The Hanged Man: Part 6: Ostara
Post #46: In which each initiate begins on a path through shadows ...
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CHAPTER 19
VASALISA
Sunlight cracked the translucent morning sky. Vasilisa woke. She’d rolled herself in blankets and slept under Dar’s cart. She’d slept deeply, feeling safe and protected between the soft mattress of grass and the wooden underside of cart. When she opened her eyes, she was lying on her side. Thick stems of grass and flowers surrounded her and she looked into them as though into a forest. She felt invisible. She listened.
The birds were in full dawn chorus. They made such a clamor she couldn’t hear anything else for some moments. Then she heard the sound of Gideon grazing nearby, a contented, unhurried grinding mastication. She heard unfamiliar whistling and thought it must be Dar. She listened as he moved about, tending a fire, heating water and murmuring to Gideon. She heard the flap of blankets being shaken out.
Vasilisa thought of the fence they’d built the night before and wanted to see it in daylight. She rolled out from under the cart and sat with her back against one of the wooden wheels, still wrapped in a blanket, looking at the morning.
There was Baba Yaga’s hovel, high on its legs. One leg bent slightly at the knee, relaxed, giving the house a slight tilt. The door was tightly shut and the windows blank and shuttered. Baba Yaga slept. The house stood within a large oval of pale fence.
Vasilisa knew the fence was solidly built, but from a distance it looked slightly drunken because bones aren’t straight and true. It flowed and leaned, looking as though it was made for movement rather than boundary. It made her smile.
She could see the two gates, easily picked out because each was topped with a curving arch made of rib bones bound together. Near one gate, in an end of the oval, was the fire pit and a high stack of wood.
As she sat there looking, Mary and Nephthys came out of a stand of three birch trees. Mary combed her thick hair with her fingers.
Vasilisa turned her head, hearing a murmur of male voices, and saw Kunik had joined Artyom and Radulf for the night, nesting in thick grass as she had, though without any overhead shelter. A tendril of smoke wavered up and she smelled a campfire, though she couldn’t see the flames from her seated position in the high grass.
The thin sound of a flute came into the clearing and the White Stag and Artemis stepped out of the trees. The piper with them was an extraordinary figure. He wore a long crimson cloak, rich with decoration. Vasilisa saw short thick horns nestled in curly brown hair and a gold ring in his left earlobe. He stood on the legs of an animal, covered with thick brown hair and ending in split hooves. Dar left his fire, inclined his head before the White Stag, kissed Artemis on the forehead with formal affection and slapped the piper on the shoulder. The piper blew a series of short notes like laughter and took up his melody again.
Mary was transfixed at the sight of the piper, body tense, staring. Nephthys walked on, taking no notice of her frozen companion.
Some way from Vasilisa a head appeared in the grass, tangled curls black in the sun. Rose Red. She, too, watched the piper with wide eyes. At the same time, she shook out her skirt and apron, put her arms into her vest and fastened it up the front. The piper disappeared with Dar between the trees. Rose Red looked after them, a frown between her eyes, and then bent over and ran vigorous fingers through her dark mop.
“I’ll do your hair if you’ll do mine,” came Jenny’s voice. “I’ve a comb somewhere…”
***
Later, hunger satisfied and everyone washed and brushed as well as possible with cold water and a comb, they gathered again in a circle in the morning sun. Baba Yaga had yet to appear. No one spoke of the initiation that would take place that night, though Vasilisa knew it must be in everyone’s thoughts.
It was a pleasant day. Kunik, Artyom and Rumpelstiltskin announced their intention to find meat and set off into the forest. Radulf and Jenny volunteered to collect water and follow the stream in search of fish. Mary went to look for strawberries and greens. Dar strode back and forth from the forest to the fire pit with armfuls of dead wood. There was no evidence of his goat-footed companion.
Vasilisa shook out and folded blankets, retrieved Jenny’s comb, a knife, a carved lump of coral and other objects mislaid or lost in the grass during the night. She made a neat stack of shovels and tools used the night before and folded the unused bones in Nephthys’s tarp. She rewound the unused, unpleasant-smelling sinew with distaste.
