Today she saves a child and helps an old woman along the path, all in the same cottage. The child has a fever, easily quelled by a tea of herbs. She hands the child’s mother enough of the mixture for two days more. The woman’s mother-in-law lies quietly in a shadowed corner, waiting for the last darkness to fall. There is no request for her help with this one, it’s as if the old woman is not worth the trouble, not worth an offering to the dark woman who roams the woods.
Baba Yaga sits by the narrow pallet, hands waving the hovering younger woman away. Her nose twitches at the stale smell of the old woman’s body. She has not been bathed and she has soiled herself some time today or the day before. Baba Yaga looks at the younger woman.
“I hope your daughter treats you thus when your time comes. I hope she pays you the same respect, gives you the same dignity at your dying time,” she spits and the woman shrinks away to sink against a wall on the far side of the cottage, hoping the curse will somehow slip from her skin, not embed itself in her pores.
Baba Yaga takes the hand of the old woman. The last vestiges of life have collected in her eyes, which shine in the dim room, and she smiles at the dark woman, grateful, for once, without fear. “Bless you, Baba. I beg you to help me pass on.”
The deathless one nods and pulls a flask from the folds of her faded dress. She holds it to the lips of the woman, who drinks greedily. The old woman falls back and sighs her last breath.
Who would do this for me? wonders Baba Yaga. Who would perform these things for me?
The fact that she is deathless does not make the absence of an answer any less painful. She closes the old woman’s eyes and rises, giving a final glance to the woman’s daughter-in-law. “Bury her well. I will know if you do not.”
The grinding noise of the mortar barely troubles her; she is so deep in thought that she forgets to sweep away the traces of her passing.
The old woman’s son returns late that evening. He has been deep in the forest for almost a month and when he left his mother was hale and hearty. Her illness was sudden, occasioned by a summer cold and compounded by her daughter-in-law’s neglect. His shock at her loss is acute.
His wife, afraid of Baba Yaga’s curse and in full knowledge of her own culpability, seeks a scapegoat. She is desperate to stay her husband’s hand, to keep his grief away from her, to keep him from ever thinking that she had a hand in his mother’s demise.
“It was Baba Yaga. The Bone Mother came and took her.” She does not mention that their daughter was ill, nor that Baba Yaga saved the child’s life. She lets her husband believe that the dark woman took his mother out of spite, to extend her own life. He stays hollow-eyed beside his mother’s corpse, sitting the death watch through the deep hours.
In the morning he buries she who gave him life, and when he finishes shovelling earth on top of the still form, he notices the path of broken branches and crushed grass left by Baba Yaga’s mortar. Without a word to his wife, he pulls the axe from the block beside the woodpile and sets out.
Vasilissa, exhausted by her labours in the kitchen and anesthetised by the honey wine her grandmother had let her try, sleeps so soundly that she does not feel Baba Yaga’s long-fingered hand slip under her pillow and grasp the little wooden doll. She does not hear the old woman shuffle from the room and shut the door quietly behind her. The child sleeps on, blissfully ignorant.
Baba Yaga, having eased herself into a chair by the fire, props the doll on a small table beside her and watches to see what the thing will do. At first there is nothing, no sign of life, but there is something about the doll that reminds her of a forest creature pretending to be a rock or a log in the face of a predator. She drops crumbs of bread into the small creature’s lap and places a thimble of wine beside it. Her eyes gleam over the golden hair, the large blue eyes so like her own, and the full lips that, if her eyes do not deceive her, begin to pout at the extended scrutiny.
“There, my little doll, take it. Eat a little, drink a little, and listen to my grief.” She leans forward, certain of herself now. “My daughter ran away with a worthless man and I did not see her again.”
“Oh, Mother!” The doll jumps up and stamps its tiny feet, almost upsetting the thimble of wine.
“Ah! I knew it. You’re a cunning little bitch, Shura,” Baba Yaga sits back, shaking her head. “Not even properly dead.”
“Dead enough it would seem.”
“How did you come to this, daughter?”
