My Neighbour, Baba Yaga

Baba Yaga wasn’t the sharp-toothed witch that lived in a shrunken hut in the woods. Baba Yaga was my grumpy old Russian neighbour from hell. 

Baba Yaga moved into my quaint neighbourhood some moons ago and already her horrible curse of misery plagued the town. On Sahmain, when the fresh-faced children knocked door to door she chased them down her driveway with a beaten cane and withered fingers, yelling a most grievous curse in Russian; 

“Idi v’banyu!”

What used to be a lively and leafy street with children riding their bikes in spring-time became a dreary prison with lights shut off at eight sharp each evening. Bikes were left fallen in driveways, pleading for help as rust began to consume them. Children looked through pinpricks of sunlight through shutters hopelessly as their soccer balls sat deflated in driveways and dolls half-chewed by the carnivorous crows. But the convicts had suffered long enough. Baba Yaga could take her beady yellow eyes and grimace to another forsaken street. 

Pitchforks and torches in hand, we matched at night to her dark and gloomy cottage, stumbling over human remains (chicken bones) and poisonous herbs (beetroot leaves). Climbing up her steep driveway, we shuddered under the dark and nefarious canopy of her oak trees. However our fearless town leader, blonde Meriam, pursed her lips and banged furiously on the witches door. 

Crucifixes were clutched and holy water ready to be sprayed as a slow grinding sound approached the door. 

Eekkkkk

Rarrrrrrr-

Sweat beaded on Meriam’s brow, as it did on all of ours. 

Clink.

Clink.

Waiting for the witch, our hearts beat furiously in unison as we began to imagine the worst of fates; being tossed into her large cauldron to be boiled alive or, shoved into her coal-oven to make a lovely cherry pie filling. Shuddering at these images, a high-pitched snarl reverbated against the wooden door, shaking the worn deck below us. 

“Errrr-”

Clutching arm in arm, we refused to cower against Baba Yaga’s formidable figure; she had to go, for the sake of our children. Russian curses and spells echoed behind the door as we signed the cross and puffed out our chests, ready to face the old witch. 

“What!?”

  Baba Yaga creaked the door open; her white robe clutched to her chest and simple grey slippers adorning her feet. Her wild grey hair was tied back in a simple braid, as if we interrupted a sacrificial altar ritual. Silence coursed through the meagre crowd whose bravado had been sucked up by the chill in the air. 

“It’s night-time you Svoloch, what do you want?”

The mob pushed Meriam forward guilty and she forced her best smile, though it quivered at the sides of her hastily applied red. She opened her mouth-

“There’s a demon behind her!”

“Ahhhhh!”

The crowd fled back down her driveway and stumbled over loose stones, until just three members of the convicts were left, with Baba Yaga staring us down amusedly. 

“Zaraza! Don’t be an idiot. That’s my cat, Pushok.”

A creaky groan pushed forward as well as a timid high-pitched meow, coming from the little beast. Slowly approaching forward, we noticed it was a scruffy black cat with a bitten ear and one eye that had shrunken in. But it was the metal contraption attached to its torso that had piqued our interest; a set of wheels was secured around its missing back legs.

“Your stupid children hit it with their bike one day and it badly injured its legs. I found it mewing half-stuck in the gutter. I had to take it in and now I nurse it back to health.”

Meriam patted her polka-dot cotton frock without making eye contact.

“That’s why I do not like you or your children, she cannot see properly and is scared by their wild behaviour up and down the street. You need to better teach manners to your kids. No respect to my Pushok.”

Baba Yaga groaned and reached down to scratch Pushok’s ears, a reverberating purr came from the small creature as it pushed greedily into her hand for more. It was scratchy and horrible against the ears of the townspeople, used to the manicured purrs of their ragdolls.   

Meriam cleared her throat, readying an over the top and slathered apology-

“Psh,” Baba Yaga tsked. “Go away, I don't want to hear it.”

Baba Yaga turned and shut the door on our noses, with twinkling wheels and a horrible meow echoing down her hallway. 

Later on, we found out Baba Yaga’s does indeed make a very delicious cherry pie.