She and Dar chose one of the campfires outside the fence and enlarged it. They would need a place to cook meat. Dar provided a spit and pot from his cart. They laid a fire and stacked extra wood.
Baba Yaga still hadn’t appeared. Nephthys slept in the warm grass. When Dar judged they’d gathered enough wood, Rose Red wandered over to Gideon. The White Stag browsed nearby on the edge of the woods. She curried and brushed the horse, more for the pleasure of it than any necessity. She combed out his mane and tail and threaded them with flowers. Dar leaned on his elbows in the sun and watched.
“As soon as you’re finished, he’ll roll,” he predicted.
The horse blew out a breath and lipped at Vasilisa. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. She felt lazy and peaceful in the tender afternoon.
The White Stag joined them. She made a garland of tough grass and flowers and set it in his antlers.
The hunters returned with meat, already skinned and dressed. Dar lit the fire and began to cook. Nephthys woke. Mary returned, and then Jenny and Radulf, damp and happy with a string of fish.
As the afternoon lengthened, they ate, comfortable with one another, but Vasilisa felt an increasing tension as evening approached. As they finished eating, a door slammed. Baba Yaga was awake.
The old crone ignored the group on the grass. She stumped around the inside of the fence. She glared. She muttered. She shook her head in disgust. As she passed Kunik’s and Artyom’s gate, she kicked it viciously. It held. She stepped onto the lowest cross bone of the wide central gate and pushed against the ground with her foot. The gate swung back and forth on its hinges with her full weight on it. It made a sound like bare tree branches rubbing together in a high wind. She looked like a malevolent thick toad on a merry-go-round made of bones. She stepped off. The gate didn’t sag or break.
Baba Yaga stood with her hands on her hips on the threshold of the open gate. Her iron gaze swept over them.
“What are you waiting for, toadlings?” she shrieked. Her gaze looked beyond them, towards the edge of the trees. Her mad grin looked like a gash in her face. “Come in and play, sweet ones — if you dare!” She shrieked with glee.
A figure strolled out of the trees. It glowed with a pale soft light that matched the fence. Under the domed skull gaped wide empty eyes, a pit of a nose and an expressionless grin.
A skeleton is a sexless thing, yet Vasilisa immediately identified the newcomer as “he.” It was something about the graceful power with which he moved, the subtle swagger of an attractive male who knows his legs are well shaped, his buttocks hard and strong, and his flesh laid in just the right way over his frame.
Vasilisa thought him the most vividly alive thing she’d ever seen. His confidence took her breath away. He was as naked as bone, so naked one could see right through him, yet insouciant and vital and real.
“Here’s my pretty boy! Here’s my bony one!” The Baba purred and passed her hands over her breasts, pinching her nipples through the coarse, ragged tunic she wore.
Death came to meet her, grinning his hungry grin. She lifted up the hem of her skirt and pressed his hand beneath it. His elbow moved and she leaned against the fence, legs spread wide. She turned her face to his and thrust her tongue between his teeth. She put her hands on his cheeks and licked his naked mandible. She thrust her hips against his moving invisible hand, groaning and gasping and cursing, and then shuddered. Still shuddering, she pulled the hand from beneath her skirt to her mouth and licked the white finger bones with slow deliberation.
A round sphere fell out of Death’s right eye socket, pinged against a rib and fell to the ground. It was followed by another, then three from his nasal cavity. More fell from his grinning mouth like a cascade of foam, black, red and ivory. They scattered around Death’s bony feet, the color of corruption, blood and bone.
Vasilisa, like most of the others around her, stood frozen in appalled silence. Dar grinned. Artemis remained aloof and Nephthys paid no attention to the macabre sexual display but clapped her hands with pleasure as marbles fell from Death’s head.
