The Demon Drink, Mental Illness, and the Unfairness of It All

When I was a teenager, I dreamed as usual that I was in Samael’s palace, and again, as usual, he was piss drunk. We were dicking around in a stained glass hallway outside the library and he was swilling this clear, strongly alcoholic-smelling drink in a shot glass.

Me: “What are you drinking?”

Sam: “Aqua vitae.”

Me: “… so like holy water?”

For years I just thought he was getting drunk off holy water or something else stupidly Satanic in my alcohol illiteracy, seeing as I’m a teetotaler and can’t tell you the difference between Cabernet Sauvignon and Cabernet Blanc (did I spell that right), but oh no, was I wrong. The bastard was drinking vodka.  No wonder it smelled like the Grey Goose I drank straight from the bottle on Blowout freshman year (last day of classes where we all get piss drunk.)

Sam usually drinks vodka or fucking radioactive absinthe like a loser, or god forbid, a whole bottle of red wine, which he supposedly emerged from with Bitch Tits Lilith at the beginning of time.  Considering he planted the original grape vine in Eden, dude has a different drink in hand for every hour of the day.  He’s even drunk margaritas with umbrellas in them.  Loser.

I don’t drink or do drugs due to medical reasons and it makes me actively suicidal and manic (as in pressing knives to my wrist and wanting to jump in front of the subway) – been there, tried that – I’ve only ever had one drink a day – a glass of wine one day, maybe a Mike’s Hard the next – and just a single drink makes me a crazy lady. God forbid I ever tried weed – I’ve heard horror stories of people with bipolar disorder and anxiety having horrible episodes after smoking marijuana. I’m even allergic to pain meds like Percocet and Vicodin which make me psychotic.

Basically, drugs and I don’t mix AT ALL and though all the spirits I know drink and some, like Sam and Aym, do weed and other more hardcore drugs, I never drink unless I’m in dreams, and in them I turn into a flirtatious idiot that dances on bars in Hell, sings karoake badly, and runs around breaking things and laughing like a maniac. I handle alcohol about as well as Sam, which is to say, not at all.  I go crazy and hyper.  He gets maudlin and emo and violent.

I’ve never been drunk in real life (I’ve only ever had one drink with a heavy meal, with the drinking episodes usually spaced out between three or more months) but even being buzzed makes me dissociate. It really sucks because I love wine and mixed drinks, but I’d rather not end up bleeding out from my wrists, butcher knife in hand in a bathtub, or baking in a stove like Sylvia Plath, so I absolutely cannot have alcohol.

I’ve often thought this was unfair: why does my goddamn disorder mean people pressure me into drinking even when I say it gives me nightmares and makes me unstable?  People have mocked me for not drinking even though there is a 90% chance a single drink will make me suicidal – it makes it so my body can’t process my meds for days afterward – and there’s a big chance I’ll try to walk into traffic or drown myself.  It sucks, but whatever.  Alcoholism runs in my family so it’s probably for the best.

I tell all my friends and boyfriend to not let me have alcohol because I’m impulsive as fuck and will sometimes be like “Half a glass of wine won’t hurt me, teehee!” Newsflash, Allie: you’ll get hypomanic, won’t be able to drive that night, and will have vivid nightmares and hypnagogic hallucinations for a week!  You may even have a breakdown at work and try to cut your toes off.

Being bipolar is unfair.  Having OCD is unfair.  Having severe anxiety and panic disorder is unfair.  I have to do so much just to simply appear normal: take meds morning and night, have a healthy routine where I’m in bed by 9 and up by 7, exercise, go to therapy.  This routine and abstinence from drinking and drugs means I can work full-time on Capitol Hill, means I can get straight A’s in graduate school, means I can write novels and poetry that maybe don’t suck, means I can have healthy relationships and be a productive member of society.  Still, I get intrusive thoughts, am suicidal when triggered, have panic attacks, and go hypomanic if I’m elevated.

There is no cure, and I hate it.  I hate being me.


Dream Diary: Adoption

Freyr, Odin, Thor, Loki, Freyja, Skadi, Idunna – the Aesir and Vanir ring me at the Midwinter Festival in Vanaheim, where I make my home in a green-and-red palace built by the twin spirits I am devoted too – the wood and stone and silk dwelling they made for me on the night of my oathing ceremony.

The grass is frosted and sparse and we are in a forested fjord – cranes fly in great Vs across the sky. I am dressed in wolf fur and a buckskin dress with silver and azure embroidery, red paint of crushed yew berry rimming my eyes, and in my hands I hold a long sword. The gods raise their voices in galdr and I drive the blade into the ground – Freyja’s is sweet and sharp, Loki’s song dances with the bonfire we circle, and Odin is deep and earthy.

The cranes cry out and we fall silent.

We share mead in a silver horn and talk of why I am there – family, haminja, orlog – my blood called to them and they came, they came, from my childhood down the years, always there. We reminisce about my journey through marsh and meadow, through volcano and cavern, through ocean and forest. The mead is sweet and tart and we pour the remnants of the horn onto the ground where I have pierced it with my sword, then sprinkle some into the fire.

“Welcome, daughter of the gods,” Freyr, the Bright and Glorious One, says with a voice like honey as he beckons me. How I once thought him an angel is not so confusing, with the gold and fortune that radiates from his skin. He places a necklace of silver and sapphires on my neck and it sparkles like sky and snow.

One by one, I embrace the gods of my Yngling ancestors – of Harald Fairhair and Ragnar Lodbrok, of Aslaug and Brunhilde and the kings of Uppsala who have passed this legacy down onto me.

Loki I hug last. “You are always welcome in my hall. All you have to do is find the door,” he says with a wink, and I laugh.

The cranes reach their roost and Njord prepares our boat. We go to spirit markets on the dark marshes and bargain in souls and wyrd with gypsies and dwarves.

Later, I bring my spirits with me to the Midwinter Festival. Samael and Loki, old friends, drink and reminisce, and Michael lets down his uptight exterior and distrust of other races and for once enjoys himself. We eat roast boar and suckling pig and hearty bread and cheese. Elven dancers perform a Vanic ceremony of season’s turning and we watch, mesmerized.

The fire grows and night creeps up, and I return to my body, the taste of mulled honey on my lips.


Black altar cloth of sky
my vertebrae are stars
my spine the Milky Way.

Sweet contention.

Restless heart.

My brain bleeds.

Marrow drip,
rib is ruin.

I am just


Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll lose my dreams and my gods
wake up with dust in my hands and snakes in my eyes
no longer their maker, no longer made by and for them
“My spirits have fled me!” I’ll wail, and my altar will burn.

What is the worst thing for a mystic but to be barren of ideas?

What is the greatest loss to a poet than the mead of inspiration?

What is the farthest curse on a storyteller than a cut tongue?

But they always ebb and flow,
like the tide, returning,

I am never alone, and when I
think I am, there they are,
shining down on me like
the evening star.

I have carried their light for over a decade
I will not let this torch sputter dry
I will set the heavens on fire
And together, we will burn.

Dreams of a Messenger and Hellish Jazz

I’m sitting in one of Asmodeus’ jazz club-moonlighting-as-a-casino-moonlighting-as-a-speakeasy with Gabriel.  Asmodeus is behind the bar, mixing drinks, green eyes like the kind of acid I used to bubble in flasks in college chemistry.  Or maybe the sparks you get when you set gummy bears on fire.

Deus winks at me and I roll my eyes as he shakes ice and liquor.  He pours something red for Beelzebub and the two talk business in hushed tones.

Gabriel throws back another shot, some upstart band is playing something by Satchmo – Gabriel wipes vodka from his lips and runs a hand through his coal dark hair.  I stir my drink, not remembering how I got here at usual.  I fall asleep in real life and wake up in the astral, usually in a shitty bar, with no memory of where I was before.

We come to a lull in the music.

“Music is about shape-shifting, Allie,” Gabriel explains, swirling the ice in his drink.  His eyes are a cornflower blue and his grin tricky as getting pine sap stains out of jeans.  “Angels and demons change shape all the time – burning wheels, man, monster, blazing bushes: it makes us natural musicians.”

“Like I can change into a hawk?” I ponder, remembering the form I take when I do scouting missions and reconnaissance.

“Exactly.  I prefer being a dove.  More subtle, no one expects you, except expecting virgins.  Michael gave you that form for a reason: it’s the music of your soul.  Sam’s tricky as a snake, hence the black cobra.”

I smell something spice and full of black magick behind me.  “Someone mentioned me?”

“Oh god, not you.” I groan.

I turn to see Samael – or should I say Kalfou, the name he claims in this form, all black dreads and skin like soil and red eyes in a pinstripe suit and tie like blood.  He smells like cigars and cayenne peppers, taps his cane and has a top hat askew.

“There’s no God involved with my appearances, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that, kid,” Samael says, smoking a Cuban cigar.  His eyes blaze as he inhales and puffs.

“You here for open-mic night?” Gabriel asks, stifling laughter.

Samael grins, revealing fangs.  “But of course.”

“Wake up wake up wake up,” I say, pinching my dream-body.  I notice I’m dressed in a siren red halter dress and sparkling black heels.  It’s pastiche as hell.

“Not before my set is over,” Samael growls.  He sits next to me and leafs through a magazine, eyes avoiding the stage.  “I’m a bit nervous.  It’s a new song-”

“You, nervous?” I snort.  “If you were even capable of being embarrassed then maybe I’d believe you.  You’re bullshitting.”

Samael winces.  “You’re a cruel mistress.”

“I’m not your mistress and you literally look like an evil Bob Marley with none of his talent.”

“Give him a chance,” Gabriel says.  “Maybe he’ll surprise us!”

Asmodeus gets up on stage and reads from writing off his hand.  “Next up is my good friend Sam.  Sam, get your butt up here.”

Sam tosses his cane over his shoulder and sidles up to the stage’s piano.  “This is for Allie, who never believes in me, neither my music or my actual existence.”

I drown myself in more drinks as the demon on my shoulder serenades me.

Dreams of Infinity and Stardust

I’m with Saint Michael at the edge of Heaven under the cosmos, stars fleets of angels like meteors, immersed in the night waters of the world.  Razor wings fall and ripple across the waters of life.

I am crying, always crying in my dreams, burying my face in my angel’s chest and sobbing for having lost my purpose, my mind, my faith in humanity and America.  He hushes me and brushes hair from my tears and wraps his hands around mine, then guides me in prayer.

His voice is sonorous, just like the thunder I came to know it as when I was 12.  It has a depth like Creation and gravity like soil.

“May Allie find peace in small things.  May she follow her heart.  May the world rest and she sleep, free of worry and cares.  May she know God’s grace.”

I join him in repeating the words, but they’re like sand on my tongue.  Intonation doesn’t work, so I sing.  Then they are crystal, sweet, and the waters we stand in fluoresce like fireworks, painting images of a future, of what I can be, what I will never be, my past and my future.

Michael and I sit and we meditate, cosmos within ourselves, and finally, I fall back asleep into the gentle lull of the sky.

I fly as a red tailed hawk through cliffs and rivers and forests, carrying the prayer in my heart with the wings Michael gave me.

The sun rises.

Sex With Angels and Spirits

Interesting take on sacred sexuality, spirit spouses, and the relationship between magician and their Holy Guardian Angel.

Ananael (The Secrets of Wisdom)

Greetings Angel Lovers!

