Shadows of the Ancestors

A shadow fell into the crossroads as I lowered my spindle. I stiffened, holding my breath I called out, “Who comes?” The reply came in the wind as much as it did psychically, a cold whisper, taunting, “Weaver, weaver wonder thou, I am the oldest grandmother of them all.” The shadow morphed on the road ahead, as its possessor whispered again, “You called upon your ancestors did you not?” Shadowed human form morphed, twisting long and further until the shape of the shadow looked more house like than humanlike. I had done as the speaker said, but I was sensing this was not who I’d expected.

I stood from the place where I’d been weaving simple spells and prayers to my ancestors, and looked long at the shadow ahead of me before replying. “Yes, grandmother, I called upon my ancestors to bless the harvest - it’s been a hard year and I’m worried we won’t make it through the winter. Vitaly is sick, father has been sent to the frontlines and it’s all mama and I could do to keep up with the work...” I stopped as the ground behind me shook, still not daring to look behind me. The shadow moved again, getting taller and taller like a house on stilts. My heart thundered in my chest as I started again, “...I just thought an offering at the crossroads might be,” I was cut off by the spirit. “More powerful? Yes, yes of course, the crossroads are meant for heavy lifting dear which is why you should never be certain of whom you might meet here. Now turn your back and let me see you, don’t be shy.” The speaker’s intonation rocked between irritated and amused.

Curiosity and desperation picked at the edges of my mind. The small part of my brain inherited from the beginnings of time surged like I was about to face a predator. Eyes downcast, I began to turn around, to face the way from which I came and the visitor I’d summoned with my offering. Great feet of talons stood ten feet from me beneath a wooden cottage with a front porch adorned by skulls atop the rail posts, one post was empty. The door to the cottage stood open and an old woman was framed in the opening, stooped and gripping a wooden cane with a floral head scarf around her hair just like any other grandmother. A long hooked nose graced the center of her face above a toothy crooked grin, beneath sharp and wise eyes.

One look and I knew who had heard my calls. In a hundred years, in a thousand, in a millennia I’d have never thought I could call upon her! I stared at her slack jawed, “Close your mouth child, I haven’t decided if you’re stupid or not and that’s not helping your case.”

“But I called on my ancestors, how did you hear my call, oh great grandmother?” I sputtered in disbelief, for this could be none other than Baba Yaga, Morana, Hecate - the Morrigan! A peasant like myself, just a farm girl - no vedma or molfar to speak of, it’s unheard of. Baba Yaga chuckled, “I’m all ancestors that ever were and ever will be. I hear all calls at the crossroads, occasionally I hear one that moves me to learn more. You are no vedma, dear, that is certain,” she grinned her jagged toothy grin and took a step forward onto the porch, “but an offering is an offering and I’ve been bored as sin lately. Tell me, if I were you and you were me - what would you do now?”

My mind spun in circles, how do you answer such a question posed by such a person? All know Baba Yaga is as vengeful as she is benevolent, all know her to riddle and trick. She is older than time and a friend or an enemy - depending on the answers you give her. I looked up at the porch rail and had the sense I could become very familiar with that empty post if I didn’t handle this correctly, then what of Vitaly and mama? “If I were you and you were me? I’d, I would bless the harvest!” I ventured after a moment. “Why?” She inquired sharply. I thought harder, “Because I’ve asked and made an offering?” 

Baba Yaga took another step closer, the door behind her slammed shut as a large mortar dropped on the ground from the bottom of the house between the legs it stood on. She snapped her fingers and the mortar moved up to the gate of the porch, she gathered her skirts and stepped in. Snapping her fingers a second time the mortar once more returned to the ground and the great Baba Yaga was now eye level with me, the expression on her face somewhere between amusement and vexed. “I do not appreciate serpent like conversation, do not chase your tail asking questions in answer to questions. Why should I call upon my power, the spirits of the lands, waters and forests to bless you child? Why you?” She leaned closer and peered at me over her beak. “I’m waiting.” She tapped the edge of the mortar with fingers tipped in nails as appealing as her teeth.

