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Once upon a time [1], in a land far away [2], there lived a widow and a widower who had married one another. The man had a daughter who was fifteen, and so had the woman; the man’s daughter was a gentle soul, whose heart overflowed with kindness and consideration for others, while the woman’s daughter was peevish, strange, and ill-tempered. [3] Nastenka was the name of the man’s daughter, and the woman’s daughter was called Marfushka.
As so often happens in stories like this one, the woman was terribly jealous that Nastenka was much better liked than Marfushka. She was herself even more ill-tempered than her daughter, and took it out ferociously on her husband and stepchild. Nastenka’s father was a mild-mannered man by nature, and was soon terrorized into muteness by her threats and shouting no matter what he tried to appease her; Nastenka fared no better in trying to avoid her stepmother’s wrath. The woman cut off Nastenka’s braid, leaving her hair raggedly short above the back of her neck even in the coldest seasons; she stopped using her stepdaughter’s name, instead calling her “little viper”, “witchling”, “dirty scullion”, and many other awful epithets. She gave Nastenka the most difficult chores to do around the house, and if the girl so much as looked like she was thinking of protesting, she would threaten to beat Nastenka’s father.
But things were not completely bleak for Nastenka. She had an unexpected friend: a little sparrow with black wings and bright eyes, who would perch in her hand or on her shoulder. Whenever the sparrow was near, strange good luck would befall Nastenka—perhaps she might find a copper in the road, or run into a kindly stranger with some bread and cheese to spare, or stumble across a tree or bush full of ripe fruit. Or perhaps, best of all, she would run into her childhood friend Vanya the shepherd’s son, who always had a kind word for her and was happy to share his modest meals. This had not escaped her notice, and she called the sparrow her little angel when she spoke to it.
Eventually, the woman’s dislike of her stepdaughter, already sour, curdled into true hatred. So consuming was this hate that soon all she could think of was how to be rid of the girl for good. Summer became autumn, and autumn became winter, and when the weather was at its bitterest and the snow was thick upon the ground she seized her chance to act. Under the pretext of gathering firewood, she hauled Nastenka into the family’s sleigh with nothing but a thin shawl around her shoulders and drove her into the woods.
“Here, viper child,” she ordered, “go and gather the driest wood you can find for our stove. I’ll wait by the sleigh.”
Nearly as soon as the girl was out of earshot, her stepmother clambered back into the sleigh and drove off.
It didn’t take very long for Nastenka to realize that she had been abandoned. She wept, and the tears froze in her eyelashes; she tried to draw the shawl tight around her shoulders, but only shivered harder.
It was only when she heard an inquisitive chirp that Nastenka looked up, and discovered her sparrow friend sitting in the snow before her, looking up at her with its brilliant eyes.
“Little angel,” she managed, through her tears, “I’m afraid this is where we part ways. You’ve been very kind to me, and I shall miss you, but perhaps we’ll meet again in Heaven.”
The sparrow hopped forward, its head cocked as if it wanted to say something. But then, all of a sudden, it seemed to hear something far away. It fluttered its black wings excitedly, then sprang into the air and darted off between the frost-covered trees. Nastenka’s heart faltered, and for just an instant (though not for the first time) she wondered if maybe she had really done something terrible and not known it—after all, if her stepmother hated her enough to leave her out in the cold to die and her only friend abandoned her, had she not done something to deserve it?
This doubt only lasted a few dark moments. Soon Nastenka became aware of the sound of sleigh bells and the patter of hooves tamping down the snow—and of a frantic chirping weaving itself between those sounds.
As she watched, astonished, a beautiful sleigh slid into view, drawn by three sturdy white horses. Driving the sleigh was a man dressed all in white, his hair as white as a grandfather’s but his face as beardless as a youth’s, with a high collar of gold and scarlet peeking above the fluffy fur lapels of his beautifully embroidered cloak. Strangest of all, he wore a pair of shiny silver lenses to cover his eyes.
He shouted some word of command, and the horses stopped, as politely as if they understood his request. The strange man nearly leaped from the sleigh, making his way straight towards her—and Nastenka was astonished to realize that her sparrow was perched on the man’s shoulder.