“My penance for leaving you alone is to watch over my daughter as long as she needs me. In this ridiculous shape. Imagine my surprise when I died and woke up like this. Hoping for heaven or purgatory—at least—and this is what I get.” Shura sits heavily and taking a deep draught of wine. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you had something to do with it.”
“Who’s to say I didn’t?” Baba Yaga runs a finger down one of the golden curls, seeing for a moment the little girl Shura had been. Wilful, selfish, demanding. Leaving her mother when she was ill unto death to go off with a man.
“Was he her father? The one you left with?”
“Of course not, Mother. Did you really think him the type to stick around?” Shura sighed. “Vasilissa’s father would have had your approval. He was a rich merchant, kind and gentle. Is a rich merchant if Ludmilla’s kept him safe.”
Baba Yaga sits back and releases a pent-up breath.
“What’s she like?”
“Like me, I suppose. She’s looking out for her own daughters, but it’s at the expense of mine and I don’t like that.” She looks down at her tiny fingers. “Truth be told, if I could kick her out of my bed and out of my house I would.”
“But you can’t.”
“But I can’t, Mother, no. You could, though. Or take Vasilissa into your own.” The painted eyes shine as if alive. “You could do that, Mother, look after my beautiful girl.”
The old woman’s face collapses in on itself, as if her age has suddenly arrived with no warning, like a fat guest walking across a weak threshold. Shura watches as something liquid and silver makes its way down one of the furrows of her mother’s face. This is the first time she has faced the devastation she caused. Her wooden heart, kinder than her human one was, twists painfully in her otherwise hollow chest.
“Don’t cry, Mama. Please don’t cry. Look after my child. Set me free.” She regrets this the moment it leaves her lips. Baba Yaga’s eyes snap open, turned to angry obsidian.
“Thinking of yourself to the last.” She lifts the doll and holds it in her strong hand. If the doll could breathe, she would struggle for breath. “You want me to take your child so you can rest in peace. Then she can leave me when I need her, just like you did.”
She holds the toy high, contemplating throwing it into the fire, stirring up the coals once more and watching the doll be consumed. Shura, sensing the direction of her mother’s thoughts, is smart enough to shut up, to lie limp in the claw-like grip, and to hope as hard as she can that her mother’s anger is not as strong as her love.
In the end the old woman simply shakes the doll in frustration, rather like a dog worrying a bone. Shura remains silent: she has retreated to her state of wood and varnish to ignore the horror of what her end could have been, of what her life may continue to be.
Baba Yaga does not leave the dacha that day. Vasilissa finds her in the morning, still sitting by the dead fire, motionless as a stone; although she breathes, her hands and face are very cold. She cannot move her grandmother from the chair, nor will the old woman answer her; the Bone Mother merely shifts her stare from the dead fire to the window that overlooks the yard.
Vasilissa brings cold compresses and drips sips of water between Baba Yaga’s dry lips, but the old woman does not stir; her eyes have all the animation of glass. Vasilissa, fearful beyond measure, picks Shura up from the floor by the fireplace. The side of the doll lying nearest the fire is slightly burnt. Shura guzzles down the wine Vasilissa gives her first of all, finishing her meal with cake cr
umbs.
“There my little doll, take it. Eat a little, drink a little, and listen to my grief.” Vasilissa takes a deep breath. “I fear my grandmother is dying.”
Shura sags, a marionette whose strings have been cut. “She cannot die, but she can become a stone. She did for almost a year after my father left.”
“What must I do, little doll? What must I do, my little mother?” To her distress, Vasilissa sees her mother shrug and shake her head. The child flares up. “We must do something! We cannot leave her like this.”
“It’s her heart that troubles her, not any physical ailment, Vasilissa.” Shura’s voice fractures. “How do you cure loneliness? How do you ease the pain of singularity? She stands alone. She stands outside.”
