Chapter Text
A long time ago, in the Far Far Away Kingdom… No, that's from a different tale.
Anyway, I don't know when or where, and I won't lie, but once upon a time, the beautiful maiden Marya Maryevna, daughter of Marya Yaginishna, granddaughter of Yaga Akulinishna, was sitting by the open window in her summer room. She wasn't just sitting and lasing there, she was busy with handicraft: she was knitting a shirt for herself, and not just any shirt, but a chainmail one. She was knitting and sighing, wondering how long it would take to knit loops of hot-forged iron under the light of moon and stars, and how many countless, countless loops would be needed to cover her breasts, white and fluffy, like her Mother's. And if she didn't cover them properly, Mother herself would laugh at her and wouldn't take her on the daring hunt next year, for the golden-antlered stag. Because it's unthinkably infamous to approach such a deer without at least the most shabby armor. It can kick with one hoof and make a whole street in the forest, another — a back alley! So, sigh or not sigh, but she couldn't lay down her wondrous knitting needles.
But lo and behold, the wind pulled in black clouds, blocking out both the moon and the stars. Marya peered out the window: well, the sky was completely overcast, so there was no point in doing any craft. She'd have to wait at least an hour, maybe two, for the foul weather to subside.
She lit two overseas-made kerosene lamps with a kindling and sat down at the table. She was about to reread and re-look at the pictures in her favorite lubok, about the maiden Alyonushka, the shaggy monster, and the little scarlet flower — the monster's furry face pictured there was so amusingly outlandish. But she changed her mind: the lamplight was insufficient, and reading isn't like twisting iron onto knitting needles, that could be done almost by touch.
Instead, Marya Maryevna took her mother's gift from her wrought-iron chest, which in turn was a gift from her own mother, from Grandma Yaga, that is. An enchanted trinket, the kind foreign professors call art-ti-phacts, but in Rus' they were called relics. A painted saucer with a ripe apple.
She sniffed the apple, twirled it in her hands — no, it didn't seem to be rotten. So she rolled it around the saucer, chanting the magic phrase: “Roll, roll, an apple, around the saucer, show me cities and fields, forests and seas, the heights of the mountains, and the beauty of the skies!” — and silently wished for the saucer to show her the one with whom her maiden’s heart would flutter.
The light flickered from the saucer, Marya peered into it, and saw a hunting hut, as if peering inside through a window. And in the hut, in the living room, three young men sat at a table. In the middle, there was a well-built young hero, wide across his shoulders, his fists a couple of stones each, his wild curls and short beard gleaming like a reddish flame from the stove, and small freckles on his cheeks. He tore the roasted game into pieces with his fingers, playfully, only the bones were crunching. To his right, a thinner-bodied lad was sitting, with wavy, wheat-colored hair put into a short braid, his eyes narrowed merrily, and his face was a girl's death. He was eating fish, delicately pulling out its bones. To the left, there was a dark-haired and puny youth — it was unclear what kept his soul in such a frail body. He stuck his nose in the scroll, ruffled his short hair thoughtfully, and completely forgot about food until a neighbor shoved a piece of game right under his small-mustachioed nose.
Marya Maryevna looked at the young men, saddened, and waved her sleeve over the saucer. Again it was showing such boring stuff; even the lubok about the little scarlet flower was more interesting. Maybe there was a worm in the apple? It was so honey-sweet and juicy, what a bug wouldn't nibble on it? She picked up the apple and squinted, peering through it at the lamp and trying to spot the worm — and just then, Mother and Grandma entered the room. Mother, with her faithful hunting retinue, had returned from patrolling the forest lands, and Grandma, as usual, had brought pickles and sweet preserves from her forest hut to eat.
Grandma just threw up her hands: “Why are you unhappy, granddaughter? Is something wrong with the apple, my darling?”
