Tea With Aunty

Your tea is tolerable? Can I get you anything else? No? Good. You’ve come to ask Aunty about Baba Yaga. Sit. Sip. Have a biscuit. I will tell you what I know, but you mustn’t be upset with me when you hear it. Promise? Very well.

Do not be fooled. She has chosen the façade of the homo sapiens species, but she is not one of us. Ancient, cunning and cruel, Baba Yaga is the world’s first witch.

She has been the subject of much speculation and the source of countless stories over the centuries, though many of them are outrageous and egregiously erroneous, you must understand. I imagine you have looked up her Wikipedia page? Really? Well, then let me tell you there’s no need.

How old, you wonder? I didn’t say old. I said ancient.

She conducted symphonies in the wild storms of infant Earth and danced across the rise and fall of molten rock in the roiling seas. She witnessed the birth of greenery and coaxed critters from the water to dry land. She beheld the making and the breaking of Pangea and the birth and extinction of many mighty beasts. She drifted through Jurassic jungles and blew across glaciers. She lived amongst the tigers and the dragons, the hobbits and the Neanderthals. She whispered the secret of fire in man’s ear and gifted him the spear.

All this I can only assume, of course. There is no knowing Baba Yaga. It is not within the realm of human capability to understand an entity so far beyond our memory.

What I do know, is that at some point after the migration of man, Baba Yaga settled down in the deep dark forests of Eastern Europe. She built herself a mobile home that, by some malicious magic, grew a pair of chicken legs. Do not scoff! It is true - I have seen them! And over the last few thousand years—a blink of time to Baba Yaga!—she has been travelling the trees, eating children, devouring young men, leading lost strangers to their doom, mixing poisonous potions, and counselling many of history’s finest and most infamous witches. 

Stepmothers with mirrors, faeries with spinning needles, old ladies in edible huts. Baba Yaga was their mother, grandmother, friend, advisor, and champion. She sought them out young, kindled their cruelty, and then cackled in delight at their demise. Crushed by boulders, consumed by hellfire, shoved into their own ovens…Baba Yaga found great humour in her proud protégés’ inability to overcome pretty girls, little children, and handsome heroes. You can thank her for that book of fairy tales I read to you as a girl, even more so than those silly brothers who wrote them.  

Now, here we are, in the twenty-first century. I think we can thank our lucky stars that Baba Yaga has not taken on any apprentices for some time—as far as we know anyways. Why? I can only speculate. Maybe she got bored with it. Maybe she’s simply annoyed with us. We’ve cut down her forests, and there are less places for her chicken house to hide. I gather that is why she has moved into the city and now lives in plain sight.

Yes, here, in Prague. Go look for yourself. Out the window. To the right. Your other right, my darling. That house down the street, that one on the corner—green and brown, windows milky with mist and caked with dirt, dried herbs and headless chickens dangling above the crooked door—that’s Baba Yaga’s house. It could stand up on its chicken legs at any moment now, right before your eyes, and walk away. Don’t worry, I don’t think it will. Please remove your nose from the glass. You’ve left a smudge. Come, sit.

I’m sure you’ve seen her around town. She shuffles through the streets in the disguise of human decay. She wears many layers and orthopedic shoes and blocky sunglasses over her bifocals. Her long hooked nose sprouts dark stubble and hangs over a permanent grimacing grin. Behind stretched thin lips, her teeth are yellow and spotty, and clack around a forked tongue, black as coal. She keeps her hood pulled up to hide stark white hair that, when unbound, cascades in waves of moonlight to the ground.

It is beautiful hair, yes, but do not forget everything else I’ve just told you in regards to her merciless nature! You would do well to be afraid. When you see her, do not cross her. You must not anger her. Best to avoid any interaction at all. Avert your eyes and cross the street when you see her hunched and hobbling toward you. Although Baba Yaga and I have come to an understanding, she’s easily irritated, and once she raises a gnarled finger in your direction, you will find yourself compelled to visit the chicken house down on the corner. I do not know what would happen to you—and I never want to find out—but I do know that those who go in never come back out.

No, my dear girl, I do not believe you will find your young man, not now that he’s crossed her threshold. Yes, I did ask him to inquire with her about some herbs. Remember how I said Baba Yaga and I have an understanding? One that keeps us safe. Keeps you safe. It’s a promise I made to your parents before their passing, and I intend to see it through. As long as we continue to keep her satisfied, and you are mindful to keep away, we will live in perfect harmony with our witchy neighbor. 

Oh my dear. You promised you wouldn’t be upset. I am terribly sorry for your loss, although to be quite frank my darling, he was truly – what would you call it? A dud. You mustn’t weep. Other fish, and all that. No, I won’t send all of them to Baba Yaga’s door. I’ve promised her your firstborn as well, when it arrives. More tea?