“You there, little girl.” The stranger’s voice was soft and resonant. “Has someone left you here all alone?”
Nastenka, who was canny enough to recognize an otherworldly figure when she saw one, tried to scrub away her half-frozen tears and put on a brave face.
“Yes, but I’m quite all right,” she replied. She had heard enough stories of people inadvertently being rude to the magical creatures that shared their world to understand that one should be very careful when speaking to them.
The stranger frowned, not in anger but in confusion.
“It’s getting close to midwinter, and you’ve no coat. You must be freezing.”
“Oh—I’m warm enough, Grandfather Frost.”
The sparrow twittered, a sound that was almost like laughter; the stranger’s frown softened into something Nastenka would have thought too warm for a creature of cold and ice.
“You poor thing,” said Grandfather Frost, or at least who Nastenka believed to be Grandfather Frost. “Someone has taught you not to complain.”
He shrugged off his cloak, with the sparrow still clinging to it, and draped it over Nastenka’s shoulders. It was warm, lined with finer furs than any she had ever seen before, and it smelled good. Almost at once the sparrow hopped along the shoulder of the cloak to nestle in the crook of Nastenka’s neck, and though it was only a small bird she felt as though someone had given her a reassuring hug.
“Come on, up you get.” Grandfather Frost offered her a mittened hand, which she took gratefully. “Let’s get some soup into you and warm you up.”
There were furs and blankets aplenty in the sleigh; the sparrow jumped down to pluck and tug at them until Nastenka had wrapped herself in enough of them to keep the winter winds from biting at her skin. The horses began their steady trot onward at Grandfather Frost’s word, drawing the sleigh through the snowy woods, and between the soft jingle of the bells and the overwhelming exhaustion of the despair and relief of the past hour, Nastenka soon felt her eyelids begin to droop. Within minutes she was fast asleep, snuggled up in a greater comfort than she’d known in months.
When she woke, she was surprised to discover herself tucked into a large soft bed, still wrapped in warmth. She was in a house—a rather small house, now that she thought about it, for she had always assumed Grandfather Frost lived in a grand palace of ice. Still, it was cozy and beautifully decorated, and not at all cold.
Gradually, she became aware of voices somewhere nearby. Although she could not understand the language they were speaking, a third-person omniscient narrator could, so if she had been listening with a narrator’s perception, this is what she would have heard:
“—should really see Kyiv if you haven’t already, it’s a lovely city. Anyways, once I got Vladimir out of his brother’s sights [4], I decided to come out to the countryside for a while. See if I could, I don’t know, foment some peace among people who really need it.”
“And that’s how you found her?”
“Yeah. Poor kid, her stepmother’s a real piece of work. I’ve been trying to turn her situation around without using any big flashy miracles, but this was just too much.”
“I suppose you’re lucky I was in the area.”
“I always am, when you’re in the area.”
“You old romantic.”
“Guilty as charged.”
By this time, Nastenka’s empty belly had distracted her from the conversation entirely. She sat up, gently pushing quilts and furs off of herself, and at their rustling the voices in the other room went still. Then there were footsteps, and the faint fluttering of wings, and Grandfather Frost peered around the doorway of the room.
“Ah, you’re awake.” He smiled, and gestured for her to come closer. “There’s good rye bread and shchi, and kasha with onions and butter. [5] Come and sit with me, and eat as much as you like.”
Nastenka bowed, as was only polite when speaking with a supernatural being. “Thank you, Grandfather Frost.”
“Oh—no need to be so formal. I appreciate your good manners, but you’ve already had a long day. Come along.”
She followed him into the next room, where a small table stood, and the rich smells of good food thickened the warm air. On the back of a chair sat her sparrow, who chirped cheerfully upon seeing her and flitted its black wings. Nearly as soon as she sat down, the sparrow hopped onto her shoulder and pressed its head briefly against her cheek; once again she felt as if she were being hugged.
