaga clicked her tongue, wagging a finger at him. “There is something. Something you have learnt. Come back when you know what it is,” she replied, before going into her hut.
He watched despondently as the hut rose on its legs and walked away.
Chapter 3: The Long-Forgotten Question
1954
The cottage was quiet save for the little occasional pop and crackle from the fireplace. Ataneq had fallen silent and was staring pensively into the fire. Jane, who had moved over to sit by Ataneq during his long story, stared with him, until she could bear it no longer.
“What happened then?”
Ataneq smiled wistfully at her. “I continued to wander. I could not return home and I could not figure out what Baba Yaga wanted.”
“Who was she? I’ve never heard of her.”
“Was? You mean ‘is’, I think. I’ve not heard of her death yet, though she has lived for hundreds of years. Oh, the stories I’ve heard of her! Too many stories and too many versions, but all agree on one point: she’s a frightening old woman, weathered and wise. She can be friend or foe, defender or accuser. One does not search for her lightly, and yet, I did. I wonder now at my innocence. Maybe I was too desperate then to be afraid, or maybe I felt I had nothing left to lose. After all, my own people feared me, though I was nothing to be afraid of.”
She reached out a hand and held his shoulder. “I don’t think you’re frightening.”
He smiled wistfully at her. “Really?”
“Well, not anymore. When I first saw you, I have to admit I was afraid.”
“People are always afraid of things they do not know.”
“Do you think you’ll ever find what she wants?”
Ataneq shrugged. “I’ve been searching and thinking for a hundred years but I still have no clue. I guess I’m not as smart as she thought I was.”
“What will you do now?”
“Now? Now I will rest,” Ataneq chuckled. “The story has been long in its telling and I have had a long day. The rain has not yet eased up and I don’t think it will for a while. You’ll have to stay a while longer, I suppose.”
Jane looked dubiously at him. “My parents will be worried if I don’t go home. I’m not supposed to be out in the forest at night.”
“There’s not much you can do in this weather. I doubt there’s much they can do as well.” Ataneq got to his feet and peered out the window again. He smiled as he caught her in mid-yawn.
“Come, lie down and rest. I’ll wake you up when the rain stops. Then you can head back home.” He pulled aside the ceiling-to-floor curtains on the left side of the house, revealing a single bed nestled in a cosy alcove.
“Oh, I can’t, Ataneq,” she said. “Where will you sleep?”
“Don’t worry about me, Jane. I’ll wait the rain out. It won’t be long, I think.” He frowned at the window and the thunder that rolled beyond it.
Jane was about to continue protesting but when she opened her mouth, she started yawning again.
Ataneq tucked her into bed and pulled the curtains closed. He yawned as he stretched, allowing the tensions of the night to ease out of his body. He pottered about the cottage for a bit, straightening out the rugs and the pillows, wiping up the remnants of the rainwater from the doorway, before curling up by the fireplace to ponder the long-forgotten question. It had been a long time since he had last thought of Baba Yaga and her strange missive and he wondered why he had told the girl the story. He hadn’t told many people in the Fairy Kingdom about Baba Yaga, and yet he had done so to this uninvited guest.
Maybe she will help me. Maybe with her help, I will finally be able to go home… although Qannik and my boys will be long dead.
He frowned. He wasn’t sure if it was worth it anymore. After all, he had found a new life, a new existence and no doubt so had they—and their descendants. He wasn’t even sure if he was entirely human anymore. How long ago it had all been! Too long.
“What have I learnt?” he asked the crackling fire. He rested his head on his arms, staring deep into the flickering flame, as if it would suddenly grow a tongue and talk to him. After a hundred years and over a million steps, he still did not know.
The rain beat steadily on the roof, lulling him to sleep.
Chapter 4: The Unexpected Visitor
1954
Charon galloped around the open field for the sheer joy of speed. He stretched his muscles, pushing himself as fast as he could. He came to an abrupt stop. Something strange was in the air tonight. He lifted his head and sniffed carefully, cursing his muted human nose. His horse senses were telling him to be careful, but all he could smell was the damp aftermath of the storm; a green, grassy smell that made him salivate. Still, something wasn’t right, he sensed. Something—he spotted it: a little shadow at the edge of the forest.
Curious, he trotted over. And backed away.
The child gawped. Charon peered over his shoulder, wondering if he could gallop away and let the child think that she was dreaming. But no, she was already reaching her hand to him.