My shoulders sank, I wasn’t sure what to say and the pickle I’d found myself in was starting to dawn on me. This great legend could do what she wished with me, she could grant all my wishes, she could make my life harder, she could add my skull to her collection. “It’s not because I am owed anything, it’s not because I am special but I want to protect my family, our land, the livestock - grandmother, I’d trade this toil and place my head upon that last post myself if I knew you’d save the harvest so my family won’t starve this winter!” I stared at my feet, I knew I hadn’t impressed her and the worst feeling was feeling helpless and useless. “I never meant to call you for this task, I’d hoped only that my grandparents would stay closer to us this winter and keep us safe. That you’d heard me is truly an honor, that you’ve come…”

“Not stupid, just floundering. Hmmph. You’re right, I answered a call meant for others. I heard the plea and wanted to see. I think my lonely post will remain so for now so stop fretting about losing your head child. Take this sheaf of grain and listen very carefully.” She produced a single sheaf from a satchel around her waist and handed it to me. Reverently I took it and held it against my heart, nodding as she continued. “Sweep your home at sunrise on the third day of harvest with the sheaf - DO NOT sweep out the door, remember that and keep up. After sweeping, gather the dirt from the floor in the center of your home and put it in a pot…gather the sheath and a hand trowel. You will bury the dirt 3 acres away from your farm near a bubbling creek. Do bring a small treat for the water nymphs, it will make the task less dangerous.”

I wished I had a paper and something to write with as she rattled off instructions, alas my memory would have to suffice. “After burying the dirt and treating the nymphs, take 15 paces and do not look behind you. Sit. Wait one hour before returning to your farm, again, do not look behind you. Once you reach your home, call on your domovyk to escort you through the door. The house spirit will not allow anything to follow you without a fight.”

“Yes grandmother, I will do as you say. I promise. Thank you! What do I do with the sheaf after I return?” Not wanting to take any missteps in the ritual prescribed, I wanted to be sure I had all the instructions. She chuckled, “No, not stupid this one. Keep it on your family altar, the sheaf will house your ancestors for the winter. Return to this crossroads with it by the third day of green week in the spring.” And with that, I was alone, there was no house on legs in my view, no witch in her flying mortar before me. I looked around me and thought perhaps I’d been dreaming, but no - I still held the sheaf of wheat in my hands. A wind rustled my vest and skirts and I swore I heard, “Remember, third day of green week.”

So I did what the old one told me to do, I swept the cottage as Vitaly slept in the sick bed over the hearth and mama was tending to the animals in the yard. I gathered the dirt in a pot in the center of the home. Three acres I traveled to the bubbling creek and as I arrived I put the pot and my trowel on the ground. Something splashed in the creek nearby, I turned and saw the top of a woman’s head - Rusalky! The water nymphs! They were watching me carefully as I pulled a long embroidered cloth from my bag. I approached the creek shore and the nymph disappeared, I saw a ripple in the water further up the creek. Hanging the cloth from a branch near the water, I turned back to my work. While toiling in the dirt I heard another splash, looking to my right at the creek the cloth I’d left as an offering was gone. I suppose this was what Baba Yaga meant about treating the nymphs as I heard no more splashing after they took the cloth.

I marched fifteen paces ahead once the pot was buried without looking behind me, I sat on a small log and watched as the sun rose higher lighting the fields of wheat like a golden sea. The journey home seemed longer than the way there in the early morning, I fought the urge to look behind me until I saw the lane leading up to our family cottage. At the front door I declared, “Grandpa Domovyk, escort me over the threshold - leave any lingering attachments at the door please!” To my surprise, my front door swung open and I took this as a sign that the ancestor spirit would aid me. Astonishment truly set in when I saw Vitaly sitting at the table under the pokut, our family altar, he looked well! “Vitaly! Are you well?” 

“Yes, Vika, I feel stronger today - is there any porridge?” my brother asked me as the color started to come back to his features. “Yes, Vitaly, mama made some this morning.” I helped him with his meal and as he ate I reverently placed the sheaf of wheat on the altar. “That’s a nice sheaf, Vika, where did you get it?” Vitaly asked between bites. I smiled, “It was a gift from the ancestors, Vitaly, I will give it back in spring.” I said no more.