Chapter 3: Nechist, Cherti, Those In Between

Morozko became famed for his treatment of guests at banyas and his divination prowess.  Word traveled of the tenderness with which he beat bushels of green peeled venik against patron’s backs.  He could steam and ice the different pools just so, and his reputation began to precede him.  Morozko worked for different leshys in different kingdoms who had carved Buyan up between them in a patchwork thanks to games of chess and war.  Leshy tsars sometimes lost half a forest to an ill-thought bet.  Winners led their pampered squirrels in great migrations to their new lands. 

First Morozko traveled on foot, then on horseback when he had saved enough money. He possessed 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.  Her wood-dark eyes were 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 am losing my way.  I do not know what I am looking for still!  After all these godforsaken years, I am 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 have searched nearly every inch of Buyan and I have found nothing but petty leshys.  I know warring vila and seductress rusalka and absolutely nothing that suits me.  I have had my heart broken by a vampir with hair like autumn leaves.  My money was stolen by leshy tsars that shortchanged me and my services.  My name has been lost to the wind.  All I know is that a bastard belongs nowhere!”

“Pah, soap shavings!  Everyone belongs somewhere, even a down-on-his-luck half-breed.  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 do not 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. Ferns bordered the fence next to 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 millpond with the most perfect banya Morozko had ever seen.  He quaked at the sight of it.  His smoky magic reached out and sensed the power and enchantment of the bathhouse.  He measured the potency within its wall and suddenly knew how it would bend to his will.  It would be his work, bread, and soul.

Tsar Dmitri and his staff waited in the meadow fronting the inn.  The smile on the leshy’s face was 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.  There are witches who will steal your heart away if you are not careful.  Here, come, Liliya, help Morozko to his quarters.”

Morozko found himself inside a banya that was built for him.  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 am finally home.  My wandering heart is now, despite all my dreams, content.”