Baba Yaga and the Three Brothers
It so happened once, cross nine mountains on the tenth, past nine forests and through nine kingdoms, in the tenth there lived a wise king (for wise is something one becomes immediately after becoming a king, next to other titles such as fair, good and handsome).
The king had three sons, one wife and no wars to fight. His kingdom was prospering, his life was merry and his table full. And as there were no enemies to cut him down, give him the tragic death befitting a hero and sparing him the duty of picking an heir, he found himself, eventually, having to make the choice himself.
For a while, the king struggled to come up with fitting challenges for the young princes.
One day the king called his sons to him and told them the following story:
“My children, I have been blessed with a good life and so struggle to find things to ask of you. There is nothing I need, but your goodwill and your mother’s. However when I spoke to your mother, she told me she has not seen a white dove since her childhood and if she could ask for one thing it would be that[1].”
“Father, let me be the one to bring mother a dove!” all three sons exclaimed in unison as if they had rehearsed the enthusiasm.
But the task was not so easy.
“The only way to find the bird, is by going in the forest,” the king proclaimed and had the pleasure of seeing his sons' expressions pale.
You see, the kingdom was separated from its neighbours by a forest as thick as the queen’s dark hair and hills were perilous as her curves. And in that forest, there lived such monsters that had left no survivors to compose odes in their name and tell of their form.
The boys weren’t sure suddenly what they were signing up for. But they weren’t princes for nothing. A challenge was merely an opportunity for success and they were born for it.
The first son left bright and early the next morning. He wasted no time in counsel or weapons[2]. He took his bow, gifted to him on his 16th birthday, and his magic quiver and headed straight for the forest on the back of the kingdom’s brightest steed.
The first son travelled the woods for a week.
He hunted all types of game and camped under the stars, navigating by their constellations like his mother had taught him as a child. He saw rabbits and squirrels and mice and foxes. He saw finches and songbirds and turtle doves and crows. But none was what he needed.
On the second week, the prince came across a house. The house was unusual. It sat in the middle of a clearing on two giant chicken legs, surrounded by twelve large wooden poles. And it was swaying gently in the noon wind.
As it currently had its back to him, the prince commanded:
“Little house, little house! Stand with your back to the forest and face me!”
The house shook for a second, then leaped and turned to the prince.
Now a house was not a bird, he knew that much, but this finally, was seeming like a promising turn to his adventure. He strode up to the house, walked bravely in, hands twitching to his bow, but inside he saw only a Baba Yaga.
Since none of the men that had been to this place had survived the encounter and and neither had their stories, the prince did not know to be afraid.
“Old Baba Yaga, tell me where can I find a white dove?”
The Baba Yaga was sitting in the corner of the room, resting her eyes. When the boy spoke, she looked up, smirked and said:
“You are well dressed, my boy. What is a pair of fine shoes like yours doing in a house like mine? Are you doing a deed or fleeing a deed?”
The prince was unprepared for questions. He cleared his throat.
“I am..” he looked around him nervously and stuttered at the sight of cobwebs and the stench of… actually he couldn’t identify the stench, his own rooms smelled of lilacs and soap and the freshly mowed grass under his balcony.
“I am…” he started again, “doing a deed. I am looking for a white dove. Where can I find it?”
The Baba Yaga smirked again.
“You don’t look like you have much use for a white dove. What do you need it for?”
“Uhm. It is for my mother, the queen.”
“The queen, heh? I know your mother. I’ll tell you what – why don’t you make me something to eat,” she gestured to the old oven in the corner, ”and bring me something to drink. Then we’ll talk.”
Now, the first son was not a bad man. In the right context he could be the best man. In the palace he was a prince; with his brothers he was a leader; with his subjects he was a gracious lord. In the waters he swam, he was the biggest fastest fish. But this woman was not his loving mother, she was no brother bound to him by blood and she was not a needy peasant. Here, he was a fish our of water and he was grasping for the words.
“I am here to… find the white dove,” he spoke again, a little flinchingly this time, his confidence waning.
“I heard you, boy. Now fetch me some dinner, bring me a drink and we’ll talk.”
“I- “
The prince hesitated but, caught off his guard[3], he knew not what else to do other than comply with the request. His willingness was significantly hampered by his ability, for the last time he had been close to a stove was once in his youth, during a misguided game of hide-and-seek, when he’d almost found himself accidentally baked alongside the parsley potatoes that were served for dinner.
However he whipped something up to the standards of the Baba Yaga and if she pulled a face, she managed to keep her judgements to herself.
“The white dove,” she said finally, washing the charred remains of her lunch down with muddy bog water, “is my daughter. She is a beautiful maiden, but she has inherited from me not only her looks but also her ability to transform. And she chooses to spend most of her time as a white dove and live within the forest.”
“So how do I find her?”