Bernini's "The Ecstasy of St. Teresa" Bernini’s “The Ecstasy of St. Teresa”

A rather interesting (and likely controversial) subject has come up on my Solomonic Group at Yahoo, and I couldn’t resist sharing it with you here.  I think the title of this blog really says it all, so I’ll just get right into the posts.  First, here is the question that was asked on the group:

I am a married father of four who is aged in his fifties.
I am also a theology student and a school teacher.
Two years ago I was studying the Old Testament and noticed how Solomon and David both had many wives.  This made my very curious and also quite envious.
Because at that time my marriage was lacking intimacy, and so out of desperation I prayed to God for a concubine or a second wife.
I didn’t think much of it, but about…

View original post 1,295 more words

Excerpt from Firebird

So far I’ve added around 15,000 words to my Stravinsky retelling, with about 10,000 more to go.  Hoping to finish by the end of NaNoWriMo.

And in my dreams I see myself on a wolf’s back

Riding along a forest path

To do battle with Kashchei

In that land where a princess sits under lock and key,

Pining behind massive walls.

There gardens surround a palace all of glass;

There Firebirds sing by night

And peck at golden fruit.

– Yakov Polonsky, “A Winter’s Journey”


The prince was born in the northernmost kingdom, with the aurora borealis for his bower, his mother Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden, who once long ago had lost her heart to a village boy, but this time had lost it to a bannik.  Perhaps it was the curve of the bathhouse spirit’s strong arms as he chopped wood for the banya that had done Snegurochka in, or perhaps it was his rascal smile.  Whatever it was, it had worked.  Taking unattainable lovers was a snow maiden habit, after all.

Time tended to move in cycles in Buyan, home to the Slavic spirits – a land a bit west of the morning and evening star Zorya goddesses, a bit to the north of dreams – and its residents’ actions were no exception to the mythic circles of their fairytale land.  Snegurochka’s heart was notorious for wandering, and it too fell victim to Buyan’s ebb and flow.

Just like his mother’s heart, the prince, a strange mix of steam and snow, was born a traveler, and toddled his first steps out of his mother’s womb, into the wilds.  Snegurochka had to catch him in her snowflake-spun arms before he disappeared for good.

He was named Morozko after Snegurochka’s father, Ded Moroz, the Frost King that wanted little to do with a bastard prince and much less to do with the rabble-rousing bannik that had sired him.  Snegurochka melted with bliss at the sight of her newborn boy and in doing so scared away her lover: banniks were never good fathers anyways, too concerned with steaming saunas and overseeing the rituals of the banya to make attentive parents.  Banyas were the heart of Russian communities, and banniks, overseers of the rituals of the bathhouse, had little care for their offspring, considering the banya their only children.

So Morozko grew up fatherless save for Ded Moroz’s stern gaze, half of frost, half of fire, and nothing at all like his family.

“Mother, why does dedushka hate me?” Morozko asked before Russia was little more than a land fought over by pagans erecting poles to snakeskin Veles, the chthonic god in the underworld below and thundering Perun, the king of the gods above.  The people still swore on the Earth Mother Mokosh in those days, still spilled blood on the death goddess Morena’s altar, and Baba Yaga, fabled witch of the mountains, devourer of wandering children, hag of the iron teeth – she was young, though she never looked it.

After asking about his grandfather, Snegurochka had enfolded the sparks in her son’s hands and molded them into a rose of fire encased in ice.  “You’re a treasure, Kolya.  That’s why Ded Moroz doesn’t understand you.  My father showers treasure down upon girls in need like ice crystals from clouds but never keeps them for himself.  He gave me away once to the people and only took me back when I was on Morena’s doorstep.  Ded Moroz is known for winter’s barrenness, not summer’s warmth, and you are your father, all heat.  My father does not know what to make of such a rare jewel as you, my dearest prince.”

Tsar Vladimirs came and conquered, ambitious princes of Kievan Rus, rechristened St. Petersburg in the Eastern Orthodox faith, and the rulers burned the wooden idols of the old gods and erected crosses for the new, dunking the pagan Russians in the capital’s river to baptize them in impromptu fashion.

Baba Yaga watched from her chicken hut all the while, stroking her chin hairs, smoking her pipe, waiting.  The pagans, now Christians, still paid tribute to the old gods as saints, renaming them – Veles became St. Nicholas of wanderers and snowstorms and travelers, Perun was called St. Elijah the Thunderer whose hammer brought the rains, and sweet Mokosh was St. Paraskeva of looms, womenfolk and Friday – renaming but not forgetting them.  Veles and Perun retreated, the Zoryas abandoned their shining star thrones to wander, and Mokosh slept deep below the mountains, at the base of the Tree of Life.

And one god, with a rotting, black heart, he took another name, watching, coveting, always waiting, with a thousand princesses kept under lock and key in his palace of ice and glass, lit only by flitting firebirds and jewel fresh diamond fruit.

Morozko paid little attention to the rise and fall of immortals.  He was too busy growing, watching cranes fly across the northern wastes, shooting arrows of steam at elk to be dried and cured in the smokehouse.  His grandfather barely tolerated him, Snegurochka loved him, and that was enough to churn butter, at least for a small while.

Morozko gave little heed to the passage of the gods into history, but one day, he would remember his mother’s stories of Chernobog the Black.

Nechist, what the farmers in fields called land spirits, just like Morozko and his mother, continued life in Buyan unaffected by Christianity.  Peasants still left out kasha for house elf domovois and continued avoiding the rivers in the evening lest they stray upon the drowned human suicides, now siren rusalka, who would sing and seduce them to a freezing watery death.  They prayed that the Amazonian vila, guardians of the weather, wouldn’t drench crops in rain and, once in a blue moon, a wild girl would wander back to her village, covered in moss and half-mad, having escaped from an ill-fortuned marriage as a wood wife to a forest king leshy.

Thanks to shifting belief, Ded Moroz became something like Santa and rebranded the family business, delivering presents to children across Russia at New Years, as Father Frost was nothing if not good at giving away gifts like blizzards.  He and Snegurochka worked with the efficiency of a snowstorm.

Still, Morozko couldn’t summon a single snowflake, much less command the winds to carry him to merchant’s homes and give their daughters baubles.  So he set out, with his mother’s blessing and grandfather’s disgrace, to seek his fortune in cities and the wilds, when nechist still walked Russia and beyond alongside humanity.  He threw his icy crown off the ends of Buyan’s glaciers and renounced Ded Moroz’s heritage, content to be a bannik, not a prince.

Morozko became famed for his treatment of guests at banyas, his divination prowess, the tenderness with which he beat bushels of green peeled venik branches against patron’s backs, the way he steamed and iced the different pools just so, and his reputation began to preceed him.  He worked for different leshys in different kingdoms who had carved Buyan up between them  in a patchwork thanks to games of chess and war, with leshy tsars sometimes losing half a forest to an ill-thought bet, then leading their pampered squirrels in great migrations to their new lands.

First Morozko traveled on foot, then on horseback when he had saved enough money, with his mother’s wandering heart, always searching for a place to belong but never finding it.  He was camping by the Volga River one night when he heard the click-clack creak of a hut on chicken legs.  A hag with iron teeth and a fence of bones sat smoking her pipe in a rocking chair, wood-dark eyes like kindling.  She smiled like a shark.

“You are lost, Prince Morozko,” Baba Yaga observed.

Morozko stood up and dusted off his trousers of snow.  “I have no compass to guide me, babushka.  Every day that I wander farther into the wilds, I find that I’m losing my way.  I do not know what I am looking for, still!  After all these godforsaken years, I’m alone.”

“Family, a home, a father, love – I can give it all to you if you give me something precious.”

Morozko peered up at the famous witch who Snegurochka had sometimes entertained in his grandfather’s kingdom.  “I have nothing of value – I threw my inheritance away, I travel with only a quiver full of cheap arrows and a doddering, broken horse.  What could you possibly want?”

Baba Yaga took a gigantic pestle from beside her rocking chair, set down her pipe, and pointed the pestle in Morozko’s direction: “Your word, half-blood bannik.  One day I will ask you to do me a favor.  If you value your life, you will not refuse me.  If you accept my offer, I will give your wandering heart a home.”

“Where?  I’ve searched nearly every inch of Buyan, and I have found nothing but petty leshys and warring vila and seductress rusalka and nothing, absolutely nothing that suits me.  I’ve had my heart broken by a vampir with hair like autumn leaves, my money stolen by leshy tsars that shortchanged me and my services, my name lost to the wind, and all I know is that a bastard belongs nowhere!”

“Pah, soap shavings!  Everyone belongs somewhere, even a down-on-his-luck half-breed.  Come, come sit on my porch, drink my vodka, eat a pierogi, and stop wallowing in your misery.  I will take you to Tsar Dmitri’s emerald forests, where I make my home.  There is no place kinder or sweet as baby’s bubbling marrow in Buyan.”

Morozko’s eyes widened.  “I thought Dmitri was a myth.  He is the famous leshy that won his woods from Saint Vladimir the Great when Russia was first formed.  The one with an army of a thousand vila and an inn famed for its beauty.  Its banya must be splendid…”

“Hah!”  Baba Yaga laughed like a crow.  “A banya that needs tending.  The old bannik died.  Climb up my steps, I promise the snakes don’t bite.”

Morozko did.

“Hut, hut, turn your back from this wintry waste and your face to Dima’s realm!” Baba Yaga commanded, smacking her pestle on the porch.

The chicken-legged hut spun like a drunk duck; their surroundings blurred.  Morozko steadied himself on the femur railing.  When they landed, they were in a hollow tucked away into autumn woods, with ferns bordering the fence and an herb garden raked with spines.

Baba Yaga ambled along the porch, using her pestle as a cane.  “Come, come soap shavings!  I told Dima he would have a visitor.  His staff are excited to meet you – that or scared of what I may bring.  They never do like my presents very much, especially the squealing children.”

Morozko followed Baba Yaga – the crone moved faster than her hobbled appearance let on.  She mounted her hovering mortar, churned the air with her pestle, and was off.  Morozko ran to keep up.

“Hah!  The wind in my hair makes me feel young again, being chased by a pretty boy, why, it’s just as in my youth!”

Morozko frowned.  “I cannot imagine you were ever much to look at,” he muttered between breaths.

They came to a wooden three story inn fronted by a mill pond, with the most perfect banya Morozko had ever seen.  He quaked at the sight of it, his smoky magic reaching out and sensing the power and enchantment of the bathhouse, the potency within its walls, how it would bend to his will, be his work and bed and soul.

Tsar Dmitri and his staff waited in the meadow fronting the inn, the smile on the leshy’s face like sunlight on water:

“Welcome home, my son,” Dmitri said.

“Tsar Dmitri, it is an honor,” Morozko said, kneeling before the forest king.

Dmitri’s blue face crinkled in a smile.  The bells on his antlers chimed as he extended his hand to help Morozko up: “No use bowing, dear lad.  Here we are all just keepers of the woods, wayward souls in the haven that is my forest.  Here you will find lecherous vodyanoi mermen that can outdrink you by ten gallons of vodka and witches who will steal your heart away if you’re not careful.  Here, come, Liliya, help Morozko to his quarters.”

Morozko found himself inside a banya that was built for him, and the fire in his belly simmered to a gentle steam.  He stretched on his wolfskin bed and looked up at the ceiling, which would look just so studded with trespassing human’s souls.  Dmitri’s wolves called to salute the rising moon.

