The feather wasn’t a regular bird’s feather. That much was immediately clear. I flipped it in my hands. It felt warm to the touch. The deep red color was more pronounced in the middle and was almost burgundy. The sides were a softer shade, a warm pink, with orange undertones. Even in the darkness of the forest, I could tell the feather was magical. It had to be the firebird’s feather. I ran my finger along its soft lines and noticed a golden shimmer that was only visible if you looked at it against the light. The magical feather! I stared at it, forgetting all about the hare and the hunt, and the horses I’d left to graze. I’d lost the track of time, dreaming of what I would do with the feather. Now that I was holding it in my hands, making a wish wasn’t as simple as I thought it would be. What if I make the wrong wish?
The possibility of ruining the magical wish so soon made me incredibly nervous. I took one last look at the feather and carefully placed it in my right pocket. I’ll wait until I get home, I decided. Then I turned around, expecting to see the path that had taken me to the depths of the forest. But instead, I was staring at the trunk of an enormous oak. It was so wide; it blocked my passage completely. I didn’t remember seeing this tree and had no recollection of passing it, but now, there it was. There was a story of an ancient oak tree, one that was a thousand years old, and had stood in the deepest part of the forest. The oak tree, the story went, was always there, but only a few could see it. And once they did, they were never the same, for the oak tree was a sorcerer’s portal and could eat you alive.
Looking at the tree, I swallowed hard, trying to establish whether it was the very oak tree from the tales of lore, or another regular tree. Just as I was about to feel its trunk, I heard the cawing of a crow and my heart beat so fast; it felt as if it would just out of my chest. There was only one thing I could do, and that was to carefully step back, and retrace my way back, pretending the encounter with the tree never happened. In the fairy tales, this was what the smart hunters had done, and this trick had saved them.
And so, holding my breath, I took a tiny step back. Nothing happened. The leaves of the tree rustled, but I was still alive, still on the outside. I took another tiny step back, emboldened now. I was wrong. It’s okay, it’s all going to be okay. I told myself and moved once more. Now two feet separated me from the tree, and I breathed hard. I touched the feather with my fingertips, and the idea of using it to save myself occurred to me, but then I would waste its magic on myself, and I decided against it. Another step. Three feet out. I remembered it was nine steps back, and I would be saved, and, as I moved slowly away from the sorcerer’s oak, I counted them slowly. Cold sweat poured down my neck, I lost track of time, and it wasn’t until I’d taken the last, ninth step that I unclenched my jaw. I stood there for a moment, staring at the oak tree, and then, just as I was about to keep moving back, it disappeared. It was just like the fairy tales had said. It was gone. It could have taken me with it, I understood at once, and the danger I so narrowly averted brought tears of gratitude to my eyes. Instead of the oak tree, a passage opened up, and I recognized the path to take me back to the horses and then back home.
I started walking. I knew the forest better than most. It was the first place where I went if I ever wanted to be alone. In the summer, I gathered berries and mushrooms, in the fall and winter, I hunted, and in the spring, I went for the first flowers. This is to say, the forest was my friend. I knew it well. I trusted it. We had an understanding. Or so I thought. Except this time, it didn’t feel so friendly. For what I thought to be a clearing was marshland. I could see the tallowing snow, the murky waters underneath.
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If I didn’t know any better, I would have kept on walking and sunk right in. The ice on top of the marshes always melted first and would not hold my body weight. It would have been the end of me. For the second time that morning, I panicked and had to steady myself before I could continue. This must be the Ogre’s marsh, flashed in my mind. And the next moment I was struggling to breathe.
“Yes, sonny boy, yes Ivan, welcome to my lair,” I heard a screechy voice. It was nothing like I’d ever heard in my life. It grated on my ears.
“Who are you?” I screamed, reaching for the feather.
“Come and find out,” the voice cajoled me. “I’ll warm you up, Ivan.”
“I’m quite warm where I am, thank you,” I responded and tried to take a step back, but my feet wouldn’t move. I jerked my left foot up, but nothing happened. Then, the right. In response, a heard a guffaw.
“Don’t bother, Ivan. From here on, the only way is forward.”
“Forward? But it’s a marsh. I’ll drown.”
“Ha, not such a dimwit after all, are you?” The voice chuckled. I turned bright red. You see, I have a nickname. No one who knows me calls me Ivan. They call me Ivan the Dimwit. And now the forest creature was referring to the insulting name.
“How? What?” I threw my hands up in indignation. “Please, let me go!” I resorted to begging now. My father had always told me to never beg. Ever. Begging led to nothing. It demeaned you, it made the opponent feel strong, while you lost your bargaining power. And there I was, pleading for my life. It felt terrible. “Please, please, I just want to go back. I promise to never come back to the forest. To never disturb you again, Ogre.”
“Ogre? You called me an ogre?” The screechy voice wasn’t laughing. It sounded sad. “That’s it. I have to show you who I am.” It added after a pause. “Now, Ivan, you’ll see a path in front of you. If you take it, I’ll show you my face and you’ll find out who I really am.”
“Why would I wanna do that? What if I just turn around and leave?” I asked, but of course, I knew the answer. The creature, whatever it was, would never let me go. I was doomed. I had to do what it told me to do or die.
“Because you’re no dimwit, Ivan.” The voice responded and right away I saw a path made out of wooden planks carefully placed on top of the marshland. I tapped on the first plank with my toe and it felt firm to the touch.
“There you go, Ivan. Take that step. Don’t be afraid.” The voice said. It sounded melodious now, and I obeyed. I took the first step, then the second, and walked up the path in the middle of the marsh. I knew no one would ever believe me if I ever told them the story of what had happened to me. By then, I’d almost forgotten about the magical feather in my pocket, and even the incident with the treacherous oak tree faded into the background.
It took me about twenty steps before I realized the path was shifting on its own, and carried me forward. It was like a flying carpet. And then I saw it. The hut on chicken legs. Baba Yaga! I tried to scream, but no sound came. This was no ogre! An ogre would have been nothing compared to her. It was the one and only. The hag. The witch. Baba Yaga. The realization I was about to face the scariest creature in all of Rus hit me hard. I’d been carrying the conversation with her for the last several minutes. Now, in case you’ve never heard of her, let me tell you what I knew about Baba Yaga at that point in time. It wasn’t good.
Baba Yaga feasted on little children. She lived alone in a hut on chicken legs in the middle of the forest. No one ever came to her hut voluntarily. If you ever stumbled on her residence, it was because of her trickery. Just like happened to me, with the marsh and the oak, and the feather. I now realized the feather was just a way for Baba Yaga to trick me into coming to see her. Baba Yaga was scary, toothless, ugly and unkind, to say the least. She was a mean old hag and prided herself on torturing the poor souls that came into her possession. She loved to ask questions, and if you didn’t answer her questions correctly, she killed you. Or sold you to Kashey, the villain who lived in the lands far away. And this was the person I was about to face.
