Chapter 1
Chapter 1: A Story
Her hands are bloody. She rubs her forefinger and thumb together and feels the wet, the glistening smoothness of it, and the tackiness. In her right hand, she lets the hammer swing, gripping the octagonal wood base between her fingers and rocking her whole hand back and forth to create the gentle motion.
“Let me tell you a story,” Polina says, her dark voice gaining an edge of softness. “Close your eyes. Lean back. Let me… touch your hair… before the end. And I’ll tell you a story.”
It begins in a small village, just north of the mountains and just east of the woods. Village is of course a grandiose word to describe a few cottages marking a few farms joined together at the borders where the green and the green are cut and separated by an old wooden fence owned by neither and grudgingly repaired by both. It begins with a family, small, and by no means rich, but loving. The father spent his days in the field, waking up at dawn and filling the air around the little cottage with deep, booming songs of work. The mother worked at home, making bread and washing clothes and every once in a while she would stop her work to look up at the big sky and smile. She sang too, of course. Sweet and soft, her cooings matched the gentle rhythms of her work, the scrubbing of a washboard in a basin, the pumping of a churn. And there was a daughter, too, who ran through the fields and through the house and whose laughter was like a song to her parents.
One day, the child noticed a silence in the house that made her nervous. Her mother seemed tired and no longer sang her endless melodies of work. Soon she did not leave the bed and, out of sadness, the man’s songs faded also. When her mother was close to the end, she called her daughter to her bed and said to her, “My darling, I have a present for you, a dollie which is almost as precious as you are to me. Take this dollie and she will be like a sister to you when your mother is gone. She is very special. Feed her and she will advise you in times of trouble and help you in times of need.”
After her mother died, the little girl kept the dollie close, just as she had been told. “Vasilisa,” her father said, “you must put down your dollie to help with the chores.” But the girl would not. She kept her dollie in a pack on her stomach stitched from old clothing at night after the work was done. But she did not feed the dollie. She knew that she must be in need to ask for help, and for now, her company was enough.
After a short time, Vasilisa’s father remarried. “I want you to have a mother,” he said, and she held her dollie close to her chest. But the woman he brought into the cottage as his wife was not the mother he had wanted for his daughter. Though he did not see, she tormented Vasilisa, ordering her about the house for as long as her father was out of the house. The woman brought two daughters with her who were made to do nothing. While Vasilisa was told to tend to the vegetable garden and the cooking, her step-sisters stayed in bed until late in the afternoon and prettied themselves in front of the full length mirror.
But Vasilisa was not undone. Although they worked her like a horse, she maintained her youth and vibrancy. Though they tormented her, she was not alone. In the early mornings, after her father had gone to the field, Vasilisa would steal down to the pantry and find a bit of bread or some dried fruit and she would gingerly feed it to her dollie. “You must help me, dollie,” she would say. And while Vasilisa kneaded bread in the kitchen, her dollie would do the washing. While her dollie weeded the garden, they would sing softly together and Vasilisa, from the shade of a great oak tree, would sometimes look up at the huge sky and smile. And she always kept her dollie close.
Her step-mother and step-sisters did not know why Vasilisa grew so beautiful while they worked her so hard, but the girl’s immunity to strain seemed to make them more determined to make her suffer and soon she was doing more work than was even needed in the little cottage. But even so, she was radiant, and as she grew, her body became strong, but not hardened, and she felt the same strength deep inside of her though the softness still showed on her face. The dollie showed her herbs to make her healthy and strong and to keep her from being sunburned.
Eventually, Vasilisa’s father was forced to leave for a time. He was not worried. He still believed that his new wife cared for Vasilisa and would take care of her while he was away. “I will be back as soon as I can, my love,” he said to his daughter, and left without a cloud above him. But with him gone, the woman found new ways to torment Vasilisa, forcing her to stay up late into the night weaving and knitting. And every morning, she became more furious as Vasilisa seemed rested and rejuvenated while all the work was done. Of course, after the woman and her two spoiled daughters were asleep, Vasilisa would wake her dollie with a bit of food and ask for help. “Sleep, Vasilisa,” her dollie would say, “and let me do the work.” As the sun was about to rise, dollie would finish her work and wake Vasilisa so that she would be up when the woman came in to check on her.