Grandfather Frost seated himself opposite her at the table, and gestured for Nastenka to help herself from the plates that sat between them. Gratefully she began to eat and drink until the color came back into her cheeks and her whole body felt warm inside and out, and a sense of contentment began to wash over her. Everything was delicious—even the water, which was crisp and cool and seemed to have some sort of honey dissolved in it—and eventually Nastenka was quite full and happier than she had felt in some time.
Once she had eaten and drunk enough, Grandfather Frost leaned forward slightly, smiling kindly at her.
“Now then, Nastenka,” he said, “a little bird tells me that you’ve had quite a difficult time of things lately. I should like to help you, if I can. If you were to have, say, three wishes just for yourself, what would you like?”
Nastenka considered this. No one had asked her what she wanted in a very long time—at least not without it being some kind of trap—and so she had become accustomed to keeping those thoughts private. Still, she was being asked by someone who had shown her kindness and hospitality, and someone who knew her sparrow friend at that.
“Well,” she replied, cautiously, “first of all, I would wish for my mother’s loom and spindle back.”
“Back? Where did they go?”
“Stepmother sold them when she married my father. She said it was bad enough having me around as a reminder of a dead woman. She doesn’t like to let me spin or weave, either—she says it’s much too gentle and easy work for someone like me.”
The sparrow chirped in a way that almost sounded indignant on her behalf.
“Second of all, I’d wish for a dowry that would let me marry someone I liked,” she continued. For a moment she thought of gentle Vanya, who liked to tell her about the new lambs in his family’s flock. “Stepmother keeps threatening to marry me off to the first vagabond who asks once I’m of age, [6] but… I would wish for my own choice of husband.”
“Of course,” said Grandfather Frost, his voice reassuring and warm. “And your third wish?”
Nastenka thought for a moment longer.
“I would wish for the rest of my life to be better than what’s already befallen,” she said at last.
Though his eyes were still hidden, Grandfather Frost’s expression was gentle as he reached over to cover one of her hands with his own. She expected his fingers to be chilly, but they felt quite human.
“I think I can help you. And I would very much like to, if you would allow me.”
Nastenka’s heart leaped with an unknown hope. “Oh—oh, thank you, thank you very much! What must I do?”
The sparrow hopped onto their clasped hands and let out a quick burst of song, which made Grandfather Frost’s smile widen.
“Only make me a promise.”
“Anything,” Nastenka said, earnestly.
“Promise me you will learn to speak up when you’re too cold, and that you will only marry someone who will listen to you when you do.”
Again Nastenka thought of Vanya, who shared his lunch with her even when he had very little himself, and who always waited for an invitation before he sat beside her.
“I promise, Grandfather Frost.”
“Good.” He squeezed her hand, and the sparrow jumped into the air to settle on the back of an empty chair as he withdrew. “I’ll send you home in the morning. Meanwhile, do you like music?”
“Very much,” Nastenka said, for she did.
“Excellent. Come sit by the fire, I’ll play you something.”
So she seated herself by the hearth, and watched as Grandfather Frost took a strange sort of harp [7] down from the mantelpiece. He pulled his chair up to the edge of the hearth, and beckoned to the sparrow, who obligingly flitted over to perch on his shoulder.
Then Grandfather Frost began to play, and what he played was the sweetest song Nastenka had ever heard. It seemed to whisper to her very imagination, conjuring up images of all the things that made her happiest: the feel of soft yarn between her fingertips, the sight of flowering apple trees whose branches bore great pink clouds of blossom, her father’s smile. She listened, enchanted, until drowsiness began to settle over her again, and eventually dozed off with the beautiful melody wrapped around her like a heavy quilt.
The next morning, back in the village, a search party was preparing to set out. Nastenka’s father was half wild with grief and panic, for as soon as he learned that his child had been abandoned in the woods he found his dormant courage, and spent much of the afternoon and night berating his wife for her cruelty. Like most bullies, she had not anticipated her husband fighting back, and so had been cowed into silence.
Just as Nastenka’s father was about to begin giving instructions to the villagers who had agreed to come look for the girl with him, one of the men he had recruited gasped, eyes widening with sudden wonder. For, riding into the village on a thickly furred unicorn [8], was Nastenka herself, wrapped in a cloak lined with the finest white and silver furs. Her cheeks were rosy and her smile wide and warm, and the unicorn held its head up as proudly as if it carried a queen on its back.