He got up and settled at a rickety desk, dipped a quill into an inkpot, and began a letter to Snegurochka:

“Mother, I’m finally home.  My wandering heart is now, despite all my dreams, content.”



Centuries passed, but Buyan stayed the same.  Morozko settled into tending the banya and thought of Dmitri as his father and the staff as his brothers and sisters.  He delighted in Dmitri’s annual councils with his leshy noblemen and the celebrations in the village that followed.  He would chase after vila warrior women and flirtatious, dangerous rusalka on St. John’s Eve, searching for fern flowers that would lead to an evening of lovemaking, or sit with Dmitri in the kitchen by the woodstove on rainy evenings and read from Dmitri’s great collection of human literature.

Baba Yaga watched, waited, and smoked her perpetual pipe, taking Morozko under her hoary wing to become the babushka he never had.

It could have been today or tomorrow when Morozko got the letter of a present to deliver, a package just like Ded Moroz and Snegurochka carried on the winter holidays.  He had not forgotten his word, and it was in his blood to fulfill letters requesting parcel delivery.

After so many years, so many moons Morozko had lost track, it had come time for Morozko to make good on his promise to Baba Yaga.  She summoned him in the dead of night, and he was hoping to get some cigarettes from her storage.

What he got was nothing what he expected.

Night played like a worn balalaika, strumming stars across the sky.  Firs bent like widows in the wind.  It was a familiar scene in Buyan, minus the human visitor.

Morozko unwrapped the so-called present, unfolding bits of tissue paper to reveal swaddling, and was surprised to see that he held an infant in his arms. “A baby?” he asked, thinking it one of babushka’s pranks.  “Smells tender.  I bet she tastes like chicken.  Is this your afternoon palate cleanser?”

“You wish!  Hungry for baby soul sashimi, eh?”  Baba Yaga’s iron teeth flashed.  “Spill a drop of her blood and I’ll cook you in my pot.”

“Yeah right.”  Morozko pulled back her swaddling and examined the child’s face.  “Her soul is too appetizing to be anything but a snack.”

“Her name’s Anya.  That is all you need to know.”  Baba Yaga laughed, wrinkles on her skin like furrows in brown earth.  “Take her home to your tsar, courtesy of your babushka.  Bathe her in the banya and ruddy her flesh with birch bark.  Make her a child of the woods.  When she has ripened like fruit from the love of your inn, send her to me.”

Morozko looked at Baba Yaga in confusion.  “What?  Dima will never stand for this.  The borders to Earth are all closed save your world-hopping house.  It’s unheard of for mortals to come to Buyan anymore.”

Pfft.  Your tsar will see my way, even if I have to pluck his eyes out and wear them so he sees my point of view.”  She cackled like a crow as she rested on her hovering mortar.

“But babushka-”

“No buts!  Go, Kolya: back to the banya with you.”  Baba Yaga took her pestle, ground it into the air, and flew away.

Morozko looked down at the infant.

“Well, mooncalf.  Looks like you won’t end up in my stomach after all.”

Anya gurgled.

“You think this is a joke?”  Morozko brought his face close to Anya’s.  “I could swallow you in one gulp.  Your soul would be all mine to play with.  A trinket I could use to light the banya, hung from the rafters with my other meals.”

Anya reached out and touched Morozko’s nose.


“Get your grubby hands off me,” Morozko said, clutching the infant close as snow crunched under his boots.  “Forget babushka’s dried up hide.  That hag has gone senile.”

He walked through pillars of birch.  Scant clouds brought snow, patches allowing the moon to shine through.  Morozko’s fur coat sheltered him from the falling white.  Snowflakes steamed as they hit his exposed skin.

As a bathhouse spirit, he carried the sauna with him.  Anya nestled close to his skin and babbled.  “Eee?”

“Yes, Anya, I see your point.”  Morozko softened, peering into her eyes.  “So where exactly did you come from?  Or is that secret too?”

Anya cried out in hunger.

Morozko thumbed her lips, and she sucked his finger.  Anya nipped the soft flesh under his nail with wet gums.

“I am guessing Baba Yaga did not give you dinner,” Morozko sighed, accidentally jostling the girl as he plucked his finger away.  “She does not have a very good track record with children.  Neither do most nechist.  We either steal them as thralls, eat or perhaps drown them, sometimes both, or abduct them to be our brides.  I can’t imagine Dmitri would want a wood wife not yet out of diapers.”

Anya cooed.

Morozko frowned.  “I cannot give you milk, but I might just have something better.”

He reached for a flask at his waist, unscrewed the top, and offered her nectar pressed from fern flowers that bloomed on Ivan Kupalo, or St. John’s Eve, the summer festival of love, beauty, and magic, with the flowers it bore rarer than a five-leaf clover.

Anya drank.

“So that is how I get you to shut up, eh?”  He rocked Anya as she nursed.  “Witch’s brew.  There is nothing sweeter, except perhaps your soul,” he teased.

Anya squirmed, burrowed into his coat.  Morozko smoothed her coal-dark curls.

“Eating you would be like killing myself.  You have drunk half my mixer, anyways.  Good thing Baba Yaga did not see me steal it from her fridge.  How is that for an introduction, mooncalf?  Alcoholic baby food.” Morozko adjusted his collar.  He peered into the future, as banniks are wont to do, and got hints of what was to come.  This ability didn’t often work, but when it did, his visions were clear as crystal lattice icicles.

“You will call me many things: ‘Bannik,’ ‘bastard,’ ‘terror.’  But however cruel you think me, remember it was I that carried you through the darkness.  The banya now runs through your veins.  Let it cleanse you of human weakness.  I will raise you in the strength of the nechist.  I have taken a liking to the girl who survived Baba Yaga’s hut.”

She burbled.  Morozko clutched her close.

“Anya, you are mine.  I promise to forever protect you, especially from Baba Yaga’s cauldron.”

Morozko reached into his pocket and withdrew a cigarette.  He spat sparks onto its end and took a contemplative drag.  The moon cut a sliver in the star-pricked sky.  Morozko watched as silver Amazonian vila militias flew on high, heralding a storm.

“Great, it is going to blizzard,” Morozko said, coming to a rickety bridge.  He peered at his reflection in the moonlight and cast his cigarette into the water.  His image rippled: white hair braided back, youthful faced, with a proud point to his ears like all nechist.

What was Morozko doing, carrying Baba Yaga’s bundle like some errand boy?  He was keeper of Tsar Dmitri’s inn between realms.  Sure, he was the inn’s grocery boy, but this was a bit too degrading – what in thrice nine kingdoms was he doing babysitting?  Morozko looked into the water, with half a mind to drop Anya in.  Giving her to Dmitri would be like sealing his fate as Ded Moroz’s heir, a glorified present deliverer to grubby children throughout Russia and beyond.

The stream’s surface stirred.  A curtain of hair pooled below.  Morozko walked away, banishing all thoughts of leaving the girl behind.  “Not with that crazy fish.”

“Kolya?”  Elizaveta emerged from the stream.  The rusalka’s flesh shone fish-silver in the darkness.  Her wet hair froze.  “What did you bring me?”

Elizaveta, Morozko thought.  Sweet girl but completely clueless.  Too kind for the seductress rusalka, she had sought haven in Dmitri’s kitchen years ago, content to sing her pond weed songs while roasting fowl over a fire.  She had never so much as drowned a single peasant or taken a vodyanoi merman to bed, though there were many rowdy vodyanoi that fancied the airheaded rusalka that had probably been dented on the head at death.  What else would explain her vapid kindness?  She had drowned herself over a sailor like Lorelei, but that was many years ago.  Now she only loved her baking and her cleaning and her ragtag nechist family.

“Kolya, you are staring at me like I am a ghost.  What are you carrying?” Elizaveta repeated.

“Nothing, loon-wife.”  Morozko backed away.  He tripped on a root and fell to the ground, rolling so he did not hurt Anya.

Anya awoke, crying out.

Elizaveta froze.  “Is that a human?” She touched her midriff.  “Rusalka are barren.  But now, I can have a daughter.  Oh Kolya, you should never have!  Whatever will Dmitri think?”

“Morena’s frost, no!  This is Baba Yaga’s brat.  Why would I give her to you?”

Elizaveta narrowed her eyes.  “Why did not babushka eat her?”

Morozko sighed, smoothing his coat.  He rocked Anya.  “Quiet, mooncalf.”  Morozko turned to Elizaveta.  “The hag has gone demented, that is why.  She wants us to raise Anya.  As if Dmitri would have any use for a girl not out of diapers.”

Elizaveta’s eyes swirled.  “Anya, eh?  How mysterious.”

Morozko shrugged.  “She is an orphan, I’d guess, from anywhere.  There isn’t a country babushka does not raid children from.  From what I can tell, Baba Yaga thinks it is all a grand prank: a human raised by spirits.  I can’t see Dima liking this.”

“Dima can suck a mushroom.  He can turn as small as one, anyhow.  Leshys have such a strange magic.  Oh, mooncalf, you poor little lost girl!” Elizaveta said, making to hold Anya.

Morozko backed away.  “Chernobog’s black heart, you have got pond scum for brains swimming around in your fishy head.  Mooncalf isn’t her name.  She is Anya, and she is mine.  She will make a nice decoration.  I think I will place her in a cage on my dresser.  You can clean out the poop.”

“But you wanted to eat her.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Let me just hold her!”

Morozko relented.

Elizaveta glowed, cradling Anya and tucking her deep into her swaddling.  “Oh sweet child,” Elizaveta crooned.  “Little Annushka.  You are sweet as a fish’s tail, more darling than pond weed.  I love you already like a new mother her dearest darling child.”

Morozko rolled his eyes.

Elizaveta kissed Anya’s cheek, but paused and wrinkled her nose.

“Her mouth smells like fern flower juice.” Elizaveta glared at Morozko.  “What the hell did you do?  Did you give a human girl an alcoholic mixer?”

Morozko looked at a tree.  He began to whistle.


“Fine.  I fed her witch’s brew.  She was hungry!”

Elizaveta’s eyes widened.  “Idiot!  How could you hurt such an innocent child?  Have you no heart?”

“You know for a fact that I do not.  I am all steam and fire.”  Morozko scoffed.  “Pfft.  Anyways.  Witch’s brew will strengthen her.  It is a harsh world that Anya will live in.  Better to drink up now rather than later when the decades have beaten weariness into her puny human bones.”

“You know how that magic works!  Whatever nechist feeds a human fern flower juice marks them as their own, just as celebrants on Ivan Kupalo mark their friendship by mixing fern flower drinks.  She is bound to you now through raging blizzard and bone melt summer suns.  Oh Kolya, what have you done?”

“I am only counteracting Baba Yaga’s claim!  The hag cannot have her all to herself.  Anya belongs to us all,” Morozko said, stubborn.

The howling of wolves silenced them.  They shared a furtive look.

Morozko stiffened.  “Curse it, it is Dima,” he said.  “Quick, hand her to me.”

The blizzard intensified, snow like a slaver’s whip.  The vila were skirmishing over territory, Dmitri’s battalion waging icy war against Tsar Vladimir the Bent, Dmitri’s jealous brother, to the north’s ragtag forces.  Their icy arrows and frosty spears and icicle swords brought the fury of nature down upon Buyan.  Morozko tucked Anya into his coat and let steam pour from his skin, ridding her of the cold.  Maybe she would look better on his desk.  He could teach her to sing like a songbird and dress her up in exotic outfits like a dancing monkey, perhaps?  Humans could not be that hard to teach tricks.