“Finding her would not be the hard part. Capturing her will be the struggle.”
Here, finally, the prince felt himself on safer ground.
“Fear not,” he waved a hand, his chest puffing out a little. “I am an amazing hunter, one of the best in the kingdom actually. See this quiver?” he showed it to her proudly. “There is an arrow in it that always gets its mark. It is the truest arrow that was ever made. I will get the white dove and bring it to my mother. And if she is as beautiful as you say, I will marry her.”[4]
Baba Yaga smiled. Took another sip of her muddy water then nodded and said to the prince:
“Very well, boy. When you leave this house take the road due north. Walk on it for three days. On the evening of the third night, when twilight descends and the sun casts long shadows along the forest floor look at the ground and you will see her shadow. Even as a dove, her shadow retains its human form. look up and the white dove will be there.”
The prince thanked the Baba Yaga and left the house more encouraged than good reason should have allowed.
He followed the instructions diligently and at twilight on the third day he saw the shadow stretched long and enticing in front of him. He took a deep breath. Pulled the precious arrow out of the quiver as silently as he could, his eyes never leaving the shadow's contours for a moment[5]. Nocked it against the bowstring. He knew he would only get one shot at this, but also that he had never needed more than one.
Finally, he looked up and shot with unmatched strength and precision.
The dove did not fall.
It hooted quizzically and looked back into his face. Once he had started wondering where his arrow had gone, the dove disappeared and the shadow was suddenly attached to a beautiful young woman.
“You are prince Danila from the kingdom beyond the forest.”
“I am.” The recognition flooded confidence back into his anxious body. “I am here to take you back to my mother the queen.”
“Why?” she tilted her head in a manner that was distinctly bird-like.
“Because my mother would like a white dove.”
“And why should I come?”
“So you could be my wife.”
“And why should I want that?”
“Because…” he stuttered again. They sure ask a lot of questions in this family, he thought, but it’s ok, the certainty of the palace was a sure way to cure one of curiosity.
“Because,” he tried again, “it’s what the stories and fairytales all dictate. I am rescuing you from your life in the wild. You no longer need to live as a bird.”
She tilted her head again, studying.
“And why should you want to do such a thing?”
“Because you are the most beautiful maiden I have ever seen and it is my quest. To save you. And have you.”
At that, at last, the girl brightened.
“If it’s adventure and a beautiful wife you seek, young prince, then you must be looking for my sister, Vasilisa the Beautiful. She lives far away from here and she is much more beautiful than me. Finding her would surely bring you the glory you desire.”
When the prince hesitated[6], she added helpfully:
“That must be where your arrow went. I recognise the magic in it and it’s looking for its true purpose – that must be with my sister.”
“Of course!” The smile bloomed back on his face. “My arrow always strikes true.”
And with that misunderstanding all cleared, the girl gave him directions to where his sister was hiding and he left, happy in the knowledge his destiny was secure.
What happened to the first prince after this point was a story many have tried to tell over the years, but only one has known the truth of.
One thing was certain in the kingdom – Danila, the eldest prince, the truest shot with the magic arrow, was never seen in this life again.
*
Not long after, time came for the second son, Govorila, to take to the forest.
There were more celebrations at his departure. His brother had been missing for a mere month. What is a month in the depths of the forest? But what is a forest in the face of brave prince Danila? Surely, he was on his way back. He had found treasure, people said. He had found a dragon to slay and a maiden to marry. He was laden with gold and the trophy of a dragon’s head to carry and slowed by the beauty of his bride’s enchanting eyes.
His brother was expected to do little more than help his brother home.
And bring the white dove the queen has asked for.
And if the queen was paler than snow as she bade farewell to her son, if tears glistened in her eyes as she tried to say again and again she had no need, no need at all for doves, or pigeons or sparrows or any other flying critter, then her pleas were drowned by the music and her tears – unseen by the king.
The second son himself was anxious to prove himself to his parents and the kingdom. He had many successes… but all in areas his brother had chosen not to compete. Familial affection had never allowed him to measure up against Danila. But a drive for success had always left him wondering.
He entered the forest therefore, with the vigour of someone looking for his own fortune. As well as for his mother’s gift.
If he ever needed to console himself later, he could always remind himself that he reached Baba Yaga’s house a full three hours faster than his brother.
“He stared at the trees for too long,” the Baba Yaga told him when he entered her cabin, still bopping lightly on its crooked chicken legs.
She seemed to take pleasure in the statement, or at least in the boastful way his shoulders straightened and lips spread wide.
“So he did pass through here?”
“Of course he passed through here, boy,” she waved a dismissive hand, catching a rusty cough in its cracked palm. “Everyone goes through here sooner or later.”
The prince scrunched his eyebrows suspiciously, being smart enough to recognise significance when faced with it, but not quite smart enough to interpret it himself[7].