Nastenka’s father rushed forward to help her down, and then hugged and kissed her a hundred times. They both wept for joy, and a ragged cheer went up from the brave men who had volunteered to search for her and had feared the worst. While they were celebrating, the unicorn slipped away, its step so light it left nearly no tracks upon the fresh snow.
Eventually, when they had recovered themselves a little, Nastenka’s father stepped back to look at her. “But—how did you survive the night, and where did you get that cloak?”
“Grandfather Frost found me in the wood, and let me stay the night at his home.”
By now, the whole village had come out to see what was going on, and soon ripples of whispering spread outward from the girl and her father, passing along the story. Everyone had of course heard of Grandfather Frost—for who else would cover the trees in snow and make the world beautiful in the depths of winter?—but no one had ever actually seen him.
“Before he sent me back, he gave me his cloak, and these.” And she held up her hands to show them to her father: three roundish, brown nuts. “He told me to open them once I arrived home.”
These being magic nuts, their shells were far easier to open than ordinary nuts. With little more than a touch Nastenka’s father opened the first one—and seemingly out of nowhere, a brightly painted spindle fell into Nastenka’s open palm. Both of them cried out almost in unison, for they recognized the cheerful flower designs and the familiar shape: it was her mother’s old spindle, which her stepmother had sold long ago, good as new.
“A miracle,” Nastenka’s father breathed.
He opened the second nut, and there was a loud rattling from the direction of their house. Together father and daughter rushed to their home—and, to their astonishment, saw the old familiar loom standing in the same corner where it had stood for so many years.
“A miracle,” Nastenka gasped.
She opened the last nut herself, and with a solid thump a small trunk landed at her feet. At once she knelt to open it, and was shocked to see that it was full to the brim with richly embroidered cloth and bright silver coins.
“A miracle,” said the villagers who saw, the word leaping from person to person like wildfire.
Naturally such a strange and wonderful thing called for a celebration. The villagers swept Nastenka and her father up in a swirl of cheering and song, and the rest of the day was spent feasting and drinking and repeating the wonderful story.
Only the stepmother and Marfushka were left out of the revelry. Of course the stepmother tried to pocket some of the coins, but she found them so cold to the touch that they burned her hands and she had no choice but to drop them back into the trunk.
Her heart nearly sizzled with jealousy in her chest. How dare this girl who she hated be given riches and lovely things while her own daughter got nothing? Anger and shame and ambition howled through her whole body, not only in that moment but for days afterward—she was consumed by the thought of getting something even better for Marfushka, so she could regain the upper hand and see Nastenka intimidated once more.
Barely a week had passed before she made up her mind to act. She dressed Marfushka in her warmest clothes and the thickest coat she could find, and gave her bread and cheese to keep in her pockets, and despite Marfushka’s protests she hauled her daughter into the sleigh and drove her to the wood.
“Never you worry, my sweet girl,” her mother said, though her tone was hot with vengeance. “You’ll get much better than that brat, you’ll see.”
And she left Marfushka beneath a pine tree in the wood, and drove away too quickly for her daughter to follow.
Despite being warmly dressed, Marfushka soon felt the sharp winds bite at her and the snow sting her cheeks. She tried to distract herself by looking for the tracks of animals or other sleighs in the snow, but as the day went on and the shadows grew longer, she found it difficult to think of anything except how cold she was.
All at once—as often happens in a forest, where noises may echo for long distances or spring from nowhere—she heard the jingle of sleigh bells nearby. Shivering, Marfushka pushed herself to her feet and began to make her way towards the sound.
Gliding through the wood, not too far away, was the selfsame sleigh Nastenka had seen, again driven by a strange white-haired man with silver lenses over his eyes and a high gold and red collar. But this time there was a skinny fellow sitting beside him, dressed in black and white, with a long braid like a maiden’s falling over his shoulder.
“Hey!” Marfushka shouted. “Hey, you! Stop!”