The vila forces moved their enemies to the left, clearing the sky.  But in their absence, the woods stirred.  A flurry of animals – foxes, caribou, bears – spiraled out from the birch.  In the distance a great figure, tall as the tallest fir, moved across the land, overseeing his flock of beasts.  It was Dmitri, the leshy lord of the forest.

He sang a lilting melody, his dinner plate eyes like clover.  The leshy’s great antlers were rimed with frost, and the leaves in his green-gold hair formed a halo in the buffeting wind.  Birds nested in his beard, and his bluish skin was like water.  He carried a cudgel, signifying his sovereignty over beasts.

Dmitri paused in his song, eyes zeroing in on Morozko.  The wolves that thronged round Dmitri’s ankles let out plaintive cries.

Their howls froze Morozko’s bubbling marrow.  The last thing he wanted to deal with was Dmitri’s wrath.

Steeling himself, Morozko called out to his tsar: “Dima, get your head out of the clouds and come home with us.  There is fresh blini with caviar waiting and medovukha if you are so inclined.”

Dmitri’s pupils dilated.  “I need vodka to warm my sap,” he grunted.  With great strides he approached, shrinking all the while until he was the size of a burly man.  Dmitri buried his hand in the mane of a white wolf.  He spread his other arm wide in welcome.  “Kolya.  Liza.  Kinder faces never graced Mother Mokosh’s earth.”  His voice was like the mountains.  “What tricks have you two been up to?”

Elizaveta glanced at Morozko.  “Help.  This is your fault!” she mouthed.

Dmitri’s nostrils flared.  “A human girl?” he said, cheer gone.  In a bolt of lightning he was at Morozko’s side.  “I smell a child on you, son.”  The tsar lifted Morozko’s coat and saw Anya hidden within the thick white furs.

Dmitri’s eyes were cold emeralds.  “I told you to never bring mortals to my realm again,” he said.  Dmitri kneaded his brow. “I know that you have a taste for humans – that banniks delight in trespassing souls – but this is inexcusable.  I pardon your unappetizing habits on Earth, but this is the realm of nechist, our home.  Her kind does not belong here, not any longer.  The girl cannot be your plaything.  Return her at once to whatever hole you fished her from.”

“I would,” Morozko said through gritted teeth, “except that Baba Yaga dropped her into my arms like a demented stork.  She is meant as a present to you for whatever idiot reason babushka has.  I swear that hag is senile!”

“What?” Dmitri breathed.

“Babushka wants us to raise her,” Morozko muttered.  “She would at least make a cute decoration.”

Elizaveta waited with bated breath for Dmitri’s decision.  “I could feed her, Dima.  I am sure she is so small she could survive off kitchen scraps and my milk.”

“Curse that witch.”  Dmitri appraised Anya, then sighed, weighing his cudgel in his hands.

A wolf whined, wanting to be petted.  Dmitri obliged.  “I guess we should keep her, then, or we will invoke babushka’s black magick.  What Baba Yaga wants with this child, I cannot imagine.”

“Oh Dima,” Elizaveta said, embracing Dmitri.  “Do not worry.  I will braid fern flowers into her hair on St. John’s Eve and love Anya with all my gills.  I will keep her out of your way.  It will be like she does not exist.”

“No,” Dmitri said.  “She is our child now.  I will treat Anya as I would any child of my forests.  Bring her here.  I will bless her with the spirit of the woods.  She will need its protection to survive.”

Dmitri lifted the baby and placed a kiss on her brow.

Anya cried out at his touch.  Flecks of green blossomed in her irises – the leshy’s mark – and she laughed, playing with Dmitri’s beard.

Dmitri smiled.  “Maybe this girl will be a blessing.”  Dmitri handed Anya back to Morozko.  “The claim you have laid on her is deep.  Yes, Kolya – I can smell the fern flower nectar.  The bonds of friendship and protection run through her and your blood.  Don’t look like a deer caught in the headlights of Perun’s chariot.  Witch’s brew is a powerful thing, not just in alcoholic drinks.”

Morozko flinched.  “But?”

“No excuses,” said Dmitri.  “You are her guardian from now on.  She sleeps in your bed tonight.”

Morozko cursed.  “In the banya?  That is no place for a child!  It is a house of spirits and witchcraft, not diapers and disasters in the form of toddlers that do not know how to use the toilet.”

Anya smiled dreamily.  “Muh huh guh?”

“Mooncalf!” Morozko crowed, wiping a bit of drool from her lips.

The baby giggled, then looked at Dmitri.  “Hoo?”

Dmitri’s face softened.  “Yes my girl, he will take care of her.  We all will, from now on.  Morozko: you will keep her warm.  As for disasters, you have a mop.”  Dmitri smiled at the girl in his arms.  “Anya needs no swan feather ticks or silken sheets.  She will be our child – a girl of the woods!  My dear leshonky, a girl after my own sap-laden wood-ringed heart.”  Dmitri smoothed Anya’s curls.

Morozko begrudgingly accepted Anya back from Dmitri.

The blizzard thickened as the trio made their way back to Dmitri’s inn, a waystation between worlds.  It served as the tsar’s court and a gathering place for nechist.

The proud wooden three-story was decorated with carvings of beings from Slavic folklore: Zmei Gorynych the lethal dragon from Slavic folklore reared his fearsome three heads, a firebird flitted between golden apple trees in a jeweled garden, proud Prince Vladimir, the former ruthless ruler of Kievan Rus of old, now St. Petersburg, oversaw noblemen and wind-wild bogatyr knights in his grand palace courtyard.  Nightingale the Robber – a scoundrel whose whistling could rid a forest of birds – hid in a fir, awaiting the famous knight Ilya Muromets who had been painted by so many Russian artists.  On the stoop, a small, furred man frantically swept snow from the floorboards, his efforts fruitless.

“Oi, Osya.  Quit sweeping away Father Frost’s coat away with your dying breaths and go inside,” Dmitri said.  “I swear, domovois never know when to quit, even when vilas are raining hell down on the earth.”

Iosif froze, spooked.  “Oh, Dima, it is just you.”  Iosif blushed beneath his pelt.  He dropped his broom in surprise then hastened to pick it up.  “It is just, why, all this snow clutters the stoop so, and once it is iced over, why, someone might trip and break an ankle.  Welcome home.  Liliya has dinner waiting.  She just returned from her battle victorious as always”

Iosif’s beady eyes caught sight of Anya, clutched close to Morozko’s chest for warmth.  “Oh?” Iosif breathed.  “Oh, sweet Mokosh, such a beautiful child.  I – I feel faint.  A girl?  A mistress for my humble home?  Never in thrice nine kingdoms did I dream I would serve a human again, not since nechist stopped walking the earth centuries ago.  But why, my tsar, this is not typical of you at – at all!”

Dmitri shrugged.  His wolves dispersed.  “Baba Yaga demands it.  As you well know, babushka works in mysterious ways.  We must raise her as our own.  She will be my daughter, a leshonky.  She is pretty enough to be a forest maiden – look at those eyes like leaves against a cloudless summer sky.  I know our Anya will be a strong sapling, sure to bear the most beautiful, fragrant blossoms, perfect for halcyon roosts.  Is not that right, my little firebird?  You are pretty enough to enchant princes and sorcerers and charming enough to grant wishes like a genie.”

Anya cooed.

The domovoi put a hand over his heart: “Yes,” Iosif breathed.  “Yes in a thousand ways.  I have not had a mistress in centuries.  I long for a child to leave me milk and biscuits.  That was my daily bread for centuries – children’s treats left in a nook by the stairs, wives’ worries combed out in curled hair as my mistresses slept.  I will care for her with all my soul, I swear it, my tsar.”

“Then you are in luck,” Morozko said, shoving Anya at Iosif.  “She sleeps with Osya tonight.  I absolutely will not have her pissing herself.  I need my beauty sleep.  Youthful looks do not come easily to me, being half bannik and all – I can feel the fine lines forming on my face already, maybe I will steal Liliya’s wrinkle cream-”

“Kolya, enough!” Dmitri said.  “You claimed Anya, now treat her as your own.”

“It was an impulse!  I mean, sure, she would look good next to my mirror, sort of cute like a chubby china doll, but eventually I will have to feed her, and is keeping a human in a cage really all that easy?  What if she outgrows it?  Do not humans grow?  How big exactly do girls get, anyways?”

“Oh Kolya, you are through and through idiot.  She will grow like any rusalka or vila  does until she reaches maidenhood, at which point she will stop growing, sprout fangs, and become immortal – I think.”  Elizaveta’s cheeks flamed a fishy green.  “Whatever happens, you did feed her witch’s brew.  That means she is automatically yours,” Elizaveta pointed out.  The rusalka giggled. “What were you thinking?”

“He was not, as usual.”  Dmitri chuckled.  “Give her back, Osya.  You will have time enough to coddle our darling Anya.  You can tell by her wood-dark hair that she will be wise like her adoptive father.  Baba Yaga chose our little orphan well.  I feel like she is a cutting from me already.”

Iosif handed Anya back reluctantly.  “Sweet Annushka, my raskovnik,” Iosif said, referring to the four-leafed Slavic herbs that opened portals to heaven, hell, and the hereafter, “you’ve unlocked the door to my heart.”

“A raskovnik?  Why do you and Dima keep comparing her to a plant!”  Morozko took the girl, rocking her in his arms.  “Soil yourself and I feed you to Dima’s wolves, mooncalf.  You are sure to be juicy and fat.  Now let me go find a cage in the chicken coup that is just your size…”

Anya gazed up at him with eyes flecked leshy-clover.  “Uew gew gah.  Muh ugh guh.  Kee!”  She burped, surprising herself, with breath that smelled like alcoholic fern flower juice.

Dmitri winced.

Anya giggled, then burped again.  “Hoo?”

Morozko sighed.  “Veles’ snakeskin boots, she is drunk and she does not even have any will of her own.  All she does is babble.  How can I teach her tricks if she cannot even say my name?  I am giving her back to Baba Yaga.  Humans are useless – she cannot dance like a monkey, sing like a parrot, or fetch a stick like a dog!  Humans have needs – the need to be taken care of!  This Anya is worthless.”

“Kolya.  Are you on a bender again?  That is no way to talk to a child!” Elizaveta said.  She looked imploringly at Dmitri, her wide fish eyes like moons.  “Surely there is a better guardian for her.  Like – um, like me!  Or Liliya even.  I will keep Anya in the kitchen and let her wash dishes.  Babies can wash dishes, cannot they?  What if she licks them, or, or takes a bath in the suds?  Her skin is so soft and spotless, I bet it has cleansing powers like Baba Yaga’s ivory combs.”

Dmitri yawned.  “Argue all you want, but Kolya staked his claim first.  All your watery milk or kitchen scraps will not deny him that.  I am going to go sleep and read Evenings on a Farm Near Dinkaka.  I suggest you do too: choose something lighthearted by Gogol from the inn’s library and doze off.  We will sort things out over breakfast, when I come to terms with the fact that I have suddenly become a father to a human.”

With that, Dmitri went inside. There was a resolute shut of the door.