“May... may I touch you?” she asked at the last minute.
“I suppose you could.”
Her touch was gentle and hesitant.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“Mother is sick and Jane didn’t come home,” she said. “I wanted to help look for her, but I got lost.”
“Who’s Jane?”
“My sister.”
Two children lost in the woods? I suppose one of them will turn out to be a long-missing princess or end up marrying a prince. Or maybe eaten by a witch. Isn’t that how the old human stories go? He surveyed the clearing, hoping that he could leave before anyone saw him.
“What are you called?” the child asked, interrupting both his thoughts and his departure.
“My name is Charon,” he answered. “What is your name?”
“Mary,
but what I meant was what are you?”
He drew himself up proudly. “What? Do you not know? I am a Centaur.”
“A Centaur!” She exhaled breathily, her eyes round with wonder. “Father always said that those were children’s stories.”
“Aren’t you a child? How old are you?”
“I’m eight. I thought he meant that it wasn’t real.”
Charon whinnied in annoyance. “Not real? I’m as real as you are.”
“I guess he couldn’t know since he hasn’t met you.”
“I suppose so,” Charon said, still bristling. “At any rate, isn’t it time you went home? The moon is high in the sky. Now is not a time for children to be out.”
Mary looked around the clearing then back at Charon. “Could you lead me home?”
“I could bring you to a village or point you to one. Would that help?” Charon replied.
“I’m not sure. You haven’t seen Jane anywhere, have you?” She looked up at him with an eager smile, her hands clasped before her as if in prayer.
“I haven’t seen anyone else tonight.” Charon ran his fingers through his thick hair, teasing out the sweaty clumps as he considered what to do. “I suppose I could take you to the nearest village. It’s somewhere in that direction. Come along.”
Mary clutched his hand as they walked. Charon shifted uncomfortably but did not shake off her grip. She watched him as they travelled, mesmerized by his sharp profile against the glittering stars.
“Why do you keep looking at the sky?” she asked. “Is it going to rain again?”
“I’m checking the position of the stars to tell us where to go.”
“Oh. Then can you tell the future?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“Mother said that Centaurs could read the stars and I really wanted to know if she would get well again. She’s been sick for a very long time.”
“Humph. We don’t foretell the future in that way. We read the signs of the times, but we’re not concerned with the individual workings of humans or horses.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, we’re here, I think.” He pointed at a well-worn path. “This should lead you back to your village—or at least a human village.”
“Won’t you come with me?”
“I can’t. I’ll be in trouble enough with the council for letting you see me, as it is. We’re not supposed to show ourselves to humans. You won’t say you’ve seen me, will you?”
“I won’t,” Mary promised. She thanked him as she let go of his hand and started to follow the path. All at once, the trees seemed to crowd around her, blocking out the moonlight. She froze where she stood as their silence menaced her.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m scared,” she replied.
Charon paced unhappily. He didn’t want to leave the child alone and yet he knew he shouldn’t go any further. The wind stirred lazily amongst the leaves and his face brightened.
“Euthalia!” he beamed. He turned his back towards the path and cried, “Euthalia! I have need of you, friend!”
The whispering amongst the trees grew as he called for Euthalia over and over again.
Euthalia was resting against the bark of her willow tree, wondering at the growing commotion in the distance, when she heard Charon calling for her. A frown crossed her face as the trees’ agitation grew with the insistence of his call.
“I wonder what he’s up to. He doesn’t normally do that, you know? He’s usually all proper and reserved, like a good Centaur, especially since he’s been nominated to the Council,” she spoke to her tree conversationally. “What have you heard?”
It dipped its boughs and Euthalia cocked her head to one side, listening.
“An intruder, you say? And he’s been cavorting with her? How... unlike him. But he is so young, of course.” She stood, shaking off her skirts. “I’d better go see what he wants before he makes a mess of things.”
She found Charon staring at the path to the human village, his arms held protectively over the shoulders of a young girl. The trees seemed to crowd around them, blocking out the moonlight. They whispered, the rustling of their leaves and the slapping of their branches striking an angry rhythm, like the growing beat of a war drum, falling still as Euthalia approached.
“She’s my friend, a dryad,” Euthalia heard Charon say just as she stepped out from behind them.
“Associating with humans now? How delightfully naughty of you, Charon. What would Sophea say?”