Both men in the sleigh looked up, startled, and the white-haired man shouted a word to his horses that Marfushka could not understand. They stopped at once, and he stood up, head tilted as if he were examining her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Not at all.” Marfushka’s voice might have had the edge of a whine to it, but by now she was too cold to care. “I’m almost frozen through. Mother left me out here hours ago to get three wishes from Grandfather Frost like my stepsister, and I’ve eaten all my bread and cheese and my nose feels like it’s about to fall off.”
The two men glanced at one another briefly before the driver spoke again.
“Well, that certainly won’t do.” He beckoned her closer. “Come on, into the sleigh with you, and you can tell me all about it when we get home.”
Marfushka needed no further encouragement. Eagerly she climbed into the sleigh, and nearly dived into the furs and blankets, wrapping herself up tight in them. She was so absorbed in trying to warm herself up that she scarcely felt the sleigh begin to move again.
As her shivering began to subside, she heard the two men begin to talk to one another in some unknown language. If she had been able to listen with a narrator’s understanding of things, this is what she would have heard:
“Bad enough they left one little girl out in the woods. Now we’ve got another one to deal with. D’you suppose they’re going to try and keep at it until everyone’s had three wishes?”
“I hope not. Bloody hell. Er, no offense.”
“None taken, angel. Did I hear her right? That’s the stepsister?”
“Yep, the one the mother favors. Wouldn’t put it past her to have sent the kid here with a list of demands.”
“We’re going to have to do something about that. Can’t have whole villages start dumping their children in the woods hoping to get some coin out of it.”
“Agreed. We’ll come up with something.”
They drove on as the sun sank low behind the trees, and eventually the sleigh drew up to a small, comfortable house in a clearing. The fellow in the silver lenses helped Marfushka down and brought her inside—and just as Nastenka had said, there was a table already laid with dishes full of good warm food and a fire in the fireplace.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” he said, kindly. “My friend here will hang up your coat.”
Marfushka shrugged the coat off, and the thin fellow took it for her and hung it by the door. She was still fairly hesitant about this whole business—even if it seemed obvious that the white-haired stranger was indeed Grandfather Frost, she’d had to endure quite a long day in the freezing cold woods to meet him.
“Are you going to give me three wishes like Nastenka?” she blurted out. She’d had a frankly miserable day, and when you’re having a rough go of things politeness tends to falll lower on your list of priorities.
Grandfather Frost turned to her. Though she couldn’t see his eyes beneath the silver lenses, she felt him looking at her.
“Only, the thing is—my mother told me there are things I should ask you for, but I’d rather not bother with them, if it’s all the same to you.”
The thin fellow and Grandfather Frost glanced at one another again for a moment.
“So this was your mother’s idea?” the thin fellow asked.
“Yes. She said I should have more than my stepsister, but I’d rather have stayed at home.”
“I don’t blame you.” Grandfather Frost stepped towards her, and put a surprisingly warm hand on her shoulder. “Go ahead and sit down, and tell us all about it.”
So Marfushka sat at the table, though she didn’t touch any of the food yet, while Grandfather Frost and his friend seated themselves opposite her.
“Now. You said your mother wanted you to ask for certain things?”
“That’s right. A big dowry, and a palace, and a stable full of fine horses.”
“But you don’t want them?”
“Not really.”
“What would you rather have, then?”
Marfushka thought for a moment.
“Iron teeth,” she said.
Grandfather Frost’s white eyebrows rose above the rims of his glasses.
“Beg pardon?”
“Iron teeth,” she repeated, “that never rust. The normal kind hurt like crazy if I eat something too hot or too cold. Most of the time they hurt anyway, but Mother says not to complain about it.”
“Ah.” Grandfather Frost seemed to consider this, and then shrugged. “Fair enough, I suppose.”
He snapped his fingers, and at once Marfushka felt a change in her mouth, so sudden it was like hearing a great burst of song in a deep silence. The throbbing ache that plagued her jaws was gone, all at once; without the pain, her thoughts felt clearer and the world seemed less bleak. [9]
For the first time in what felt like months, Marfushka smiled. Like many people who act peevish and bad-tempered, she was not actually wicked at heart, just very unhappy.
“Better?” asked Grandfather Frost.
