baba yaga

HBICs of Mythology —- BABA YAGA

A magician, then; and an Old-Thing, to be sure. Though she      knew not the words, the power held within them forced      meaning unto all in ear-shot – the haruspex herself froze for      but a moment. Due reverence was owed. 

          “I have no basis for such memory –            a taste would surely make to-day unlivable.” 

The hag’s crafts were manifold and of apparent high quality – though Velia was certainly not a skilled enough craftswoman to detect a well-made fake from a genuine piece of work. She  recognized a many-folded boat, that with a command word might spring from its humble form into a full sailor’s apparatus, to a dead musician’s harp, that might lure the unwary under its discordant tune, and a pair of rusted, foul shackles. She did not recognize the purpose of the last. The rumble of her stomach returned the godling from her careful perusal, reminded of the still-hot kolanchky in her bag. It wouldn’t hurt to offer.

What was Baba Yaga if not a singular being? Was she a sum of those angled, crinkling parts– or were those but pieces of a disguise? He knew her well enough. Knew her needling fingers and how they had a knack for plucking life and death (and things in between) with the blink of an eye. 

He knew her well enough to see how she always had one foot firmly rooted here in reality, and the other floating somewhere fantastical. And yet it never ceased to astound him how she slipped in with  the crowd. So, the question still remained. And like always, so did he, 

He perks his head, 

                “Ah, you’re right. He had a whole smattering of them.                   I’d nearly forgotten.”