Maryushka grew even sadder and told Mother and Grandma her sorrows and misfortunes. She said that instead of fulfilling her heart's desires, the saucer was showing just some lads. Well, they were different, so what? Mother asked her what kind of fine fellows were in the saucer and smiled not unkindly: “Look at you, my dear daughter, how picky you're! You don't like either the fair-haired or the dark-haired one, and even the red-haired lad didn't catch your eye. So, go look at the others. There's a brave youth in the fort to the north, his hair is gray from sitting in a tree for seven days last winter, while a hundred wolves waited beneath him. On the southern outskirts, there's a green-haired young man. They say a rival turned his mother into a frog for some time with a magic potion, and it's backfired. And in the eastern outskirts, a Chin monk wandered in. He is completely bald, but he’s strong and good at swinging his arms and legs — a joy to behold.”
Young Marya was offended by her Mother's teasing, rose from the table, and was about to go to her bedroom, but Grandma caught her by the sleeve and kissed her forehead: “Don't worry, granddaughter. It's no big deal that no one catches your eye yet. The big deal is when someone catches your eye but they turn their nose up at you. And what if something happens to the one you like? In such cases, run to my hut, and I'll help you out as best I can. And I'll keep an eye out for now, too, I might even see something useful.”
Grandma Yaga picked up a ripe apple from the table and placed it in Marya's white hands: “Eat this apple, it's ripe and honey-sweet, and it's charmed against worms, don't worry. Eat it, and maybe your heart will feel better.”
Marya Maryevna left, and her Mother and Grandma exchanged amused glances, remembering how, just over twenty years earlier, Marya Yaginishna had raged over this very saucer, smashing some dishes, because instead of a hero, it'd shown her some stooped scholar. But she ate the apple, and a harmonious relationship developed between her and the Grey Volkhv. Although he spends most of his time prowling the fields and forests in wolf skin and falcon feathers, he regularly visits his family. And look, their daughter turned out so well. So the omen was true.
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Sooner or later, Marya Maryevna forgot all about her grief with the far-seeing relic. She had no time for that — Maryushka set about gathering a reliable hunting retinue for herself, following her Mother's example.
From the herd where her Mother's Kaurka used to wander in and eye the mares, she found a young palomino filly — honey-colored coat, flaxen mane and tail, but the filly had her father's strong build, not suited to a peasant plow. Well, that was just what Maryushka needed — to carry her and her gear, and not to stagger under the slaughtered game. Because of her palomino color and gentle neigh, she named the filly Solovushka and took to breaking her in. This way and that, galloping and ambling, weaving through the forest after game between the oaks, and smashing hares with her stone-sized hooves.
Later, out of nowhere, a shaggy brown mutt showed up at her place. Maryushka took pity on it, brought it home, and washed its curly fur with spring water. But while she was fishing a bone out of the soup in the kitchen, the little dog snuck into her Father's provisions and caused mischief: it broke a bottle of fire-bird's milk. Maryushka chased it with a broom until she grew tired, but the little dog still managed to lap up a puddle in passing. It was sick for three days, thrashing about in the fever, but survived. The milk had turned its fur a fiery orange, and in the darkness, it began to glow brighter than any lamp from overseas, even proper to read a lubok. Maryushka sighed and kept the little dog, naming it — her — Zharka. And she was right — it turned out later that Zharka had a keen nose for game, and a strong grip. Once she grabbed hold of the throat or backbone of a bear or a boar, even three people at once couldn't free the game until she let go of the dead beast herself.
Marya also picked up a fledgling raven. The village boys had been naughty, breaking its wing with a stone, and until it healed under her whispered incantations, Vranko ran after Marya on the ground, or sometimes was riding on her shoulder, and became adept at speaking as a human.
And so everything turned out pretty well: Marya gallops on her Solovushka, Zharka trots at her hooves, sniffing out game, Vranko flutters overhead, keeping an eye out for everything, and then telling about it from the shoulder. Where the river flows, where the ravines and windfalls are, where the boars feast on acorns, and where the bear swats away wild bees. Nice!
And so it was continuing like this: at night Marya knits a chainmail shirt, rests in her room until midday, and then, with her faithful hunting retinue, gallops through the forests and meadows, training them to catch various game, both common and magical.