Ivan took the two eggs and the old rooster who could not crow anymore, as stipulated in tradition, and placed them in a ditch. No one saw him make the sacrifice and he felt a little better as he walked home. The spirit of the field would not damage his crops and hopefully not throttle him, if on some summer night he fell asleep in the field a bit drunk.
So it was that as days went by Ivan began to feel better about everything and after his next drinking bout, receiving a mild rebuff from his wife, he only beat her mildly. The trouble was he had been sick on himself, and had spent a further night on the floor.
Again he felt bad for beating Natasha and was also troubled by rumours he had heard the night before, of plague afflicting people several villages away. It might mean bad times were ahead for them, too.
When he stumbled out to the bathhouse, Natasha had already washed his shirt and was hanging it up outside. She did not look at him as he shuffled by. Was it possible that she resented the mild beating he had administered, or did she simply sense that he regretted it himself and did not respect him for that? Her father, after all, had been tireless and uncompromising in beating her mother, an excellent woman, who had obviously benefited greatly from it.
Hung-over and depressed, Ivan would be especially careful to leave a little water in the bath for the Bannik, the god of the washhouse. This deity would allow three bathers or three groups of bathers into the bath without receiving an offering, but he expected the fourth to do so and leave him some water. Ivan intended to do this. To anger the Bannik was never wise. The god was known to invite devils and forest spirits to visit him and could be nasty if crossed. Anyone disturbing him during his own bath would have boiling water thrown on them, and some might even be strangled.
The Bannik was not all bad and dangerous, however. He could agree to tell fortunes. Ivan decided to test his luck, to see if the Bannik would tell him something of what the future held, whether it was to be good or bad.
After taking his bath, Ivan, in the prescribed manner, opened the bathhouse door slightly and presented his naked back to the open air. Patiently he waited for the Bannik to communicate. A scratch with its claw meant bad luck, a soft stroke with its palm showed the future would be bright. Just as Ivan was thinking the deity would not oblige, he yelped painfully, slammed the door behind him and leapt back into the bath. Something sharp had just been dragged down his naked back.
Shivering, he sat in the hot water, which Natasha had heated for him. In spite of it being late on a summer morning, goose pimples crept over his skin. What was going to happen to them? What darkness awaited them? Ivan was distracted in his work all that day and went again to the village that night to drink away his fears.
Natasha accompanied him this time, saying she wanted to visit her mother and younger sister, with whom she would stay the night. Ivan was glad of the chance to come home alone, to find no disapproving presence awaiting him and no temptation to lash out at.
It was late when he started to weave his way home, just as full of anxiety as before he had begun drinking. Everyone in the village had seemed in a similar worried state, the men depressed and the women full of whispering and shifty looks, though extra gentle with the children and more tolerant of their menfolk.
There was no moon and though he should have found his way back to the farm in his sleep, Ivan became disoriented. He stumbled down the wrong path and before he knew it he was in the forest. When he realized this, a new fear assailed him. The Leshy would surely be about on such a night as this. This bearded forest spirit could change his size from as tall as an oak in the deep woods to so tiny it could hide beneath a leaf. The Leshy delighted in leading travellers astray, or worse.
These spirits threw no shadow, had green hair and eyes that often popped out of their heads, wore a red sash and, most peculiarly of all, they had their left shoe on their right foot. Ivan knew that he could be forced to blunder all around the forest trying to find his way out only to come back to the same spot, and all the while hearing whistling, human voices, the sounds of birds or animals, sobbing or the laughter of an overexcited woman. The last thing Ivan wished to encounter in his feeble condition was the Leshy. Then suddenly, sure enough, as if to confirm his fears, he could hear a woman-like voice somewhere in the distance.
Without hesitation, Ivan took the only measures he knew would save him. Plopping down beneath a tree, swiftly he began to undress. It was a clumsy business, but at last he managed it. Then as quickly and with even more difficulty, he began to dress himself again, but with everything on backwards.
At last he was finished and started to make his way through the trees, hoping it was the way he had come. Then he remembered something and with a shudder he dropped to the ground once more and pulled off his shoes. He had nearly forgotten to put his left shoe on his right foot and the right on the left. This done, he gave a relieved sigh, struggled to his feet again and carried on.
After a while he seemed to come out of the forest. He could feel a cool breeze and see starlight above him, not just the darkness of branches, and he could hear running water. At this point he lost his balance and with a great splash fell into the millpond.
He scrambled to his feet and, slipping and sliding, desperately tried to drag himself out of the water. This was no place to be. He was certain that a Vodyanoi was about to grab him, to pull him down to a palace made from crystal and parts of sunken boats. These water spirits hated humans and loved to drown and then enslave them. Inhabiting lakes, pools, streams and rivers, the Vodyanoi particularly liked to congregate around a milldam. Often they appeared to have a human face, ridiculously big toes, paws instead of hands, long horns, a tail and eyes like burning coals. They could change colour with the phases of the moon and would even take the shape of a pretty girl sitting in the water combing her wet hair – anything to make it easier for them to drag an unwary late bather or passer-by to his death.
