Chapter 2 #2
A stairwell appeared, unfolding right next to me. The bottom step nearly hit my foot, and I barely had time to jump back. The second I saw the step, I knew there was no way out of this situation: I had to go inside the hut.
Adjusting the bag with the bow and arrows, I climbed up the thirteen steps and pushed the door in, trying in vain to prevent my hands from trembling.
Inside, Baba Yaga’s hut was semidark and felt surprisingly warm. I adjusted my collar and turned to the right. There stood an enormous stove, the largest pechka I’d ever seen, running on full blast. A bright fire was burning, and I shuddered at the image of Baba Yaga feasting on her victims.
I didn’t notice her at first, for the old witch was standing in the darkest corner of the hut.
She emerged from the shadows, and I gulped.
One wrong move and I would die. This is exactly what the fairy tales warned me would happen—Baba Yaga first tricked you into coming to see her and then tested you.
And if you didn’t pass the test, you were toast.
“Hello there, Ivan the Dimwit.” She guffawed. “How good of you to come to see me. What is it you’re seeking today?” She adjusted her gray woolen shawl, retying it around her shoulders. At that moment, I noticed its color matched her hair, which hung loosely in greasy strands.
“Good day to you, babushka,” I responded, my voice cracking. Calling her the endearing term for a grandmother was risky, but, to my relief, she welcomed the greeting.
“Not such a dimwit after all, are you?” She nodded in approval.
“And much nicer than calling me an ogre.” As she spoke, she stepped closer, and I could now clearly see her face.
It was creased with deep wrinkles, her nose hooked and her chin pointy, protruding.
The hag’s mouth was curved inward, and she was missing all her front teeth.
Baba Yaga looked just like she was supposed to look: scary. I flinched. Noticing my reaction, a smug smile crossed her face.
“Have a seat, Ivan.” She pointed to the table. It was carved out of oak, and a large black cauldron sat in the middle, steam rising. A candle burned next to it. “Let’s have a little chat.”
“Yes, babushka.” I obeyed her, pulling out the bench and taking my seat at the edge of the table, trying to stay as far away from the cauldron as possible.
“And since you’re my guest, I will offer you something to eat. I know you haven’t had anything other than that stale bread today.”
“Thank you, babushka,” I responded, and immediately my stomach growled.
“How about some porridge?” She moved to the stove and produced a pot, setting it next to the black cauldron on the table. Steam rose from it, moving to the ceiling in intricate waves.
To calm my nerves, I reached into my pocket to feel the feather, its warmth comforting me, as I did my best to stop myself from quivering. Baba Yaga produced a huge serving spoon, black with soot, and stuck it into the pot, stirring it.
The smell rising from the pot was rich, earthy, with a mix of herbs and mushrooms so strong, it repelled and beckoned me at the same time. The aroma enveloped me and took over my consciousness.
My eyelids felt heavy, and I propped my head up, fighting the urge to sleep. I had to remain conscious. Falling asleep in Baba Yaga’s presence was a sure way to die, but that thought, though frightening, felt distant, as if it didn’t belong to me.
I yawned, and then I saw myself from a afar.
There I was, a young man, dressed in light-brown trousers and a matching shirt, wearing my old bast shoes, a sash tied around my waist, my dark-blond hair to my shoulders, sitting at a table in front of a pot.
I saw my face and noticed a scratch on my chin, my right hand propping up my cheek.
I saw the old hag, and she guffawed, floating in front of me.
It was too late. I had fallen asleep. I saw my head fall onto my hands, making a banging sound against the table.
I screamed, trying to get myself to wake up, but to no avail.
Baba Yaga came up to me and reached for me with her bony fingers.
I expected her to get a knife and to take it to my throat.
To kill me and stuff me into the stove. But instead, she touched my forehead, gave me a kiss, and then reached into my pocket, where I had kept the feather.
I struggled to breathe, wanting to grab the feather back from her, but she chuckled and whispered softly into my ear:
“Don’t worry, Ivan, this is just a feather, and I’ll give it back to you for now.
But it’s so you get the whole bird. Go, Ivan, find the Firebird and bring it back to me, and then I will set you free.
Remember, the bird always comes back for its feather.
Bring her back to me, Ivan, and I’ll grant you one wish. ”
She whispered those words only once, but they were ingrained in my mind.
I remembered every single one of them as I got submerged in a deep, beautiful dream.
I dreamed of the Firebird, the gorgeous red creature, that flew high above the clouds, taking me with her into the sky.
We saw the Earth from high above. I flew over the oceans and the forests and saw such beauty, it made my breath catch.
The bright, full moon was shining overhead.
Just as I was about to get comfortable, I was pulled downward.
The next moment, I flew into a round opening, then plunged right into a pool of water, diving underneath.
I braced myself, sure I would drown, but the water pushed me out, and the next moment I was floating on its surface.
It was surprisingly warm and pleasant. The water was so clear that I could see the stones on the bottom, just like the river in my village.
Right above me, I saw the sky. The perfectly round moon shone through the opening in the roof, the very one that had pulled me inside.
I took in my surroundings and realized I was inside a wooden structure, perfectly round, with numbered doors.
The walls were painted white, with the beams fit together neatly.
I admired the woodwork, wondering how many men it had taken to fit it together so well.
Around the pool, there were railings, support beams going under the surface of the water.
It was reminiscent of our Russian steam bath, the banya, but who would build a steam-bath house with a hole in the roof that large?
The doors around the pool had numbers on them.
They went from one to nine, then continued from eleven to fifteen, skipping ten.
Each door had a gray curtain, and one of the doors had a red sign above it, made out of an unfamiliar material.
It was the sign that made me think I might have been in a dream.
Where am I? I thought and pulled myself out of the water, sitting on the edge of the pool.
As my wet clothes came into contact with the crisp air, I shivered and thought of jumping back into the water, just so I could warm up and figure out a way back out of the pool.
But then I remembered my dream and the old hag who had commanded me to bring her the Firebird.
I couldn’t leave now—I had to find the magical creature.
No one disobeyed Baba Yaga, and I couldn’t, either.
I reached into my pocket, wondering if the Firebird’s feather was still there. The Firebird always comes back for its feather. I heard Baba Yaga’s words loud and clear.