Elizaveta looked at Morozko with wet eyes.  She was crying like a faucet, something the emotional rusalka tended to do.  “Cherish Anya.  Mokosh knows you need softness.  Maybe she will blunt your rough edges. I sure do hope so!”

Morozko bit his lip.  He rocked Anya with vengeance.  “If she cannot dance, I will find some other use for her.  A coat hanger maybe, her head is shaped just right-“

“Ugh!  You are awful!”  Elizaveta stomped over to the mill pond fronting the house.  Her silvery form dissolved into water with an angry resounding splash.

Iosif looked with longing at Anya, clutching his broom.  “Were that I had found her.  She would be all mine, my own sweet mistress to dote on.  You are lucky Kolya, just like a winter bloom raskovnik.”

“Stop talking about mythical plants, house elf.  One man’s luck is another man’s curse.”

“Oh, but I do not think so.”  Iosif blended into the woodwork and was gone.

“Once again, I am alone with a baby… I delivered the present to myself.  I completely failed at being dedushka’s heir – he and mother give presents away, not claim them on accident!”  Morozko sighed, looking up at the stars, then down at his newest acquisition.  “What are you grinning at?” Morozko said, smoothing Anya’s hair.

She cooed.  “Koya?”

It almost sounded like the diminutive of his name.  Strange.  So fragile, a little defenseless thing.  Whatever would Morozko do with this girl named Anya?  Anastasia?  He could not tell.

Perhaps Elizaveta is right, Morozko thought, and I will soften.  Would that be so bad?  He pondered this as he went to the banya behind the inn.  Morozko’s room was between the walls, a small, humble thing, with a bed covered in wolfskin and a stove.  He spat sparks onto the stove’s wood and soon the room flooded with warmth from the furnace of his stomach.

Morozko stripped and donned his nightshirt, settling into the blankets with Anya.  He eyed his dresser, imagining her in a cage, and shook his head.  “I took that joke too far and upset Liza.  Little tiny Anya, what will I do with you?  You are just a human.  You do not belong in Buyan, not in this day and age.”  He rocked her to sleep, singing a lullaby he had once heard, long ago in a cradle of ice.

The remnant ragtag forces of the enemy vila fell in white streaks, shedding silver blood onto the snow.  Their cries were like sirens’ voices.  Battle over, the blizzard cleared.

The moon struck like a hammer in the night.  Morozko’s song drifted far away, over Tsar Dmitri’s mountains, across glacial seas, past thrice nine kingdoms and further, to the great icy keep of the watcher in the night.  His old bones shivered as he heard the familiar tune.

“What is this?” asked Kashchei quietly.  He looked out his tower window at the unforgiving stars, who had witnessed so many of his deaths and shed not a single burning tear between them.  Kashchei, who made a habit of collecting fair maidens and keeping them under lock and key in his palace of glass.  He wondered, at the end of his days, if his girls or the Zoryas would mourn for him.  Something in the song spoke of his finale, just like his fiddle’s supple croon that he was so fond of, his dancing captive princesses waltzing just for him.

The lullaby drifted under the Milky Way, ferried by Kashchei’s longing.  Kashchei wanted all that the song touched.  He wanted to understand, like a word on the tongue one cannot quite remember.  He followed the ribbons of notes, to the small room in the banya lit by souls, where Morozko was singing.

“A girl?”  Kashchei snarled in surprise.

Anya looked at him while Morozko sang.  She pointed a chubby finger.  “Ooo?”

Morozko caught Anya’s hand and laughed.  “Hah.  What is it, the ghost of Queen Maria Morevna?  That is just a legend, just like Ivan Tsarevich or… Kaschei the Deathless.  Only I suppose he is not so much a legend and more a scoundrel.  Whoever has frightened you, I promise to keep you safe.  You make the sweetest sounds, mooncalf.”

His name.  The bannik, familiar, had mentioned his name.

Kashchei felt naked before the child, and hastened back to his kingdom.

A worm of want bored into his heart: this singular worm different from the maggots and grubs already feasting on his rotting black heart.

This hungry worm had a name: Anastasia.

Kashchei the Deathless coveted Anya.

And that is never good for a girl.



“There’s nothing mystic in this magic,”

Baba Yaga said, “nothing so strange

as you would make it out to be.”


“This world is wide and wild

and full of wonders, and in your

yearning to see fireworks,

you overlook the glory

in a dandelion, the spectacle

trapped inside a butterfly.”


“There’s nothing modern in this story,”

Baba Yaga said, “nothing ancient,

nothing old or new or anything except

eternal — we are the wind, the waves,

the water whispering stories

to the dolphins and the dreaming whales.”


“We are everything. We are anything.

Remember that, my Vassilisa, and

I will set you free.”


“There’s nothing gained if nothing’s ventured,”

Baba Yaga said, and gave me back my heart,

and opened wide the door,

and let me go.

-“Baba Yaga Said” by Seanan McGuire


The nechist family sat round the kitchen table next morning, a bright storm-born dawn painting frosting on the snow outside the large bay window.

Iosif gazed into his bowl of salted kasha, stirring it with a furred hand.  He looked into the cereal as if divining portents from entrails – witches used organs to tell the future, domovois used cereal.  Beside him, Dmitri read a newspaper, chuckling occasionally.  Elizaveta rocked Anya, singing a song about drowned kisses and sailors lost in Siberian fjords.

“Do not coddle her, Liza,” Morozko said.  “She was the devil last night, keeping me up with her wailing.  I had to change her not once, but twice.”  He indicated the improvised cloth diaper torn from Morozko’s shirts that Anya wore beneath her blankets.

Elizaveta’s fish-snout flared.  She smoothed her sarafan.  “Anya is an angel, and you are too stupid to realize it.  She is the best thing that has ever happened to you, except perhaps Dima and us taking your lost, down-on-your-luck princehood in.”

Iosif looked up from his newly disturbed kasha.  He had been scrying, a gift certain nechist like banniks and domovois had.  Nechist had many magics, some of the forest, some of the flame, and some so strange they could tell the future from cereal.  “I heard you sing to her late last night, Kolya, from my perch on the stairs,” Iosif said.  “Such a lovely song.  Anya will come to cherish you above all of us.  I have seen it in my bowl.”

Morozko grimaced.  “Old age has given you cataracts.  Do not trust kasha to tell you the truth.  You once said Dima would marry a vila, and the only vila in our inn’s service is as sexless, megalomaniacal, and anal retentive as Lenin.”

Morozko reached for a piece of rye bread, butter, and sliced sausage – a simple Russian breakfast, but hearty nonetheless.  He piled them onto his plate.

Dmitri glanced up from his paper, his antlers hung with pine cones – leshys were famously bad at accessorizing.  “A domovoi never lies.  You would be wise to heed Osya’s words.”

“Osya can dance with Morena,” Morozko said, referring to the Slavic goddess of winter and death.  He glanced at Anya. “I need a human’s affection like I need a sword in the side.  Like I said, she is my decoration, nothing more.  Cute, but a useless trinket.  She cannot dance, can she?”

“We both need a human’s love.  That is what house spirits were made for,” Iosif said softly, his beady eyes downcast.  “For Dima and Liza it is different.  They are not tied to humans like a bannik or domovoi are.  Do you not long for a bather to leave you fir branches and soap clippings in the sauna, like they used to before peasants gave way to comrades?”

Morozko steepled his fingers under his chin.  “Yes, I suppose so….  I have not served a wandering human in so long though.  It feels unnatural now.  I usually flay humans, not attend to them.  Humans ceased walking in Buyan long ago, and my banya is hung with trespasser’s souls – thieves, murderers, and rapists who tried to take advantage of my bathers once long ago, before the mythic left the material.  What kind of place is that to raise a young girl in?”

Elizaveta unlaced the neck of her sarafan and set to nursing Anya.  The rusalka’s milk came watery but sweet, and Anya latched on with rosy lips. “It is better than many.  At least Anya will know she is protected by a fearsome guardian.  You are strong, Morozko.  You can protect her like you did the bathers of old.”

Dmitri sipped his coffee.  “Children do not get to choose their circumstances.  It is, however, up to them to make the best of their surroundings.  And Anya is doing swimmingly.”

Anya looked up from Elizaveta’s silver scale breast and cooed.

Morozko scrunched his nose.  “Her pea brain cannot tell that she is surrounded by monsters.”   He stretched.  “Chernobog’s black heart, where is the tea?  Is Lilyka our grand old general dead?  Huzzah!  Has the stick up her ass finally punctured her brain?”

There was the sound of bells and rain.  The scent of petrichor and ozone.  “No.  I was serving guests instead of complaining constantly like you, idiot bannik.”

In stepped a vila.  She carried a steaming brass samovar that smelled of delicious black tea.  Hair the color of rain fell to her ankles.  Her skin was translucent as mist, and one could see through her vaguely, like a crowded snow globe, or frosted glass.

Liliya’s eyes settled on Morozko.  “I spent all night defending us and then made breakfast.  All you had to do was babysit a simple child, yet you buzz on like a fly in distress.  You were stupid enough to claim her.  You cannot go back on a bond as sacred as shared fern flower juice.  You know what their bloom symbolizes: eternal union.”  Liliya slammed the samovar down in front of Morozko.  “You may think of it just as alcohol, but it means much more than just an exotic way to get drunk!”

“Whatever, Lilyka.  Your defense created a blizzard, oh illustrious general.  It got in everyone’s way, enough so that you almost buried the baby in snow.  You are losing your touch, I think.”

Morozko poured tea with a smirk on his face.  The vila and he often clashed, each strong personalities – one of rain and one of fire, not likely to mix agreeably.

Liliya settled across from him with her breakfast.  She made a point to steal a piece of bread from Morozko’s plate.  He sighed but did not bother to protest as she took an angry bite. “The battle I won last night was strategic.  Who cares about a silly blizzard?”  Liliya shrugged.  “We secured peace for months to come against Tsar Vladimir the Bent.  He waved his patched white flag, as he has a dozen times before, and it is off to his horrible kingdom until he gets the itch to invade again.  How he is Dima’s brother, I will never understand: there isn’t a generous woody bone in his body.”

“My brother Vlad never did play well with me.”  Dmitri smiled.  “I have not had a better general since my antlers were nubs, Liliya.  Your service and leadership is invaluable.  Kolya, you would do well to learn from her.”

Morozko choked on his tea.

“It is my pleasure.”  Liliya shot a glance at Morozko.  “What were you doing, gossiping with Baba Yaga?  Did your taste for human souls overwhelm you?  Were you going to get piss drunk and hit on that vampir at the edge of the woods again?  You know she cannot stand you.  No woman can.  Also, you do not have a very good record with vampirs, if I remember correctly.”

Morozko cleared his throat.  “No!  All I wanted were some stupid cigarettes, but I got a god damned baby instead.  What the?-” he stopped short, looking down to see that Anya, having been placed on the floor, had crawled over to pull at Morozko’s pants.  She looked up at him with large questioning eyes.

“Guh?”  A bit of drool clung to her lip.  “Keeya!”

Anya began chewing on Morozko’s sock, wetting it with saliva.  He was disgusted.

Mooncalf.”  Morozko picked her up, prying her hands loose of his pants.  Anya laughed, grabbing his hair.  Morozko cursed.

“Well do not you have a way with children?  Just like your grandfather Ded Moroz.  What are you going to do, leave her to freeze in the forest?” Liliya said.

Anya looked at Morozko with a curious face, nose twitching.  “Koya?”