Finally hauling himself out of the millpond, Ivan followed the stream back towards the village. At least now he knew where he was and in the circumstance deemed it best to face the scowls of his wife and female in-laws, rather than try to make it home. The trouble was, he realized that being so near the water he was still endangered. Not only might some Vodyanoi be lurking there, but the Rusalki, as well. He did not know which frightened him more.
Rusalki were the spirits of the drowned women and infants who had died in this stream. There had been quite a number over the years. Like the Vodyanoi, they would try to drown him too, though at this time of year they might just as well be up in the trees in the forest or frolicking about within it. Shrivelled and corpse-like, the Rusalki would be naked and have eyes that shone like green fire. They would drown him slowly, tortuously. How he wished he was carrying a leaf of absinthe with which to ward them off.
There was far more forest ahead of him, towards home, than in the direction he had come. He sprinted through the woods and joined the road he had meant to take in the first place. For an instant, while catching his breath, he thought better of going to the village and to his mother-in-law's house. Then he heard more strange noises coming from somewhere to his right. That decided him. The village was not far.
Now, what Ivan did not know, what none of the men of the village knew, was that the women were abroad that night performing a secret ceremony to ward off the plague. At midnight, the old women had crept out of their homes and prowled around the village summoning the other women to slip out to join them. Nine virgins and three widows from their number were chosen and led out of the village. The chosen women would strip off down to their shifts, the virgins loosing their hair from the braids they customarily wore and the widows covering their heads with shawls. One of the widows was harnessed to a plough, which would be driven by another, while the virgins armed themselves with scythes. The rest of the women carried macabre objects, such as the skulls of dead animals. As was the custom, the procession set off marching, howling and shrieking, ploughing a furrow around the village from
which the powerful spirits of the earth would emerge to destroy the germs of evil that caused the plague.
Stumbling along the road, wet and still drunk, Ivan froze in his tracks when the terrifying noise made by the women assaulted his ears and he caught sight of the weird parade looming up out of the darkness. He took them for a band of vicious Rusalki bent on taking him back to the stream to drown him, but so horror-struck was he that he could not move a muscle.
The women did not hesitate to do what was traditional when a man chanced to encounter such a procession. They quickly surrounded him and beat him silly, knocking him out cold.
In the morning, Ivan awoke in a ditch, amazed that he was still alive. Why had the Rusalki not drowned him? Battered and bruised, yet not as hung-over as might be expected, he ran home as fast as his condition would allow.
Natasha was shocked, utterly dumfounded at his appearance. His nose was definitely broken and his right ear would always resemble a garden vegetable now. She did not say a word, did not nag him, question him or so much as shake her head. He had to admit to himself that even if she had nagged and complained, he did not have the strength or heart to beat her. Indeed, he silently vowed never to beat her again.
Both now as she set about cleaning and bandaging her husband's cuts, lumps and scrapes, and forever afterwards whenever she smiled over his bent nose and cauliflower ear, Natasha forgave him his former ways. Ivan did not abandon drink altogether, of course, but he made a point of coming home a good deal earlier and less drunk than before.
The plague did not come to the village and the little gods tended to give less worry. Ivan, though, took very good care for the rest of his life to please the benevolent ones and avoid the rest. The Rusalki were always his chief concern and once or twice they visited him in his dreams, as if to ensure that he would continue to fear and respect them in equal measure.
Sedna, Mother of Sea Beasts
The goddess Sedna appears in her most attractive form in this story. In her one-eyed guise, though, she was such a horrible sight that only a shaman or medicine man – called an ‘angakoq’ in the Inuit language – could bear to look at her.
They were gawky youths, milling around outside the igloo and being pests, so shy that they had come courting in a group. All hung back, teasing each other, pushing first one forwards then the next, no one daring to speak to the object of their dumb admiration. From what she could see, none of them was the least bit handsome, strong or prosperous and, as for wit, that didn't figure in their scheme.
In those early days of creation, Sedna was regarded as the loveliest girl alive among the Inuit people. The attentions of all sorts of young men, both local and from far away lands, were nothing new to her and not particularly welcome. She could choose and so she felt it was within her rights to be choosy. It was only sensible.
“Go away,” she told them. “I would more gladly marry a dog than any of you.”
That was her favourite way of dismissing suitors, and she said it often to many disappointed young men.
“Oh, Sedna,” complained Angusta, her father, when she came back inside. “When will you meet someone good enough? I need help with the hunting. Ever since your mother died, it has only been the two of us. Would not a husband for you and a son-in-law for me be a fine thing?”
“What if I married one of the men from far away and went off with him? How would you like that?”
“I would be lonely but if you such took a foreigner, at least I would only have to hunt for myself.”
“I'm not marrying just anybody,” she said firmly.
Time went by and still not a week or month passed without some fellow arriving to ask for Sedna's hand, to awkwardly try to show off his prowess as a hunter or to moon around ineffectually. All were turned away with a flea in their ear. One or two of these suitors wished he were a dog so as to have stood a better chance, because she was so beautiful and spirited. Others were glad they were not dogs, and need not have a wife so sharp tongued and pitiless. Eventually the stream of suitors became a trickle.