Vasilissa gives her mother a frustrated shake and sets her on the mantle. She settles herself on Baba Yaga’s lap, curling her child’s form around her grandmother, wrapping her arms around the thin shoulders, burying her smooth face in the corrugated skin of Baba Yaga’s neck. Her voice is soft as she makes her promises.
“Don’t leave me, Grandmother. I will not leave you. You will not stand alone any longer. Do not become stone.” Her voice strengthens. “I love you, Grandmother. I will not leave you.”
She falls asleep, her promise still on her lips, sticky and sweet like honey. Her dreams, though, are fraught: she sees a man hunting through the woods, following her grandmother’s trail, his axe sharp and his temper frayed by grief.
Vasilissa is woken by a noise in the yard. She looks out the window and sees the skulls on the gateposts, their teeth clattering a warning. Beyond them, in among the tree trunks, she can see someone moving, a man, with the late afternoon sun glittering on the edge of his blade. She grabs Shura and rushes to the kitchen, unsure how much time she may have while he stalks around the dacha, trying to learn its defences.
The little girl makes her offering to the doll and cries:
“There my little doll, take it. Eat a little, drink a little, and listen to my grief. A man comes, his axe sharp and bright. I fear for us all.” She takes Shura to the window where they can see him clearly, standing just outside the fence, angry and uncertain.
“The black rider is coming, I can feel the earth shaking beneath her tread. Tell her to cast her darkest night over us and I will deal with this man. Be brave!” Shura exhorts her daughter.
Vasilissa runs through the dacha and throws open the front door. The man is inside the gate. When he sees her, he moves faster: it seems his anger will be spread over anyone he can find. Vasilissa can hear the beat of hooves and she shouts.
“Black rider, black rider, come to my aid! Throw your darkest night upon us!”
Her last glimpse is of the man tossed about by three sets of disembodied hands, then all goes black, as black as the inside of the deepest cave. She hears Shura’s voice rising, chanting, calling upon spells of forgetfulness, of disorientation, to send the man far away, with no memory of the path to this dacha. For a long while all is silent.
Vasilissa waits and waits. She stretches forth and finds the doll lying not far from her hand, and she gathers Shura up, holding her in her lap. After a time (she does not know how long), the darkness does not seem so heavy and she hears a scratching sound and a torch flares. Baba Yaga stands at the door of the dacha and lights Vasilissa’s way inside.
Baba Yaga takes Shura from her granddaughter and rubs a drop of water on the doll’s lips, holds cake crumbs out for her.
“There my little doll, take it. Eat a little, drink a little, and listen to my joy.” She says quietly. “I will look after your daughter, Shura.”
The doll’s eyes shine, her painted mouth moving in a smile. “Thank you, mother. My Vasilissa is faithful above all things.”
“And when the time comes, Shura, I will let her go,” Baba Yaga promises. “As I release you now, daughter. Rest.”
* * *
The Dead Ones Don’t Hurt You
The bruises were fading; pale yellow with just a hint of purple now.
There was the cut above her eye, still two stiches there holding the edges of the incision together. She would have a scar. Well, it wasn’t her first; wouldn’t be her last.
No, she corrected herself, that was a negative thought. She was not going to think like that anymore. No more scars. No more bad boys. No more putting herself last.
Melanie smiled at her reflection, careful not to smile so much that the chipped incisor showed. (That was a remnant from Joel.) Her hair was newly bleached, a sharp platinum; her eyes were small but a bright blue. Her best feature, Momma used to say. Unfortunately she’d generally follow up with comments about pug-nose, thin lips and flat face. Melanie shook her head until her mother’s voice fell away. She knew it wouldn’t matter to him but she wanted to wait before he saw her. First impressions and all.
The box was still where the delivery men had left it, in that little tiny space she liked to call the entry hall. She so wanted to open it but she was practising patience. When she finally did, she reminded herself, she wanted to look her best.
So, she wasn’t going to open the box, no. But she could do some light reading. First, there was the magazine on her bedside table. The advert was in the back, right below the Singles Section. When she’d seen it her heart had done a little jig.