The Baba crouched and gathered the marbles with a sweep of her hand, grinning like a child stealing candy. She went to where her black cauldron squatted on the ground near the fire, tipped the marbles into a sack and withdrew a skull. Without word or pause she threw it at Death. It flew straight through the air like a large white bullet and Death reached out and caught it casually. He pressed his grinning teeth against the mouth of the skull with a hard click, and it burst into fiery light. He balanced it atop the nearest fence post and turned, graceful as a dancer, and caught the next skull speeding toward him
In this way, Death pranced around the fence of bones, lighting what Vasilisa thought of as the arena, while Baba Yaga fired skull after skull at him. He caught each one, pressed its teeth to his in a grotesque kiss, and placed it carefully, facing inward.
Artemis spoke.
“On this day comes the hour of perfect balance.” Her clear gaze rested on each face. “Do you choose to enter the gate and take your place?”
Mary, without a word, left the group and walked through the gate, brushing resolutely past the obscene figure of Baba Yaga and the grinning skeleton next to her, Surrender at her heels.
One by one, Vasilisa and the other initiates followed, guides and leaders coming behind. Artemis and the White Stag brought up the rear and Artemis latched the gate.
ARTYOM
“Once upon the time there lived a maiden. Oooh, she was sweet as the sweetest morsel on the tongue! Oh la la—what a pretty little maiden! What a weak, innocent, puling little maiden she was!”
The fire was lit. Baba Yaga had gathered them into yet another circle within the bony circle of the fence. They sat on the grass. The Baba rested on an overturned bucket. Without preamble, she began. This was not like the storytelling that had come before. Artyom felt tense and expectant. The fire crackled and popped hungrily and the last light drained out of the sky.
“One washing day this little Vasilisa, this pretty little maiden, was hanging out clothes to dry in the sun. I had the misfortune to pass by, and she smiled and waved and wished me a good day. She was so sweet I wanted to step on her and see that sweetness ooze out of her cracked bones. So, I turned her into a frog.”
Vasilisa gasped. Rose Red, next to her, put out a hand in concern and Vasilisa struck at her, slapping the hand away. She stood clumsily, as though her legs felt numb. Her face looked rigid in the firelight. Her eyes remained fixed on Baba Yaga in horror and something like hatred. Artyom had never imagined Vasilisa could look like that. She staggered back a step or two, out of the circle, shadows concealing her face.
Baba Yaga continued, her gaze fastened on Vasilisa’s hidden face, her voice cold and relentless.
“She hopped away, weeping tender little glittering tears like fish scales, wondering what she’d done to deserve such a terrible fate. No more waving and smiling and wishing strangers good day for her!
Well, I kept an eye on her to see if she’d be more interesting as a frog. She hopped and she hopped and eventually she came to the King’s palace. Around the palace, you must know, are parks and gardens, and in one of the furthest gardens stands a huge old birch tree and under that is a fountain.”
The mention of the King’s palace shocked Artyom. It couldn’t be! But as the Baba continued inexorably, he saw in memory the birch tree, its peeling trunk, and the old neglected fountain, slippery and smelly with green and black scum on stagnant water. His stomach clenched in a cold knot. He put a hand to either side of his head and pulled his hair as though to tear his head apart. He wanted to put his hands around Baba Yaga’s scrawny throat and silence her forever. She eyed him mockingly as she talked.
“The fountain hadn’t worked in a long time, so it had become a stagnant pond, and a lovely dank, muddy, fetid place it was!”
Baba Yaga smacked her lips reminiscently and rubbed her hands together, fingernails clicking and knuckles popping.
“This hidden old fountain was the favorite hiding place of the King’s youngest son, who was a spoilt, weak, loathsome little tadpole. He was too obnoxious even to kill and eat. He hated everyone — but not more than they hated him, miserable spawn! He possessed a great treasure — a golden ball. He took it every day to the fountain and played with it, entertaining himself, as no one else wanted to be near him.
One day he was tossing the golden ball in the air and catching it in the aimless manner of a useless child, and somehow…”
Here she stopped and cackled, looking malevolently around at the listeners.
“Somehow, he threw badly and his pretty golden ball fell in that nasty, dark water! Of course, the brat howled about it — but no one came because no one cared, and he was too precious to guddle about in muddy water himself — make no mistake about that! A puffed-up little princeling, that one was!