“Lots,” said Marfushka, and though her new teeth clinked a little, it was almost a pleasant feeling.
“Good. Help yourself to some supper.”
So Marfushka tucked into the dishes that were laid out before her, enjoying every pain-free clink of her new teeth when she bit down on something.
When she had eaten her fill and the very last of the winter cold had shivered its way out of her body, Grandfather Frost’s friend leaned forward a bit and cleared his throat.
“So if you had your own choice,” he said, “you wouldn’t want any of the stuff your mother asked for, is that right?”
“No. She wants me to marry a rich man, but I don’t really want to marry anybody. And nobody around here has ever even seen a palace, so I don’t even know what that would be like, and a stable full of horses sounds like a lot of work.”
“You’re probably right about that. What would make you happy, then? Not your mother, just you.”
Again Marfushka thought it over, and shot a wary look at the two men across the table.
“You won’t laugh?” She was used to having people laugh at her, and didn’t fancy the thought of magical beings doing the same.
“We won’t,” said Grandfather Frost.
“Cross our hearts,” his friend put in.
“Well—I don’t want to get married, but I’d like a friend. And if I had to pick somewhere to live, I’d want a house that could travel by itself. Or something that could fly to ride on. Just so long as I didn’t have to stick around the village for the rest of my life.”
To her surprise, neither of the men laughed at all. Instead they sat back and looked at one another in thoughtful quiet for a minute.
At length Grandfather Frost pulled the silver lenses off of his face. Beneath them, his eyes were blue, with a slitted pupil like a cat’s.
“Have you ever considered a career as a witch?” he asked.
In truth, Marfushka had thought about it, though she knew she shouldn’t have. People didn’t really like witches, just as the other villagers didn’t really like her—but even princes respected witches. A witch knew things that were inscrutable to ordinary people. She could cast spells or break them, and no one could tell her what to do or how to act. No one cared if a witch complained about her teeth or if being pleasant with strangers didn’t come easily to her. And a witch never needed to get married and have a half dozen children.
Marfushka ran her tongue over her new teeth, and nodded slowly.
“Excellent.” Grandfather Frost’s cat eyes twinkled, and he shot a sly look at his friend before pushing his chair back so he could stand up. “Would you mind putting your coat back on for a minute? I’ve got an idea, but we’ll need to go out on the porch for a bit.”
Now that she was good and warm, Marfushka had no objections to stepping outside for a few more minutes. She let Grandfather Frost help her back into her coat, and followed him and his skinny friend out onto the front porch of the house.
Night had fallen, and the light from beyond the house’s windows cast a golden glow on the snow that washed out into deep velvet shadows. The trees were a great tangle of darkness beyond, sinister and beautiful, whispering when the cold wind moved through their branches.
Grandfather Frost reached into one of his fine white sleeves and withdrew a little bone flute, yellowed with age. When he put it to his lips, he began to play a strange tune, one that nearly yowled into the dark. And as he played, Marfushka saw lights begin to appear in the shadows: little round sparks of yellow and orange and green, the brilliant gleam of animal eyes in the night. She watched in astonishment as more than a dozen cats began to pad out of the wood, ears alert and tails swishing, to stand around the house’s front steps.
One let out a curious meow, and Grandfather Frost stopped his playing.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said, addressing the small crowd now gathered in front of the porch. “I have a very special job for one of you. This girl here is going to become a witch, and she needs a companion. It’s good work, and you’ll be well fed. Any takers?”
Marfushka watched as the cats all sniffed the air, no doubt testing her scent to see if they liked it. She’d heard that cats choose their people and not the other way around, but had never expected to be proven right.
After a quiet moment or two, one cat stepped forward. She was thin and grey, with a nicked ear and only one bright orange eye, and her tail had a kink in it as if it had been broken. Curiously she sniffed at the hem of Marfushka’s dress, her whiskers twitching.
Then she butted her head against the girl’s calf, and let out a small and ragged mew. A warmth bloomed in Marfushka’s chest that had nothing to do with the food or the fireplace; she bent down to scratch the back of the cat’s neck, her fingertips finding fur softer than the finest silk.
