my dvorovoi brings all the dead russians to the yard--okay, let's stop there

Jun 16, 2008 07:11

It is fair to say that Babi does not care particularly about the disappearance of the plothole. One benign magic is very like another to him, and while he makes note of their coming and going he frequently ignores their consequences, or what consequences do not relate to him.

What Babi knows for certain is that he has been a good Babi, a very good Babi, guarding the yard--and it is an enormous yard--and worrying over his boys, and patrolling the edges to make sure Kavi Chernevog does not get his hands into things, and he has received for these efforts neither vodka nor honey-cakes nor snuggles. Certainly he has received no praise.

That is why Babi, little Babi, with his two great yellow eyes and his tiny hands and feet like the wrinkled hands and feet of an old, old man, is sitting in the middle of the table in the kitchen, glaring balefully at everyone who comes within sight. He wants to be petted. He wants to be fussed over. He wants food. Babi is fully sure he will disappear entirely if he does not have these things.

So he sits. And he sulks. And he waits.

Deliver, people.

ernst, babi, kyllikki

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