One night, menaced by the sight of beautiful Vasilisa, her step-mother devised a plan. She would see how Vasilisa was unaffected by the work by forcing her own daughters to stay with her through the night. “Girls,” she said, “None of you shall sleep tonight. There are three things that need to be done by the morning: one of you must make lace, another, knit stockings, and a third shall spin.” After making her announcement, she lit a small lamp and went to bed. Soon, though, the light began to fade and all three girls were finding it difficult to complete their tasks. At last, the light went out completely. “Now what shall be done!?” the stepmother’s daughters exclaimed.
Though there was nothing in the small cottage to create more light, all of the girls were too frightened to leave. You see, the nearest house was through the woods, but within the woods lived a witch, Baba Yaga who, it was said, ate anyone to pass. The dark night spread out around the house as the girls sat in silence wondering what to do. At once, both of the stepsisters, who were older and meaner, grabbed Vasilisa and said, “You will go. And if you do not, we will wake our mother and say you kept us from our work!”
The wind whipped and Vasilisa’s hair and clothing as she stepped out of the little cottage. It made an eerie sound wending around the house and over the field. Vasilisa clutched her dollie to her breast in the dark cold and wondered what to do. Still holding her dollie close, Vasilisa walked into the wind toward the little garden. Her shoulders hunched up around her, she closed her eyes to the wind and let out a little cry of fright.
Vasilisa reached the garden and stared into the great, dark black of night wondering how she would manage this. She bent down and found a carrot, ready for picking. She pulled it up out of the damp earth and brushed it off with her fingers. She put the tip to her dollie’s mouth and, just as she had done so many times before, dollie came to life. “Oh my dear dollie!” Vasilisa cried, “I don’t know what to do. I have been sent out to get light, but the witch Baba-Yaga lives in these woods and she will eat me if I pass through them. Please help me, dollie. I am afraid.”
Vasilisa looked down at her little dollie, its matted yarn hair and button eyes and waited for a reply. “Vasilisa, do not worry. You shall go into the forest and though it is dark and although you are afraid, no harm will come to you.”
And so, Vasilisa set out into the dark, windy night in search of light for her evil stepsisters.
Her hands are bloody. She rubs her forefinger and thumb together and feels the wet, the glistening smoothness of it, and the tackiness. In her right hand, she lets the hammer swing, gripping the octagonal wood base between her fingers and rocking her whole hand back and forth to create the gentle motion.
“Let me tell you a story,” Polina says, her dark voice gaining an edge of softness. “Close your eyes. Lean back. Let me… touch your hair… before the end. And I’ll tell you a story.”
It begins in a small village, just north of the mountains and just east of the woods. Village is of course a grandiose word to describe a few cottages marking a few farms joined together at the borders where the green and the green are cut and separated by an old wooden fence owned by neither and grudgingly repaired by both. It begins with a family, small, and by no means rich, but loving. The father spent his days in the field, waking up at dawn and filling the air around the little cottage with deep, booming songs of work. The mother worked at home, making bread and washing clothes and every once in a while she would stop her work to look up at the big sky and smile. She sang too, of course. Sweet and soft, her cooings matched the gentle rhythms of her work, the scrubbing of a washboard in a basin, the pumping of a churn. And there was a daughter, too, who ran through the fields and through the house and whose laughter was like a song to her parents.
One day, the child noticed a silence in the house that made her nervous. Her mother seemed tired and no longer sang her endless melodies of work. Soon she did not leave the bed and, out of sadness, the man’s songs faded also. When her mother was close to the end, she called her daughter to her bed and said to her, “My darling, I have a present for you, a dollie which is almost as precious as you are to me. Take this dollie and she will be like a sister to you when your mother is gone. She is very special. Feed her and she will advise you in times of trouble and help you in times of need.”
After her mother died, the little girl kept the dollie close, just as she had been told. “Vasilisa,” her father said, “you must put down your dollie to help with the chores.” But the girl would not. She kept her dollie in a pack on her stomach stitched from old clothing at night after the work was done. But she did not feed the dollie. She knew that she must be in need to ask for help, and for now, her company was enough.