Morozko’s eyes widened.  “Did pea brain just say my name?”

Dmitri slammed his newspaper shut.  “Sweet Mother Mokosh, I cannot believe it.  I suppose it is because she has been thrice-blessed: witch’s brew, a rusalka’s milk, a leshy’s kiss.  There is no telling what she will do.  She probably knows your name thanks to your ill-laid claim.”

“Koya Keeya Koo!” Anya burbled, tugging at his hair.  She bounced in his arms, excited.

“Tell me, who am I, little water lily?” Elizaveta crooned.

Anya pointed a plump finger at Elizaveta.  “Liya!  Loo?”  She laughed.

Dmitri whistled.  “Color me impressed.”

“If she was such a quick learner, she would not soil herself like one of Baba Yaga’s feed pig – she would be singing like a parrot already.  Anya would actually liven up my cramped room, not stink it up with crap.” Morozko said, but the enthusiasm behind his bitterness was gone.

Anya continued, pointing at the leshy.  “Da?”

Dmitri paled beneath his bluish skin.  “Did she just call me father?”

“Da da doo da.”

“Sweet Mokosh, I need a drink,” Dmitri said.  He rubbed his temple.  “I have never had a child before.  Sure, I have imagined what it would be like, but… but… oh, just look at her.  She is irresistible.  I have never stolen a human like Vladimir does his wood wives but now I know why.  They are too precious to bear!”

“We have no mortal mistress,” Iosif said, his voice hallowed.  “She is a witch, an enchantress, a Circe or Medea, but encapsulated in a miniature form.”

“I doubt she is a witch, just precocious,” Morozko snorted, smoothing Anya’s damp bark curls.

“Ozya!” Anya cried.  She continued to babble, toying with Morozko’s hair.  She chewed on a lock, talking to herself.  “Keeya!”

“Well that was a hard string of letters…”  Liliya stopped mid-bite into her kasha.  “Chernobog’s rot, the kid is smart even though she is the size of a dumpling.  We will have to enroll her in university soon: Dumpling University!”

“Dumplings aside, where did Baba Yaga find her, is what I would like to know,” Dmitri murmured.  He picked up his newspaper again and buried his nose and antlers in it.

There was a cackling beyond the lead glass window as if on cue.  The smell of rich blood and old bones.  The eldritch stink of ancient magic.  “America, you nechist!”  Crows croaked and flew past the pane.

The nechist looked to find Baba Yaga’s face pressed against the window, her breath steaming the pane.  In the steam swirled snakes and beetles.  “I come with gifts for my witch-daughter, whom you have so diligently protected.  I am proud of you, leshy – it is about time you stopped reading your silly books and raised an heir.  Your brother Vladimir the Bent has a harem of wood wives to force himself upon and sire leafy children, yet all you have are musty Pushkin and Tolstoy.  I wonder what you do late at night, wifeless, with only the page!  I did not think Russian classics that racy.”

Dmitri winced, blue skin turning a blueberry shade.  “That was low, even for babushka,” he muttered.

Baba Yaga flew her mortar to the front and entered like a hyena, with feral majesty.  Clutched against her back was a burlap sack, the top opened to expose cloth diapers.  She looked like a demented, decrepit Snegurochka on her way to a Black Mass, not a New Year’s celebration.

The nechist looked on in surprise.

America?” Dmitri echoed.  He scratched his antler nub.  “That is a far away country and not a friend of Russia.”

Baba Yaga chuckled.  “Yes, you lot of carbuncles.  I found her mewling in a park when I was raiding the capital for children, somewhere between Pennsylvania Avenue and Independence Street.  Don’t be so surprised that I went to the land of liberty: Americans taste like barbecues and long, indulgent summers.  The progeny of Washingtonians have a bit of desperation too, which quickens the stew.  They add such sweet spice to my winter stews.  I was about to devour her when, out of nowhere, she cried out “Yaga, Yaga!”  Then she kissed my finger, just so, like a familiar nuzzling her witch-mother.  I stopped immediately, recognizing in her the witch-blood.”  Baba Yaga sniffed the air.  “She smells of Russian bone, sweat, and spit.  Like coven.  Like kin.”

Baba Yaga plopped the burlap bag onto the floor.  Out spilled baby toiletries, bars of soap, and traditional Russian toys: china dolls in sarafans, painted wooden eggs, clay animals, matroyshka, a rattle painted with a firebird – and, at the very bottom, a silver mirror embossed with the Alkonost, the mythical Slavic siren who promised sanctuary, paradise – her song stopped tsars in their tracks and made them forget their tsarinas, wanting nothing else but the bird maiden forevermore.

Anya fixated on the Alkonost mirror.  Morozko set her down, curious as to what powers such an object had.  He could smell some kind of magic on it, an old dark spell.

Anya, like a firefly to a flame, darted for the toy, plopped herself down, and looked into it.

Morozko peered at it too.  Its surface was smooth as water, reflecting Anya’s round face.  He picked it up.

Instead of his visage in the mercury, he saw Anya giggling.  Morozko traced the gold filigree on the edge, his lips forming an O of surprise.

“It is enchanted?”  Morozko turned the mirror in his hands.  “I would expect no less from you, babushka.  Even your mirrors have devious uses.”

“Of course,” Baba Yaga clucked.  “This is so your wayward family can watch over Anya when she is off wandering like witches do.  I have a personal investment in her, so make sure you keep her safe, leshy who calls himself tsar, and you – wayward prince after my own heart.” Baba Yaga took Anya into her wizened arms.  “Oh, little bird, what I have in store for you!  You would never guess if hounds were at your throat and you needed the answer to survive.”

Anya’s surrogate father winced at the metaphor.  “Can we ask what exactly you have planned for my new child?”  Dmitri glanced over his coffee cup, his green gaze hardening like malachite.

Baba Yaga cackled.  “Inquiring noses inevitably get chopped off, bookish leshy who calls himself tsar.  What I plan for Anya is neither here nor there – it is somewhere in between, just like Buyan.  All you need to do is raise her well and keep your babushka happy!”

“But what will we teach her?” asked Liliya, stirring her kasha.  “We didn’t exactly go to college.  Maybe Dumpling University is a good idea after all…”

Baba Yaga snorted.  “As if I would leave a girl’s education up to talking streams and saunas.  She will go to school where I found her, with me posing as her rightful legal guardian – do not look at me like that, Dima.  I can shimmy my chest and don a woman’s skin like any witch worth her salt.  Humans will not be able to tell the difference between Baba Yaga and her real babushka!”

“This seems like a world of pain for one girl,” Morozko opined.  Anya was chewing on his pant leg again, but this time he did not stop her.

“It is always about one girl.”  Baba Yaga smiled, fire kindling in her wood-dark eyes.  “One girl Ivan Tsarevich chases after.  One princess Kashchei carries away.  One Vasilissa that braves my hut.  One ballerina that dances the Firebird.  The world moves for singular girls more often than you know.”

“The world stops just as often for fools.”  Morozko placed the Alkonost mirror before Anya and gently pried her mouthy appetite from his pants.  “She is too small, too fragile.  Too easily broken.  Anyways, how can a girl raised by nechist be anything but a joke?”

“Jokes and riddles have potent power – a deep magic all their own.  So what if Anya is our jester?  At least she is good for a laugh.”  Baba Yaga’s rheumy eyes locked on Morozko’s.  “She will bring you laughter, and much more pain.  You were an idiot to claim her as usual, little lost ice prince.”

Morozko was pinned under the hag’s gaze.  His breath came fitfully as his vision hazed.  Old magic from his father’s side gripped him – a bannik’s foresight, but instead of cereal, it was Baba Yaga’s words that brought the vision on.  He had rarely seen things of the future since he was a young boy playing with flames, staring into the heart of the fire, and this revelation took Morozko by surprise:

He saw crimson on snow.  A girl with hair like wet wood and a body like a birch, throwing knives, dancing the khorovod, twirling in a skirt of fire.  Flames like a firebird.  A long, sharp needle.  Golden eggs.  A tree more man than wood, and a woman more wood than man.

Finally, the face of a lover, better left for dead, crumbling in his hands into dust.

Morozko inhaled sharply, gaze clearing.  “Shit.”

His nechist family looked at him in confusion, but Baba Yaga – she just laughed.  Few spirits knew more of the future’s song than she who whistled it over a loom of dried tendons and bones, spinning secrets and legends.

“Kolya, are you alright?  Whatever did you see?” Dmitri asked, his voice an anchoring force, pulling Morozko back to the present.  “You look like you’ve seen the ghost of Kashchei’s lost girls.”

“I saw flames.  A temptress.  Blood,” Morozko breathed.  He looked at Anya in fear, shaking.  “Take her back, babushka, please.  She will bring suffering our adoptive family and soon to all of Buyan.  A witchling does not belong in Tsar Dmitri the Bountiful’s kingdom.  She was born under an ill-omened moon, under witch stars.”

Baba Yaga smiled all wolf-woman, flashing serrated iron teeth.  “I do everything for a reason, Snegurochka’s wandering bastard prince.  You fear your heart spilling out like pine nuts into your hands.  You frighten at the thought that you will quake like fir trees in the winter wind all but for a child.  That you could become nothing but steam in her arms, stripped of your skin and mind.  Temptress indeed, you say?  The only temptation she will bring is the challenge for you to grow into your much-delayed adulthood.”

Morozko’s stomach fell to the ground.  “I cannot be responsible for this – for what I saw.  I took her in, not knowing what I was looking for.  I still don’t know what I left Ded Moroz’s kingdom for, but whatever it was, it was never for this.  Destruction at the hands of a girl!”

Baba Yaga laughed.  “You will find in dear Annusha what you seek: all of you.  Comfort.  Love.  A joke.  But you, Kolya – in her you will find your humility.  Perhaps that is what frightens you so much.”

“Changing cloth diapers will humble me?” Morozko echoed, queasy.  “No, there is more that you are not telling us, but it is not like you would ever give me a straight answer, babushka.  You are as crooked as a chess piece bent out of shape by a frustrated leshy that lost half his forest on a bet.”

Baba Yaga clicked her lips.  “Right you are, soap shavings.  Stop worrying so much and relax – I would never plant a curse in your inn.  Tscha!  Come bother me in a handful of years when our dear Anya has grown.”

Baba Yaga bent over to run her hands through Anya’s hair.

Anya burbled.  “Yaya?”

“Yes, little bird.  Your babushka has spoiled you rotten.”  Baba Yaga stroked her chin-hairs and glanced at the nechist.  “Keep my witch-daughter safe.  Especially you two, Dima and Kolya.  You will come to treasure her more than your majestic woods or your humble banya.  That I can guarantee you.”

Baba Yaga strode through the back door, mounted her mortar, and churned her pestle away.  She left a murder of ravens and the stench of drying blood in her wake, quivering skirts shaking snow.

The nechist looked to each other.

“Is it wise to keep her under our roof, after the calamity Kolya saw?” Liliya said, clutching the sword she kept perpetually at her side.

Dmitri rubbed his antlers, which were shedding their velvet in bits and close to falling off at the season’s turn.  “She has been with us yet a night and morning, but already this little wood child has a place in my heart.  Divination is always faulty: in her Osya sees beauty, a blessing, yet Kolya has seen danger, a curse.  I would guess the truth is somewhere in between.  Just like a good story read by the hearth – always keeping you guessing.”