Well, guess who popped her head above the water to see what the fuss was about? Ssswwweeeeet, good little Vasilisa, of course — who else? Even living in a sewer hadn’t changed her a bit, curse her! Just as boring and sickening as ever.
And ‘Oh, what’s the matter little boy? Why do you cry? How can I help you?’
And the cub wept and pouted and gulped like a toad in the rain and Vasilisa swam right down to the bottom of the fountain, found the ball and brought it back to him.
Well! Then things began to get more interesting! Now the little pisswort possessed a new toy, a live toy! He began to wonder what sort of games would be fun with this kind of toy!
Then he conceived a brilliant idea. He’d heard the servants and gardeners talking about hunting for frogs. He stole a gig — a sharp-pronged, murderous little gig it was, with the blood of a thousand frogs on it — from one of the under gardeners and snuck out one night with his golden ball for a light.
He made his way to the pond. He set the golden ball down on the edge of the old fountain, and in a coaxing, wheedling voice, called his ‘little friend’ and his ‘dear one.’
Of course, she came, the stupid girl! She swam right up through the dark water to that glowing golden light. He was ready and he struck with the gig. I thought he might make an end to the bitch then and there, but they both proved incompetent. I might have known. He, being unskilled, struck off center and too slowly and she, even though stupid, possessed something of a frog’s quickness and jumped aside. The gig pierced right through her back foot, though. She disappeared under the water with a single splash and when he pulled out the gig, he found a piece of her foot with two toes attached to it. The nasty little worm could hardly wait to get it into the light to see what color frog blood was!”
Artyom felt bitterness rise into his throat, leaned over and vomited in wrenching spasms of fury. Tears ran from his eyes and mucus snailed out of his nose in slimy ropes. The taste of vomit made him retch again and again. Long after his stomach was empty, he heaved in aching reflex.
Slowly he became aware of a cold, wet pad of cloth on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes. That someone dared touch him, comfort him, even, as he sat there in his own vomit, nearly started the retching again, but he controlled himself, forcing breath through his mouth in shallow gasps. He groped blindly for the cloth and felt another put into his hand, cool and smelling of sweet water, not the brackish, filthy water he remembered from so long ago. He wiped his face, spit, blew his nose. His hands trembled. He wanted to move away from the stench of his vomit, to hide from it, but he refused to show weakness. He would not be further shamed in front of them.
He raised his chin and glared around the circle of strangers, defying their judgement. Who were they? Nothings and nobodies. His blood was royal. He came from a line of rulers. What did they know of his desolate, lonely childhood? It was a plot, a conspiracy, engineered by the hag Baba Yaga to disempower him, humiliate him and frustrate his need for Vasilisa, deny him the balm of her love and admiration, the peace of her strength.
Firelight flickered on the circle of faces. The place next to him, where Radulf sat, was empty, and Radulf stood at his shoulder. It was he who’d wet squares of cloth in water and come to Artyom’s aid.
No one said a word. Baba Yaga squatted on her bucket, a lumpy dark shape. The others remained silent and still. Artyom tried to make out Vasilisa’s expression, but she stood in shadows outside the circle, her empty place like a wound.
She bent. She pulled off her boots, one at a time. He could see the white of her stockings as she drew them off her feet. She dropped the hem of her black skirt and walked through her empty place in the circle to where he stood, stepping deliberately in the puddle of vomit with her pale feet. Unwillingly, but unable to help it, he looked down at her mutilated foot. Two toes were missing, leaving a jagged scar. Deep dimples of penetrating sharp injury scarred the forefoot below the toe stumps.
“You did this to me. You did this. You did this?” Her voice broke, but he couldn’t tell if rage or grief that thickened it.
Artyom looked away from her stonily. He faced Baba Yaga. “Tell the rest,” he said. “The story isn’t done. Tell it all. Finish what you’ve begun, you heartless hag!”
“Listen, then children,” said Baba Yaga in a terrible voice. “Listen to the end of my pretty little story.”