Life had seemed so empty again for a while—Cameron hadn’t stayed that long. He’d gotten parole, spent two months eating her out of house and home and then taken off, leaving her with the souvenirs of his visit on her face. She’d been wondering what she was going to do, and there was the answer, just as neat as you please, in that magazine.
Given up on live ones? For 53 payments of $29.95 per calendar month an Ever-faithful Zombie Boyfriend™ can be yours. Remember: the dead ones don’t hurt you.
Then there was the owner’s manual, which was even more promising:
Congratulations on choosing an EZ-Boy! Average guys too boring? Jailbirds too unpredictable? You have joined the growing ranks of women seeking a life-partner among the Walking Dead. Please read this instruction manual carefully. Failure to properly care for your purchase will render your warranty null and void. Remember: a cared for EZ-Boy means a cared for owner.
Life was looking up. She smeared a layer of make-up across her skin, making it extra thick over the bruises, and began getting ready for work. She was on reception at 9pm.
Shaped liked a coffin, the box kind of creeped her out. Then again, Melanie reminded herself, she had just purchased a zombie as a life-partner so she’d best get over the squeamish. She picked up the crowbar and began the process of popping the top.
It wasn’t like she’d just bought a toaster or a TV, or something you could figure out as you went along, so she’d read the manual from cover to cover. No, this was an investment in her future. Now, as she pried open the coffin, the wood splintering along the edges like toothpicks, she felt anticipation zipping around her stomach like bees buzzing in a hive, busy and warm.
She flipped the lid onto the floor and looked inside.
Well, he was handsome for sure. He looked like he might be tall too (she had ordered a tall one, after all). He’d short dark hair and she guessed his eyes had been blue once. Now they were kind of pearly, what with the whole patina of death thing he had going. His skin was a little grey―quite grey, actually―and yes, there was a kind of funny smell coming off him, like mothballs and something else. But he was smiling up at her like she was the moon. No man had ever looked at her like that before.
Melanie sat back in the banana lounge on the patio. She settled her hat firmly on her head and perched her sunglasses on her nose. Her tall glass sat on the armrest, a small circle of condensation collected at its base. Billy (that was the name she’d chosen for him) was mowing the lawn, shoving the old push mower around the yard, moving with a slight limp. She thought it might be a left-over from his life―his living life. He had no shirt on, six-pack in evidence, but showed no sign of sweat that she could see. One of th
e advantages of being a zombie, she guessed. She smiled at him and he waved and he smiled, mechanically, but nevertheless he acknowledged her and that was enough for her.
When she was at working at the resort and if she didn’t have any chores for him, Melanie just told Billy to stay in his box. She didn’t think he slept or anything, he just kind of powered-down like the computers at work when no one used them for a while. He didn’t really have any hobbies; it wasn’t like he was going to be a big reader or need time to finish his novel or anything. He cleaned the house like a dream, but how many times could anyone do that in the week? Day-time TV rotted the brain, she firmly believed, but had to admit that it probably wasn’t going to trouble a zombie too much. She thought she probably could have left him some simple cooking to do but she was wary of having him anywhere near the salt.
The manual had been very specific about that―the type was even in a bold red―It is important that you only ever feed your EZ-Boy the approved gruel formula (recipe attached), and under no circumstances add any sort of condiment to the mix―especially not salt. This will cause your EZ-Boy to return irretrievably to its grave and we must remind you that there are no refunds.
So, no, that wasn’t a risk she was prepared to take; she was happy to do the cooking, to make sure he had his gruel. He was hers and she was not letting him go for anything. She was going to be very careful with their future. She made herself comfortable and opened the magazine across her knees, so she could look between the glossy pictures and her brand new boyfriend.
“So, how does he, y’know, do it?”
It was going so well. She took Billy to parties. He didn’t talk but he was attentive, smiled at her lots, listened as she prattled and filled her glass whenever it was empty. The other girls thought she was weird at first, some kind of loser who couldn’t get a live one, but by the end of the night, well, that was just another story.
The Girl With No Hands and Other Tales Page 9