Elizaveta dabbed her eyes with an already wet handkerchief.  “I do not care if she is cursed.  I love her.”

Morozko looked at the sun that was beginning to rise: “I will admit it, the mooncalf grows on you, even if you are more used to stripping human trespassers of skin than guarding small defenseless babies.  I suppose we shall wait and see what happens with Baba Yaga’s little witchling…”



If there was a curse upon Anya, it seemed to work in reverse: the more she grew, the more her adoptive family fell in love with the preternatural child.  Elizaveta carried her in a sling on her back, twirling around with a mop as she sung lullabies to the child who burbled along like a songbird.  Liliya had to be dissuaded by Dmitri from beginning training the small girl on bow and arrow, as she could not yet walk, just play with blocks and crawl around the inn like a missile headed straight for disaster.  Iosif was never not slipping Anya freshly pared fruit slices or spoonful’s of apple sauce, and Morozko played and played with her, tucking her in each night as he sang a glimmering winter lullaby.

Frost’s kiss on the ground melted.  Dmitri began taking Anya on his sojourns through the woods as the weather warmed thanks to Mother Mokosh waking from her winter hibernation at the base of the Tree of Life.  Dmitri tucked his little surrogate wood child against his chest like a cross.  The wolves tried to nip her chubby heels and would have eaten her if not for Dmitri’s protection and several story tall height.

“Da da?  Kree!” she cooed one day when they were in the thick of the wilderness, in a valley where sweet flowers and fruits grew round the year despite summer’s warmth or winter’s barren winds.  It was a grove sacred to the old gods, where rare beasts made their roosts.  Anya was pointing at a firebird.  It nested in a golden apple tree, preening its brilliant fiery peacock wings.

“Yes, my love.  It is zhar ptica, the firebird.  She brings good fortune to all who see her.  Unless of course, you are a fool of a prince that wishes for more than he can handle!  Then, my dear, you will find yourself in for a world of pain.”

Grinning as only a leshy can, with a smile like sunlight on water, Dmitri coaxed the firebird from her nest.  The bird cried out, rustling her tail, flitted into his hand and then off into the forest.  A single feather fell into Dmitri’s palm.  The firebird fled with a song like chapel bells, leaving a trail of sparks that traced loop-de-loops in the encroaching gloaming.

Anya reached for the feather.  Dmitri gave it to her, warmed by his daughter’s joy.

“Ooo,” she said again, clutching it with tiny hands.  She did not let it go until Morozko pried it from her stubborn fingers in return for several Cheerios.

The feather glowed late into the night in the room between the banya walls.  Anya sat at a high chair, refusing her mushed peas as usual.

She banged her tiny fists onto her high chair’s wooden table, smushing the peas in the process.  “No!  No!  No!”  Her green hands were covered in vegetable goop.

Morozko groaned.  “Morsel, if you do not eat this green crap, so help me, I will flay you ten ways til morning, just like I do those who harm the peace of the banya, which you are most certainly doing.

Anya’s lips quivered.  Tears spilled from her eyes.  “Koya?” she whined, crying.

Morozko cursed himself.  “Damnit, I upset the little vegetable destroyer.  Shh, shh it is alright, Annushka.”  He lifted her up out of the chair and into his arms.  She squirmed in his grasp, mashing the remnants of the peas on his face.  “Mooncalf, I would never dream of hurting you.  No matter how hungry I was.  Here.”  He handed her the firebird feather.  “Your favorite toy, I suppose.”

She giggled, sorrow forgotten as she took the glowing plumage into her dollish hands.  Morozko rocked her on his knee as she played with the feather.

“Mother Mokosh help me, I will have to feed you that dry cereal crap you just love, just like I always do, will I not?  Getting you to eat peas is a battle I just cannot win, can I.”

Morozko sighed, placing her on his bed and reaching under it to withdraw a box of Cheerios.  He reached into the cabinet beside his bed and found a bowl.  Pouring the cereal in, he set it before Anya and began feeding them to her one by one.  She pecked at the Cheerios like a bird, her grin wide, then began to pick them up with stubby fingers and bring them to her mouth.

“You sure are ravenous, little witch.  You take after me in that regard.  Except my appetite is more for alcohol, and yours is for subpar cereal that tastes like soggy cardboard and wood shavings.”

“Ooo goo?”

“Right.  Ooo goo indeed.  Whatever that means.”

“Keeya!  Keeya?  Kree!”  She waved the firebird feather aloft, so enthusiastic that she almost dropped it.

Morozko steadied her hand.  “Be careful not to light the bed on fire with your excitement, silly mooncalf.”

“Muh huh.  Keeya?”

Anya crawled to Morozko and fell asleep almost instantly in his lap, the beloved firebird feather still safe in her grasp.

Morozko touched the girl as if she were shards of glass.  “Oh Annushka, whatever will become of a girl as trusting and gentle as you in a realm where your kind is flapjacked into blini for Baba Yaga’s breakfast?  How oh how will you become my ruin?  You couldn’t hurt a mayfly, for you are one – a slave to time, an ending so close to your beginning.  Will you even remember me, I wonder, in your next life?”

Anya sighed and sucked her thumb.

Morozko stroked her hair.  “Do you know what you are at all?  And when you realize it, Anya, will it be too late for all of us?”

The next morning, with dark bags under his eyes, Morozko sat round the table of spirits while Iosif doted on Anya.  Liliya applied mascara with an embossed compact mirror, darkening her silver lashes.  Elizaveta hummed to herself, sewing a dress for Anya.  Her sharp silver needle reminded Morozko of something, but of what – well, he was not quit sure.

“Annushka, you will be beautiful in this little red sarafan.  My miniature firebird,” Elizaveta said.  She looked at the girl.  Iosif was on his brown, furred back, holding Anya high as if she were a plane, moving her to and fro.  “Osya.  Whatever are you doing?  Make sure not to drop my breakable daughter!”

“Why, I am teaching her to fly, just like her favorite bird,” Iosif said, bashful.  He made the sounds of a firebird, all chiming and bells tolling like Eastern Orthodox monks being called to prayer.

Anya laughed, wiggling her arms.  “Scree kree!”

Dmitri surveyed the room, nose still buried in another one of his tattered books.  He noticed Morozko’s listless stare.  “Oi, my son.  What kept you up last night?  You look exhausted, not your usual stubborn self.”

Morozko stared at the floor, scuffing his feet on the worn whorled wood.  “Nothing,” he murmured.  He sipped his black tea quietly.

Liliya scrutinized Morozko.  Her translucent form shifted like mist, lit by shafts of light from the window only to burst into opaline colors.  “Afraid you will break the baby?”

“No.  I just – what if I crush her in my sleep?  What if Anya gets sick from some exotic disease or something as simple as the flu and even Baba Yaga’s witchery cannot heal her?  She will not eat her food half the time, especially peas.  She just smears them on the table and my face!  It is like she does not trust me.  What if she grows up and- and-”

“And what?  Has no need for you?”  Liliya laughed.  “Please.  She has not even taken her first steps.  She cannot run away from you yet, soap shavings.”

“Shut up.  Only babushka calls me that,’” Morozko grumbled.  “Do not call a bannik anything to do with soap.  It is demeaning.  Remember, I am Artic royalty, illustrious general of sticks up the ass.”

Liliya fluoresced silver with laughter.  She tucked her blue robe close round her shoulders.  “What can I say?  The nickname has caught on.  And if I have a stick up my ass, you have Perun’s hammer up yours.”

Iosif set Anya down.  “Please, you two, you are speaking foul words in front of an innocent child!”

The almost-toddler crawled towards Morozko and plopped herself down at his feet, tugging at his boots.  “Yum yum?” she asked, her most recent word for food.

“See, look at that!”  Liliya snorted.  “She is joined at the hip to you, Kolya.  Annushka will not even eat if you do not feed her directly.”  Liliya closed her compact mirror, finished with beautifying her already ethereal vila form.

Liliya went to the kitchen and came back with fresh apple sauce crushed and sweetened with sugar from the golden apples of the firebird’s roost in the old god’s sacred grove.  Morozko lifted Anya into his lap and set to feeding her, one spoonful at a time until her small stomach puffed out under her dress like a round pastry.

Anya beamed.  Her small hand enfolded his thumb, toying with the silver ring at its base.  A silver ring that flashed like a vampir’s fang so Morozko thought.  He flinched.

Apple sauce dribbled down Anya’s open-mouth grin.  “Keeya!”

“Oh, mooncalf,” Morozko said.  He dabbed at the dripping sauce with his napkin.  “Keep your mouth open that wide and your soul will slip out.  It has happened to many a human.  Their soul slips out and they become shades in the deathless lands, forever cursed to wander, to hunger, and never ever find succor.  Keep your little lips shut, Anya: make sure your soul stays safe.”

Dmitri chuckled, the ivy on his antlers bristling with green shoots.  “For once you want a soul to stay put and have no desire to hang it from your rafters, my son,” Dmitri observed.  “It seems you have actually had a change of heart for once.  You have even been avoiding bars as of late, and I cannot remember your last bender or frolic with a vila or that rusalka with the bad teeth but rather… well, busty assets.  Ahem…”

“Yum!” Anya approved.  Morozko spooned apple sauce into her rosy mouth.

“I have all the souls I need,” Morozko said, distant.  “My banya could not be lighter if I set it aflame.  As for the girls and the booze, that would not be a good example for Annushka.  I feel like this girl is judging me with her raskovnik eyes, unlocking my every sin.  I see why you and Osya compare her to plants,” Morozko referred to the rare plants that were the keys to the spiritual world and cornerstone of Slavic witchcraft.

The day wore on.  The inn bustled with guests of all colors, with tails from different tales.  Lecherous mermen vodyanoi soaked in tubs by the hearth, drinking vodka and courting rusalka – especially flustered Elizaveta, who stumbled over her wet hair and tripped over her words – as the lusty mermen were wont to do.  The inn’s rarely seen nameless kikimora, the ill-luck companion house elf to the resident domovoi, spun on a loom while vampir dined on fresh blood.  Long-traveling witches exchanged tales of daring-do and drank toad tea.  A lone wizard with a crooked hat played chess with a minor imp of Hell, betting over a rare map and shining jewels.

Between them, Elizaveta scurried, perpetually wet hair piled atop her head as she served dish after dish of steaming shchi cabbage soup and the choicest cuts of fowl, freshly smoked meats and mulled wine from the cellars.  Liliya was busy in the kitchen after training her sister troops in their daily martial exercises, preparing meals, while Iosif tidied the rooms, tending to laundry and beds.  Anya was out with Dmitri on one of his wanderings.

Morozko, on break from attending banya guests, peeped into the refrigerator – for even spirits have electricity, even if it was faulty and temperamental when it’s magic generator was feeling lazy – searching for kvass, his favorite type of fermented Russian rye bread drink, only to find they were out of baby food. Morozko admitted he needed to make a shopping trip to Earth.  This required going to Baba Yaga’s hut, the watchtower between the human world and Buyan, ever spinning on its chicken leg axis in a liminal wayward dance – a bit like the celestial polka, but even more dangerous with Russia’s hag in the lead.

Morozko set out into the woods, down an overgrown path past the stream.  The land steamed where his feet met it.  Sometimes he would take a leap like an elk and leave two large indentations like a Soviet missile crash.  At this he laughed and skipped.  He was, after all, still more boy than man, and found delight in small things.