“After that, little froggie got smarter. She hid herself from the boy, but after a time her foot healed and he returned every day and coaxed and pleaded and apologized and wept for his own loneliness and she decided — oh that sweet, sweet girl! — to give him another chance. After all, he was only a child. And nobody loved him! Poor little ugly scut! He’d said he was sorry.
She kept out of his reach, though, just showing her head above the water at a safe distance. But he was so contrite, so happy to see her, so abject, she began to trust him again, and one day she allowed him to touch her. Then she began coming to his hand when he called her and he bided his time and bided his time. Had a feel for the cruelty of the thing, so he did!
A day came when he closed his hand about her and picked her up. She screamed — oh yes, frogs scream — “catching sight of horrified disbelief on Jenny’s face. “Oh yes, my pretty tawdry piece of dreck, they do indeed scream!
“Yes, she screamed and screamed, that little sweet Vasilisa frog, but he paid no attention — not he! He drew back his arm and threw her as hard as he could against the trunk of the birch tree standing next to the old fountain. Splat!” She shrieked with laughter.
“Well, that should have been the end of her and all that useless sweetness. I was sick to death of her myself, and he certainly had no more use for her! But, well…” and she trailed off into incoherent mumbling and swearing.
Artyom, still standing, kept his face expressionless. The cold clarity of a soldier slid over him like armor. He shut away his emotions, controlled his anger and focused on evaluating and controlling the situation. He watched the others glance at one another in appalled silence, wanting to hear the rest and yet not wanting to. Vasilisa stood in the slimy, foul vomit, head hanging, her hair swinging down to hide her face.
“Hhmmpphh. Yes. Well, perhaps she was too sweet to die! Who knows? At any rate, she left, yes, she did, headed back out into the world to find someone else to nauseate.”
Into the frozen silence following the Baba’s last jeering words came a golden glow like a warm flame, like a candle, like a lantern in a dark night. It shone red and orange and yellow, the color of life and sun. It streaked out of the sky in a long, graceful swooping movement of trailing tail and wings. They turned their faces gratefully to its clean warmth. The Firebird came to rest on the blackened rim of Baba Yaga’s cauldron. An owl flew like a silent shadow behind it. It floated down and perched on a top rail of the fence, regarding them calmly.
Artyom heard Dar grunt, as though in surprised recognition. There was a sound of a single wingbeat, a puff of air, and the owl vanished. A young man stood next to the fence, lean and lithe, dark haired. His gaze moved with curiosity from face to face. When he saw Dar, he smiled and moved forward, and Artyom noted his lurching, clumsy gait.
The two men clasped hands. The Firebird lifted off the cauldron rim and rose and fell in the air over Vasilisa’s head, graceful and silent. The newcomer approached her, appearing to ignore the puddle of vomit and yet avoiding it neatly. She looked into his face, her own so wooden and shocked Artyom could hardly recognize her.
“My name is Morfran, lady, and you’re my aunt. The Firebird has brought me to you. I bring greetings from my grandfather, who is your father, Marceau, a King of the Sea.”
The words made no sense to Artyom. Vasilisa, he knew, was a peasant, and possessed no siblings. This was yet another trick of Baba Yaga’s, another attempt to humiliate and discredit him, to tear him away from his last, best hope of making himself into a beloved and worthy ruler, as his father had been. He needed Vasilisa. He needed her strength and her sweetness and gratitude. He needed to show them he was powerful enough to marry a peasant and elevate her to the level of a ruler’s wife.
He waited for Vasilisa to say something, but she simply stood, looking at Morfran, her feet in the stinking puddle of Artyom’s humiliation. She neither spoke nor moved.
Artyom glanced at Baba Yaga, who smirked and stroked her wiry chin whiskers with her thumb and index finger. She looked as though she nursed other revelations up her sleeve and could hardly wait to expose them. He hated her more than he’d ever hated anyone before.
Baba Yaga broke the silence. “Oh, yesss! If it isn’t the cripple! How dare you disturb us this night? Sit down, you whelp, and be silent! You’ll learn more of your fine family!”
(This post was published with this essay.)