“My wife would be glad that I am such a gentlemanly Centaur, I imagine.” Charon’s cheeks reddened. “Mary is lost and needs help to get home. Can you lead her, Euthalia?”
The dryad seemed to almost float over the grass as she circled Mary, inspecting her with her green eyes. “Help a tree-killing human? Why should I do that?”
“She’s just a child...”
“They always start young.”
“We—my family does not harm trees,” Mary spoke up, her dark eyes round with wonder. Vaguely she wondered if she should be afraid, but she couldn’t help feeling amazed and awed instead. All her mother’s fanciful bedtime stories were coming to life in front of her.
“You can say anything you like, child. Can you prove it to me?”
“My father is Druid. We honour and revere the great oaks of this nation, friend dryad.” When and where had she heard those words that she knew them so well? It seemed to be something called out from the recesses of her mind, something that she knew subconsciously. Maybe her father had spoken them when he thought she was asleep, or maybe her mother had said them in one of her tales. It didn’t matter. It seemed right to her—and her father was a Druid.
“A druid? In these British Isles? Do they yet survive?” Euthalia said with some astonishment. “I long thought their line had died out, banished by the Romans, persecuted by the Christians, all that they stood for stripped away.” There was sorrow in her voice, reflected in the way she stood, like a drooping willow.
“Of course they do. That’s what my father is,” Mary insisted.
“What is his name?”
“Darrick.”
Euthalia spun like the wind, the leaves chattering behind her, the boughs bowing in conspiracy. Stopping nose to nose with Mary, she asked breathlessly, “Darrick Oak-knower? Darrick? Does he know you are here?” Euthalia asked.
“No. He is out searching for my sister.”
“Ah.” Euthalia closed her eyes, standing motionless, only her hair waving in the soft breeze. She seemed to grow a little translucent, her skin taking on a slight tinge of green, as if she were a spirit. Mary blinked and rubbed her eyes. When she looked again, the dryad was contemplating her curiously, as solid and real as Mary herself.
“She is safe for now,” Euthalia said. “Come; let us bring you home before your father has another fright in the night.” She took Mary’s hand. “Goodbye, Charon. May the stars be with you.”
“Thank you, Euthalia. May your leaves be ever green.” Charon cantered away as the two females walked down the path.
The trees seemed to open the way as they passed by, allowing the moonlight to shine on them. All feelings of oppression faded away.
“How do you know that Jane is safe?” Mary asked as they walked.
“The trees told me,” Euthalia said simply.
“Do you really talk to trees? How?”
Euthalia laughed. “I talk to my tree, dear. She talks to the rest and tells me what they say. I am, after all, a tree spirit.”
“Is that what dryads are?”
“Do you not know? Really?”
Mary shook her head. “Well, I know a little. I know what Mother tells us in her stories. But she doesn’t always explain them very well. She says it’s hard to explain because it’s something she grew up knowing without having to put them into words. Father says she dreams things up.”
“Darrick is good-hearted, but sometimes a little too practical for his own good.”
> There was a brief pause as Mary thought about that. “How do you know Father?”
“He saved my life once a long time ago.” Euthalia stopped as they approached the village. The gates were closed and no light shone in the sentry’s window. Euthalia eyed the wooden walls with distaste.
“Do you think they’ll let me in?” Mary gripped Euthalia’s hand tighter.
“How did you get out?”
“I–I snuck out after my father,” she said, staring down at the ground. “He climbed out where they built the wall around a great tree.”
“Well, let’s see if you can get in that way then.” They circled the village until they came to the place where a huge oak broke the perfect circle of the six-foot wall.
“You climbed this?” Euthalia asked as she laid a hand on the bark of the tree. “Impressive.”
Mary grinned impishly. “I climb trees all the time.”
“Well, over you go then.” The dryad gave Mary a helping hand up, then watched as the little girl clambered up the tree. When she reached the top of the fence, Mary looked down and waved at Euthalia, then turned and clambered down into the village. Euthalia stood listening until Mary’s footsteps faded away.
Euthalia wasn’t quite prepared for the uproar that met her upon her return. The minute she crossed into the tree nymphs’ glade on her way back to her willow, she was cornered by a dozen angry tree nymphs babbling over each other. Althea was the noisiest of the lot.
“Are you out of your mind, Euthalia?” she shrilled, grabbing at Euthalia’s arm. “You talked with a tree-killer? Are you trying to get us all chopped down?”