Eventually, he came to a hut on chicken legs, several stories tall, rimmed with bones and majestic as a merchant’s house.  It took him back to the first time he had seen Baba Yaga’s unnerving house at his long-abandoned camp by the Volga River, during his wandering days.

“Hut, hut, turn your back to the forest and your face towards me,” Morozko called with confidence.

Baba Yaga’s hut turned to face him, creaking and wobbling as it moved.  The hag came to the door, dressed in a pink bathrobe and fluffy slippers with cats on them.  She yawned and chewed her gums.

“Soap shavings.  Why did you disturb my afternoon nap?”  Baba Yaga peered at him from beneath a sleeping mask.  She had on eye cream, which almost made Morozko laugh.  He stopped because her scowl could smite a dinosaur, much less him.

Morozko shifted, tucking his hands in his pockets.  “Anya needs food,” he told the ground.  No way did he want to meet the gaze of a witch whose beauty sleep he had interrupted.

“Hah.  Your fern flower bond not enough for my little bird?”

Morozko bristled.  “That was once, by the gods!  I do not do that anymore.  She is weaned, anyways, and eats Cheerios quite fine.  It is not necessary to feed her that way, and I was an idiot to do so before.”

“Agreed, you dolt of a bannik.  Who knows what magics your blood gave her?  Tscha, only the turning of the moon will tell.  Fine, fine, little hut: lean down and accept this banya fool.”

The hut bent down.  Morozko climbed onto the porch, grabbing the skull railing to steady himself.  The way up was rickety, as always.

“Thank you, babushka.”

“Oh, do not thank me, boy.  I would much sooner steam you to a misty cloud than help you.  My interest in the girl is personal.”

“Do you feel like telling me what those interests are, finally?”

“Hah!  Trying our luck today, are we.  If you would like to keep your man bits, stay out of my business.  You would never understand it, anyways.  Just be happy your babushka is feeling generous for her wayward bastard prince.”

Baba Yaga whistled.  The stamping of hooves echoed through the woods.  A mare daisy-yellow as day cantered to her mistress.  Baba Yaga reached into her skirts and withdrew a sugar cube.  She fed it to the mare, stroking her mane. “Den’, would you be so kind as to escort Kolya to Earth?”  Her magical horses and manservants were Den’, Noch, and Solntse – the familiars Baba Yaga had named after long day, cruel night, and the merciless sun.  Her faithful servants always.

The mare whinnied.  She bent down gently so Morozko could mount her.

“Little hut, little hut, turn your back to this world and your face toward the realm of man,” Baba Yaga ordered.

The hut obliged.  They left the world of Slavic nechist, where magic still reigned, and entered Earth, where magic was hidden, like a wedding dress stowed away in the attic, yellowed but beautiful and lacy, waiting to be remade and shine.  The hut squawked like a rutting rooster whose interest was piqued by a strutting chicken.

Morozko found himself on the back of Den’ on the porch of a picturesque house with white picket fences, tucked away into deciduous woods.  Baba Yaga was softer, with a grandmotherly face, dressed in a pink house dress and heels.  A gravel path led away from the abode.  The air smelled of tranquility, nuclear families, apple pie – rich American suburbia.

Morozko rode bare-back away from the hut.  “I will be back before nightfall, I promise,” he called to Baba Yaga.

Baba Yaga clucked.  “Do not get lost, little prince.  You have already strayed far from your icy home.  One day Father Frost’s legacy will catch up to you.”

“Gods, please do not remind me.  The day I become a present deliverer to bratty snot-nosed children is the day I commit seppuku Japanese-style with a butter knife,” Morozko muttered.  He whipped Den’s reins and set off at a steady canter.

The moment the horse’s hooves hit the driveway, Morozko found himself inside a citrine-colored car that drove itself down the path.  Morozko relaxed, letting Den’ take him to the grocers nearby.  They sped out of the woods through suburbs and strip malls.  Spring glossed the land in verdant greens and blooms.  Morozko rolled down the window, inhaling the lush air.  American flags dotted some houses, and he chuckled.

“We are far from the motherland, are we not, Den’?”

The engine purred in response.

Baba Yaga had insisted on familiarizing Anya’s guardians with her homeland.  Nechist naturally knew human languages, so speaking English was never a problem, but the cultural divide still existed.  Americans seemed too loud for Morozko’s taste.  He also hated the specific breed of literati that populated the D.C. metropolis, reciting poet’s pamphlets as they walked headfirst into grimy alley walls.  He could never tell the difference between them and the homeless – anyways, Baba Yaga could pass for a bag lady for sure.

Den’ parked at a nondescript family-owned mom and pop store.  Morozko caught sight of himself in the store’s window, glamoured so he blended in with the humans.  His nechist features were softened, his fangs gone.  Still, Morozko was too vain to rid himself of his white-gold hair, just like his mother’s – and, unfortunately, like his grandfather’s.  At least his skin wasn’t blue and iced in snow fractal tattoos.

Several women lost their breath at the sight of Morozko, chittering like birds and giggling to each other as they left, giving him winks and backwards glances.

Morozko smirked.  They could be like putty in his hands, if he only so desired.  Human women were so easy to manipulate, bed, and taste like fine soul wine on his tongue.  He had dined on their blood in Moscow of old with – with her… a name he did not like to repeat.

He looked at the silver ring on his thumb and his hunger reared its head.

In fact, that wasn’t such a bad idea: the day was still young, and it was about time he spent the night with a woman his own age, not a small child in diapers with crayons.

Morozko picked up cigarettes and went to the baby food section, selecting cans and jars of the mushed crap Anya delighted in.  He came to the cereal aisle, to the ever-hallowed Cheerios.  Morozko piled several boxes into his grocery cart and proceeded to pay at the register.  Baba Yaga had been courteous enough to stock the glove box with an endless supply of American currency.  Morozko thought the elderly Presidents in white wigs quite hilarious.

The girl at the register eyed Morozko.  “Is that it?” she asked, hair in a beehive.

Morozko gave a crooked smile.

“Wait.  Here.”  The cashier blushed, scribbling her phone number on his receipt.  Morozko took it and eyed the string of numbers.  “I get off in a while,” she said to the floor tiles, too intimidated to meet his gaze.  “There is, well, there is a malt shop at the other side of the shopping mall.  Maybe we could meet up later, at say, oh, 5:00?”

Morozko gave her a kind look.  “You like chocolate malts?”

The girl twirled a ringlet of hair.  She nodded, licking her lips.

Morozko herded his groceries into Den’s trunk and took a joy ride for a few hours.  He returned to the strip mall at precisely 5:00 PM.  The cashier was waiting for him in the malt shop, dressed in strappy heels and a classic white dress, Old Hollywood style.

She waved, nervous.  Morozko could smell the excitement in her blood.

“Hi,” she said, “Thanks for meeting me.  It is just, you always come to the store and you are always so mysterious.  I would like to get to know you.  I hope it is not awkward.  Oh God.  I never do this.  How unladylike of me, please, forgive me.”

“No, it’s my pleasure,” Morozko said.   “You look like you enjoy a good old-fashioned Coke.”

“How did you know?”

“A lucky guess.  It is of course on me.”

Morozko ordered for them and they drank together, soda and malts, then split a banana sundae, talking about little things.

“So your accent?”  She hesitated.  Are you Russian?”  She ran her nails over the lid of her cup.  “It must be dangerous to be Russian in America, with the last decade and all.”

“I suppose.”  He took a small sip.  “I do not pay much attention to politics.  Nechist – I mean, um, ahem – my community does not care much for Communism.”

The cashier beamed.  “I agree.  So, you buy the same thing every time: baby food and cigarettes.  Whoever is the baby food for?  You look too young to be married, my apologies if that is offensive.  I seem to be saying all the wrong things tonight.”

Morozko put his hand on hers to steady her.  “You have not said a single wrong thing.”  Morozko shrugged.  “As for the food, it is for a niece.”

“That is wonderful, helping your sibling out with their kid.  I love my new nephew, he is adorable beyond reason and words.  When he was born, a little bit of my soul flew out to guard him, like an angel, I think.  Look at me!  Becoming a poet for the love of a baby.  Must be my maternal instincts.  Sorry if that was saccharine.”

“It was the truth.  We both have precious things our souls guard.”

“You are absolutely right.”

They continued conversing late into the night.  Morozko let her do most of the talking.

“So, um, well, I live in an apartment near here, and I just got a bottle of expensive Italian wine for my birthday.”  She stumbled over her words.  “Do you, well – would you like to try some, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

Kisses followed wine, and Morozko’s hunger reared its head.  The girl, barely a woman, with closed eyes, did not notice when his fangs slipped out.  Morozko paused from kissing her.

She murmured.  A quick enchantment sent her off to sleep.

Morozko lowered his lips to her neck.  His bite was quick and painless – still, the girl’s mouth opened in surprise.

He drank her earthy blood and filled with her soul.  It smelled like marigolds and tasted like chocolate and forgotten treasure.  His hunger subsided.

Morozko healed her wound, a simple magic.  He tucked her into bed and left.

Den’ awaited Morozko in the parking lot beyond.  The horse-turned-car drove pell mell back to Baba Yaga’s.  Baba Yaga was in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe as the moon sailed past.  The smoke formed wisps of worms and inched off into the horizon slowly.

Den’ shifted into a mare and stooped low so Morozko could dismount.

Baba Yaga wrinkled her nose, spotting the red on his teeth.  “I can smell the delicious sweat, blood, and soul of a human on you.  A hapless young woman, as usual?”

Morozko shrugged, taking the groceries from the horse’s back onto his shoulder.  “I have my dalliances, just like you.  Banniks always love souls, after all.”

“Pah.  My dalliances are more of the eating limbs and bone variety, not easy seductions of boring mortal maidens.  You kept me waiting, boy!  My hut is not just a door you can stroll through at your own leisure.  This place is the watchtower between worlds!  Now come.”  She grinned, baring sharp iron teeth.  “Give your babushka a kiss.”

Morozko recoiled, nearly dropping his groceries.  “In thrice nine kingdoms, no.”

The hut stirred, shaking Morozko so that he fell.  Baba Yaga cackled.  “Dolt.  I gave you an easy way out, and you refused.  Now you will stay all night mucking the stables of Den’, Solntse, and Noch’.  The work is hard as the sun on your back, long as the day, and cruel as night.  Isn’t that right, sweet Den’?”

The mare neighed in agreement.

Morozko sighed.  “Fine.  I will muck your damn stables.”

Hieros Gamos

Written at 13.

Hieros Gamos

(the union of heaven and earth)


Did you know that blood can burn, love?

And lightning race through veins

That stars inhabit the center of eyes

And immortality exists in the rain?


I cannot fathom the depths of your eyes, love

I cannot fathom the depth of you

There’s a lightningbug in my hands, love

Its light glows soft and true


My starry bower is yours, love

Then descend upon my dream!

I confess this aching madness, love

In my heart you reign supreme.


Come to me tonight, love

We shall mingle as lovers do

So I followed your rosy will, my love

And charted a course to you.


Come romance the burning flame, love

I drank the molten lead.

You are part of the stormy sky, my love

I struck and the firmament bled.


Entwined we are a force, love

I end where you begin.

Nothing dares compare to you, my love

The fire burns within.


Cheeks damask, your face in bloom

Blood of the rose, blood of the moon.

Rain drenched, we danced to creation’s tune.

China Rose, Ruddy Moon.