The woman in the woods

Alina Marzook

Inspired off folklore on Baba Yaga

I shift uncomfortably as a bead of sweat rolls down my face, leaves scratching against my back and cheeks. It’s getting really warm. A few steps away from the bush I crouch in, an old hunchbacked woman mutters softly as she peels something and tosses them into a cauldron- mushrooms? Or potatoes? No, I realise, it’s some kind of pale repulsive berry. I swear under my breath, craning my neck for a better look- I should have worked on a better hiding spot.

“I see you child.”

I still, my blood turning to ice. The hag is still stirring away at the pot, gnarled hand on a hip but her eyes are focused on some point beyond the trees. I exhale softly, relief coursing through my body. Baba Yaga’s cottage is out prowling at this time, maybe-

“Spying’s bad for you girl, rots the eyes.” In the time it takes me to blink, she’s whipped her face around to find me, crooked nose sniffing the air. Her milky white eyes search past the leaves covering my face, locking into my eyes with chilling accuracy. Cold dread pools in my stomach as the witch throws back her head in a cackle, the sound echoing across the dark clearing. Adrenaline courses through my veins, my body scrambling backwards with single minded intent: I need to get out of here.

But even as I jerk myself free of the nettle, I know it’s useless. Because it’s here. I hear it before I see it. A soft scratching. The sound of claws scraping at hard dirt. Her cottage.

The monstrosity towers behind me, all while Baba Yaga’s cackles echo in my head. A small two storeyed affair complete with a thatched roof and sweet, geranium-covered windowsills sits balanced atop giant scaled bird legs. Chicken legs, I remind myself weakly, giant chicken legs. It would almost be funny if the bird claws weren’t tearing at the ground before me menacingly, their message clear. Trapped. A chimney atop the roof puffs away cheerfully, unaware of the horror unfolding beneath and dimly, I notice shelving nestled against the straw roof between the clouds of smoke. A library?

As if noticing my distraction, the hag calls out, “No escape for you girl.” Yeah, I got that. I chance a glance back at the witch and her cauldron. Does she have records of her recipes in that library? An image of my brothers dangerously pale face, chest rising weakly, flashes in my mind and I grit my teeth in pain. I need that potion.

“Let me work”, I blurt out. The witch only cackles harder, and I strain to speak over her. “I’ll be useful,” I’m screaming now, “I can help,” the cackling finally stops, and my last words become a whisper, “around the house”. Baba Yaga tilts her head, eyes narrowed, as she looks me up and down assessing me as if I were a goat up for sale. I will my jackrabbiting heart still and straighten my shoulders. Folktales say she never denies requests for work, especially from children. Then again there’s the matter of her eating said children.

The witch must sense my discomfort because her lips curve into an open-mouthed grin, sickly tongue testing one side of her yellowed teeth. She beckons a bony hand at the cottage which crosses over our heads to squat down at the centre of the clearing in three long strides. It’s door swings open on its own as Baba Yaga makes her way over to its entrance, gesturing at me over her shoulder with two fingers.

“Cross me and it will be your funeral child”.

I steel myself and follow, eyes trained wearily on her back. So be it, the work begins.