“At least stop saying that about dogs,” her father advised. “We have a dog.” He patted their pet's eager head and went on. “There is ugly talk that you have married it and that such a thing is bad luck and will bring bad luck on everyone.”
“Nonsense,” Sedna sniffed.
One day a handsome, mysterious young man came to their seaside dwelling. Dressed in furs and armed with an ivory spear, he was a striking figure. For some time however, he sat in his canoe, saying nothing, just riding the gentle waves, watching Sedna going about her chores. Finally, she faced him, hands on hips, ready to dismiss him. Then he spoke.
“You work hard for a beauty,” he said in rather a nice voice. “That is very good to see.”
“But no good to you,” she replied. She did not turn away though, add a cutting remark or speak of a preference for dogs.
“Come away with me. Come to the land of the birds. Come with me to where you will never be hungry or cold. Where you will rest in my fine home on lush bear skins, your lamp will be ever filled with oil and the cooking pot always full of meat.” He seemed to sing to her rather than merely to speak.
“No thank you,” Sedna sneered before giving her habitual response. “I would rather marry …”
“A dog, I know. Everyone says so. But why not something else for a change?”
“What?” she exclaimed.
“Never mind, but I think you would like my country, if you would only come there. What fine ivory necklaces I would give you and …” He continued in melodical vein, painting such a wonderful picture of his home that in spite of herself Sedna became fascinated both by it and by the handsome stranger.
Gradually, as he talked she moved closer to the edge of the water and he paddled nearer too.
“So,” he concluded. “Will you come?”
“Why not?” Sedna shrugged. As she glanced in the direction of her home, her father appeared and looked curiously at her and the strange young man. “I'll marry this one, then,” she shouted to him with a brief wave to him and the dog at his heels.
The stranger helped her into his canoe and they rowed away, leaving her father and the dog inconsolable. They would never again see her on the shores where their home stood and, despite everything, they had been fairly happy.
When, after a long time on the water, Sedna and her new husband came to the place he had so boasted of, she was shocked, though she had been subtly warned on the journey. Up close, once she was over her rather foolishly abrupt parting from her father, and the tears in her eyes had cleared, she could see that her husband was not the man she had thought he was. There was something not quite right about him and his possessions, even the canoe.
His home was a rocky island where nothing seemed to grow, where no animals could survive but the many squawking birds surrounding the place. The fine abode he had described was just a shabby hut of twigs and stones where no human could live. The furs were nothing but a few scraps of uncured animal hides.
She turned to him in anger and horror at his temerity, but her words froze in her throat. The handsome young man appeared even less human now. His shape was changing before her eyes, the human figure fading and the rather vague and ghostly image of a bird taking its place.
“You are a bird spirit,” she cried in anguish. “A Kokksaut.” That is what the Inuit call such creatures.
“Yes,” her husband squawked. “But I can look human, I will be a handsome man again for you in a moment. I will bring you good food, and just look at the home I have made for you.”
“You have tricked me,” she said, sitting down on a rock and bursting into tears.
“I saw you first while I was flying and that is when I fell in love with your beauty.”
“With my beauty,” she muttered between sobs.
Of course the bird spirit did not know how people lived and Sedna was physically miserable on the desolate island. The scraps of carrion meat he brought were disg
usting to her and the shelter was quite inadequate. Most of all she could not get used to her husband. Neither as himself nor in his guise as a vague and unreal man could she overcome her repugnance or her anger at the cruel trick he had played on her.
Now, Angusta had never got over the sudden departure of his daughter and missed her very much. One day he and the dog set off in a canoe to find her. People had seen where the young man had come from, more or less, far though it was and difficult to find. Eventually Angusta arrived to find Sedna utterly forlorn, lamenting her fate and delighted to see him.
The bird spirit was away and, taking Sedna in his arms, Angusta carried her to his boat as the dog barked its greeting. Covering her with furs, he set off, paddling as fast as he could.
When the bird spirit returned and found Sedna gone and the marks where the canoe had been drawn up on the rocky beach, he took to the air again in search of her. Guessing what had happened, he knew which direction to go in and soon came within sight of Angusta's canoe. Changing into his man-shape again some distance behind, the bird spirit paddled hard to catch up. As he neared the fugitives, he shouted for them to stop.
“Where is Sedna?” he cried. “Please let me see her.”
Angusta ignored him and rowed on as the bird spirit followed, calling out to Sedna. Finally he gave up and turned back into a bird, swooping on them, still crying out like a loon. Then he disappeared, flying up into the growing darkness where he caused the sea to become very rough and dangerous, throwing the boat about and frightening Angusta almost as terribly as the bird spirit himself had begun to do. The more he thought about what had happened the more he realized his offence. As the storm worsened, he knew he had made an enemy of the powers of nature.
In despair of his life, certain that it would bring bad luck on his people if he did nothing, and suspecting it was the fate of his beautiful daughter all along, he picked her up and threw her over the side of the boat.
Myths and Legends from Around the World Page 17