“Pretty kitty,” she murmured. “Good girl.”
Cats know when they are being complimented, and it had been quite a long time since this one had heard a kind word. She pushed her grey head into Marfushka’s fingers, nearly melting into her touch, and purred so loudly that Marfushka felt it rumbling in her new iron teeth.
“There we go.” Grandfather Frost looked very pleased, his own catlike eyes narrowing with satisfaction. “Now you’ve got a friend for life, I fancy.”
A few plaintive mewls sounded from the crowd of cats around the porch. Grandfather Frost waved his hand, and in a flash of silver scales a mass of small fish dropped out of the air to flop on the snow. The cats all rushed forward to claim their dinner with a cacophony of hungry sounds, except for the grey cat now sprawled contentedly over Marfushka’s feet.
“Let’s head back inside,” said Grandfather Frost. “I think I can grant your other wish too, but first there’s something I’d like you to help us out with. And you,” he added over his shoulder, at the cats, “stick around for a while and you’ll be rewarded for your trouble.”
“You’ve had an idea, then?” A slow smile began to light the thin man’s face.
“Yes, and it’s going to take all of us to pull it off. Here’s what I’ve got in mind…”
The next morning, Marfushka’s mother stood outside their home, dressed in her very finest clothes. She had been bragging all day and night about the riches Grandfather Frost would bestow on her daughter. Not only silver coins, she said proudly, but gold and jewels as well, and dresses fit for a princess—a dozen chests’ worth, at least. Her daughter would be the wealthiest woman in this village or any other on this side of the forest, and would likely marry a prince and bear him a dozen strong sons.
“You wait,” she said, to anyone who would listen. “Marfushka will get the very best of everything. You’ll see.”
Naturally, though the villagers didn’t believe her claims, they were all burning with curiosity to see what would actually happen. So as the sun rose, the woman’s neighbors began to mill about, murmuring to one another about what might befall.
When the sun was just beginning to peep over the topmost branches of the trees, something began to cross the snow towards the village: a sledge bearing only a large wooden box, drawn by a fluffy white cat and a thin black one. Marfushka herself was nowhere to be seen.
“Well,” said her mother, trying to mask her worries, “perhaps she’s already met a prince. Perhaps this is just the invitation to her wedding.”
But when she lifted the lid from the box, there was a terrible sound like a thunderclap. Foul-smelling black smoke began to pour out of the box, and a dozen or more crows sprang into the air, cackling and shrieking. And a voice boomed out, so loud and commanding that every single soul in the village heard it:
“All this and much worse awaits anyone who dares to leave their children in the woods to gain the favor of Grandfather Frost!”
At this the white cat lunged forward and bit Marfushka’s mother hard, just above the top of her boot where her leg was only covered with a thin stocking. The woman screamed in terror, and bolted from the village, with the crows chasing after her. Brave men felt faint and stout-hearted women trembled—and their fear was so great that no one really noticed the booming voice sounded a little like Marfushka’s, or that the crows’ calls resembled meowing a bit.
So Marfushka’s mother fled into the woods. Some said she threw herself on the mercy of the first convent she came across, and spent the rest of her days repenting how she had treated both Nastenka and Marfushka. Some said she ran straight into the clutches of an ill-tempered witch, who turned her into a mangy she-wolf with rotten fangs. Some said she simply froze to death in the pitiless winter woods. Since no one knows for sure, you can decide for yourself what happened, but the fact remains that no one from that village ever saw her again.
Thus freed from the stepmother’s wicked behavior, Nastenka and her father settled into a much happier life. When she came of age, Vanya the shepherd’s son asked for her hand in marriage, which she very gladly gave—and her parents-in-law treated her and her father far more kindly than her stepmother ever had. The wedding was a joyful affair, with so much milk and wine and beer to drink that no one touched a drop of water, and the whole village celebrated for what seemed like a whole week. Vanya made a good husband and a fine partner, for he loved Nastenka well enough to help her warm her hands whenever she was cold, and she loved and trusted him enough to speak up when the cold became too harsh for her to spin or work her loom. She learned to help shear the sheep in her inherited flock and to assist with the lambing in the spring, and she spun and wove to her heart’s content, such fine warm cloth that anyone who wanted a winter jacket came to her for the fabric. She and Vanya had exactly as many children as they wanted [10], and taught those children to choose partners who would listen to them and keep them warm if they were chilly.