After a short time, Vasilisa’s father remarried. “I want you to have a mother,” he said, and she held her dollie close to her chest. But the woman he brought into the cottage as his wife was not the mother he had wanted for his daughter. Though he did not see, she tormented Vasilisa, ordering her about the house for as long as her father was out of the house. The woman brought two daughters with her who were made to do nothing. While Vasilisa was told to tend to the vegetable garden and the cooking, her step-sisters stayed in bed until late in the afternoon and prettied themselves in front of the full length mirror.
But Vasilisa was not undone. Although they worked her like a horse, she maintained her youth and vibrancy. Though they tormented her, she was not alone. In the early mornings, after her father had gone to the field, Vasilisa would steal down to the pantry and find a bit of bread or some dried fruit and she would gingerly feed it to her dollie. “You must help me, dollie,” she would say. And while Vasilisa kneaded bread in the kitchen, her dollie would do the washing. While her dollie weeded the garden, they would sing softly together and Vasilisa, from the shade of a great oak tree, would sometimes look up at the huge sky and smile. And she always kept her dollie close.
Her step-mother and step-sisters did not know why Vasilisa grew so beautiful while they worked her so hard, but the girl’s immunity to strain seemed to make them more determined to make her suffer and soon she was doing more work than was even needed in the little cottage. But even so, she was radiant, and as she grew, her body became strong, but not hardened, and she felt the same strength deep inside of her though the softness still showed on her face. The dollie showed her herbs to make her healthy and strong and to keep her from being sunburned.
Eventually, Vasilisa’s father was forced to leave for a time. He was not worried. He still believed that his new wife cared for Vasilisa and would take care of her while he was away. “I will be back as soon as I can, my love,” he said to his daughter, and left without a cloud above him. But with him gone, the woman found new ways to torment Vasilisa, forcing her to stay up late into the night weaving and knitting. And every morning, she became more furious as Vasilisa seemed rested and rejuvenated while all the work was done. Of course, after the woman and her two spoiled daughters were asleep, Vasilisa would wake her dollie with a bit of food and ask for help. “Sleep, Vasilisa,” her dollie would say, “and let me do the work.” As the sun was about to rise, dollie would finish her work and wake Vasilisa so that she would be up when the woman came in to check on her.
One night, menaced by the sight of beautiful Vasilisa, her step-mother devised a plan. She would see how Vasilisa was unaffected by the work by forcing her own daughters to stay with her through the night. “Girls,” she said, “None of you shall sleep tonight. There are three things that need to be done by the morning: one of you must make lace, another, knit stockings, and a third shall spin.” After making her announcement, she lit a small lamp and went to bed. Soon, though, the light began to fade and all three girls were finding it difficult to complete their tasks. At last, the light went out completely. “Now what shall be done!?” the stepmother’s daughters exclaimed.
Though there was nothing in the small cottage to create more light, all of the girls were too frightened to leave. You see, the nearest house was through the woods, but within the woods lived a witch, Baba Yaga who, it was said, ate anyone to pass. The dark night spread out around the house as the girls sat in silence wondering what to do. At once, both of the stepsisters, who were older and meaner, grabbed Vasilisa and said, “You will go. And if you do not, we will wake our mother and say you kept us from our work!”
The wind whipped and Vasilisa’s hair and clothing as she stepped out of the little cottage. It made an eerie sound wending around the house and over the field. Vasilisa clutched her dollie to her breast in the dark cold and wondered what to do. Still holding her dollie close, Vasilisa walked into the wind toward the little garden. Her shoulders hunched up around her, she closed her eyes to the wind and let out a little cry of fright.
Vasilisa reached the garden and stared into the great, dark black of night wondering how she would manage this. She bent down and found a carrot, ready for picking. She pulled it up out of the damp earth and brushed it off with her fingers. She put the tip to her dollie’s mouth and, just as she had done so many times before, dollie came to life. “Oh my dear dollie!” Vasilisa cried, “I don’t know what to do. I have been sent out to get light, but the witch Baba-Yaga lives in these woods and she will eat me if I pass through them. Please help me, dollie. I am afraid.”
Vasilisa looked down at her little dollie, its matted yarn hair and button eyes and waited for a reply. “Vasilisa, do not worry. You shall go into the forest and though it is dark and although you are afraid, no harm will come to you.”
And so, Vasilisa set out into the dark, windy night in search of light for her evil stepsisters.