The first trills of the morning birds woke me. I dressed and descended my ladder with dignity this morning. I started the fire in the hearth, and fetched water from the well for tea, before Baba Yaga emerged from her cupboard over the fireplace.
She snorted when she saw me.
“Follow me.”
I trotted behind her into the yard. “Besides spinning the wool into thread, fine thread, mind you, I want you to re-thatch the roof, re-stain the timbers and whitewash the walls. Clean the chimney as well. I expect it completed by my return. Bake the bread, too, but today you will have to mill the flour.”
Before I could ask “What is whitewash?” she was up and away in her mortar and pestle, sweeping her tracks behind her.
Entering the dancing hut on hen’s legs was getting easier. My little doll and I supped on tea, bread and cheese. She assumed the work on the hut and gave me a spindle no bigger than a dill seed for my spinning. Considering the incredible job the infinitesimal combs did yesterday, I had no qualms about my success.
I entered the wool barn as the Red Knight was passing, at a steady canter today. I stopped to watch his passing. And admire the imposing, regal figure he made bringing dawn to the dark.
Spinning was complete by the time the White Knight rode past on his gleaming white horse. I stood bug eyed and watched him pass. His beauty rendered me wordless.
My faithful doll had completed the tasks of thatching, staining, whitewashing, chimney sweeping, and bread baking. Had the hut not been strutting about on those hideous chicken legs, it would be a quaint little place. All it needed was roses blooming about it, and an herbal garden surrounding it.
My doll helped me bathe in a tub of fragrant, hot water. We washed my clothes in the leftover water, the stains coming out of my apron like magic. My doll then combed my hair while my clothes hung to dry on the bone fence.
Well before Baba Yaga returned I had the table set and the kettle boiling.
The old hag clattered in as the Black Knight galloped past. The stars were hidden by thick curtains of storm. Thunder made the house jump, lightning illuminated the yard. Baba Yaga stirred some foul smelling fungi into her cauldron, muttering in her growling rasp of a voice words that made my scalp prickle.
Fortunately we did not eat from the pot this evening. Its foul stench made eating the sweet fruit, oat porridge, and thick cream difficult. I ate what was placed before me without complaint.
After washing dishes and sweeping up, I joined Baba Yaga by the fire. She puffed away at her pipe, glowering at me. “Well, any questions for me?”
“Yes, I’d like to know if I might knit in the evenings here by the fire.”
Baba grunted. I took that for assent. I rose, curtsied, “Good night, Grandmother.” And retired. I found my bed strewn with fresh lavender, welcome and soothing relief from the stench still wafting in from the cauldron. I was grateful the chicken legs had danced my window away from it.
I undressed, wrapped myself up in lavender fresh blankets, and listened to the wind song and star song lull me asleep.
don’t have to go to Baba’s to hear the song of wind and stars –
but the stench of man’s inhumanity
does make it difficult