Marfushka, on the other hand, learned the secret ways of magic. She made her life far away from the village, in a little hut that could walk under its own power, and many an adventurer or a wayward hunter returned from the woods with tales of an iron-toothed witch in a chicken-legged hut. Sometimes she was quite kind to these adventurers, and sometimes she brought them great grief and mischief—but always the choice was her own to make. Eventually other peevish and strange girls [11] journeyed into the woods to seek out this witch and apprentice themselves to her. She taught them all she knew, and transformed their teeth to iron, and sent them out into the world to make their own choices. Some were wicked and some were good, but they all shared the same name: Baba Yaga. Her grey cat grew fat and sleek under her care, and bore many kittens, quite a few of whom also became witches’ companions. And on certain winter nights the Baba Yaga and her cat would climb into a great mortar and pestle and fly out over the woods, laughing with the sheer glee of freedom beneath a golden sickle moon. Some say that you can still hear her laugh in the midwinter wind, when the weather is cold enough.
And several weeks after the initial incident with the girls, when an angel and a demon parted ways at the end of their assignments, they had good news to report to their respective head offices. The angel called Crowley received a commendation for his work in keeping Prince Vladimir I—who would go on to become the first Christian ruler of the land called Rus—safe from his vengeful brother, and for rewarding the virtue of long-suffering peasants. The demon called Aziraphale received a commendation for establishing a dynasty of witches, and for frightening the daylights out of an entire village with a few magic tricks.
And no one from that village, or dozens of others around, was bothered with the affairs of princes for at least two hundred years—not to mention that no one ever again took their children into the cold woods in hopes of being sent back with riches. [12] But the legend of Grandfather Frost still endures in that part of the world, and even to this day, the angel and demon who were involved laugh about it every now and then over a good bottle of wine.
Footnotes
1. To be more precise, sometime in the late tenth century AD.↩
2. To be even more precise, in a country now known as Russia.↩
3. Whether either of them was, by the standards of the day, especially beautiful or ugly, had nothing to do with the rest of the story. However, let it be said that someone who is insufferable to be around—no matter what they actually look like—is always worse to look at than someone who is truly kind.↩
4. Being quite far from Kyiv or any other city, Nastenka and her family had little knowledge of their rulers as anything but faces on coinage. She would have had no idea that this aforementioned brother was Prince Yaropolk I, who was in the middle of waging a very bloody civil war against several members of his own family. Still, even if she had known, it’s not likely she would have cared, as she had more immediate concerns on her mind.↩
5. For the curious, shchi is a kind of thick soup, and kasha a buckwheat porridge. Slavic cultures have long been able to make extremely palatable meals out of otherwise unremarkable grains.↩
6. Despite what some people may claim, it was not in fact common for children to be married off very young, especially among peasants. Certainly they may have married younger than people generally do today, but even in a less “advanced” time, many children were allowed to be children rather than spouses. Besides, the people who often insist the most loudly that historical precedent should allow the continued existence of child marriage are inevitably people you should keep away from children at all costs.↩
7. This was in fact a Finnish instrument called a kantele, also known as a Baltic psaltery. Though the very first one was supposedly made from a giant fish’s jawbone and the long hair of willing maidens, this one was made of much more ordinary stuff.↩
8. Like many animals, unicorns also grow winter coats, especially in very cold climates.↩
9. Satan may not have invented the toothache, but it certainly made his work in tempting humans to evil much easier. Contrary to popular belief, the advent of modern dentistry was a great blow to the forces of Hell.↩
10. Which was three.↩
11. And more than a few girls whose families were convinced they were boys, for the sisterhood of witchcraft extends far beyond the confines of one’s birth.↩
12. Granted, there was one family in another country that bucked this rule several centuries later by leaving their young son and daughter in the forest, where they stumbled across a different sort of witch than the Baba Yaga.↩