“So you must know where he is now?” the prince said hopefully.
“I don’t see why I should. I know where he meant to go and what direction he took to get there. But why should that mean I know where he is now? This is a large and twisted forest, young prince. Paths branch and fade, weaving in and out of worlds and times not even I’ve heard of.”
“So where did he go?”
“Same place you are. To find the white dove. And make a name for himself.”
When the prince met her gaze and she saw the truth of her words reflected back at her she sighed darkly.
“You know there was a time when little boys were given their names at birth. They didn’t have to go look for them in the forest.”
“Where is it?”
“Your name?”
“The dove.”
“The gold dove?”
“The wh-…,” the prince paused. “There is a gold dove?”
Baba Yaga smiled mischievously.
“The white dove then,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Why are you looking for it?”
“Because my mother wants it and my brother is looking for it.”
“Both good reasons,” she commented in a voice as level as the stare she had pinned him with. “Well, I know your mother. So why don’t you bring me something to eat, give me something to drink and I will tell you about the white dove.”
The second son did not waste any time in hesitation. He was a brash boy, as he had been chasing first place all his life and every action was a race he seemed doomed to lose.
Until now.
He left the house, caught a rabbit in the time it would have taken the average man to tie his shoe and cooked it for the Baba Yaga in a primitive, but significantly warmer, semblance of a meal than his brother had.
“Very well,” Baba Yaga proclaimed, finishing the meal, picking her teeth with the bones. “The white dove is my daughter. She was born with a face of unmatched beauty, but chooses to spend her life transfigured as a dove and living in the forest. If you kill her in that form, she will present herself to you as a woman.
“Where do I find her?”
“I can tell you how to find her but catching her will be your business.
“When you leave this house go South,” she said. “Walk for three days, at sunrise on the fourth look at the ground around your feet and search the shadows. There you will see it. For despite her disguise, my daughter’s shadow will always betray her true form. You may catch her while she is sleeping. Though most have failed.”
“I will not fail, Baba Yaga. I will find your daughter and if she is as beautiful as you say I will make her my wife and bring her to the palace.”
“And what of your mother’s wish for a white dove?”
The second son allowed himself the space of a blink through which to contemplate this. His resolution was as always unwavering.
“My mother will be happier with her sons happily married, a beautiful daughter-in-law and a future queen for her kingdom. Besides,” he added when Baba Yaga did not seem convinced, “in a way, I would be bringing her a white dove. Just in a different shape.”
Baba Yaga nodded.
“Then go and don’t fail.”
The second son left the house in a hurry. So strong was his anticipation of victory that his concern for his brother extended only as far as to worry he might have reached the bird first.
During those three days the second son walked tirelessly and with such speed as if his pace could somehow force the clock forward and bring him to his target ahead of schedule.
On the morning of the fourth day, his heart beat so fast he could only be grateful that it was not equally as loud since it was sure to announce his presence to any potential prey in the region.
He waited for the first rays of sunlight and searched the ground. Just as the Baba Yaga had predicted there it was – the stretching shadow of a young woman, curled softly along the soft grass, its head resting over a bed of blushing marigolds.
A less motivated man might have wasted time admiring its grace.
But it was not this man.
He glimpsed the spot of white feathers in the tree ahead and climbed its branches so swiftly as if he himself had become one with the dawn light. He ruffled less leaves on the way up than the sleepy breeze and drew his sword over the unconscious bird. He knew victory was his then. His sword, much like his brother’s, had been enchanted to always find its target and strike true.
He swung the blade but before it arched to its descent, the dove had transformed into the beautiful maiden he was promised.
“Ah!” the prince exclaimed happily, staying his hand inches from the girl’s throat.
“Are you going to kill me, young prince?” the girl asked, her chin lifting proudly against the sharp edge.
“No, I only planned to capture you and meet you.”
“Then your choice of introduction seems a little misguided, don’t you think?” she said and small beads of blood puckered along the skin of her neck as she spoke.
“In the hands of a poor hunter a mere trap can be deadly, but it’s only the most skilled that can turn a deadly weapon into a mere trap,” he said wisely[8]. He kept his grip poised, happy to have such an opportunity to show how steady his hands were.
“So where do we go from here, my prince? Or do you intend to have me speak long enough that you can drain the blood from my neck drop by drop?”
The second son smiled and, noting she stayed as still as a statue, slowly lowered the blade.
“For your bravery and for you beauty, I would bring you back to the palace and marry you. Then you would be queen of my kingdom and have all the jewels in the world.”
At that the girl smiled.
“Well, you should have said so, my prince. If it’s bravery and beauty you seek, then you must be looking for my sister – Vasilisa the Brave. She is much prettier than I and any specs of bravery I have are only what I could steal from her when we were children.”
The second brother paused. Victory, after all, was finally within his grasp. But if what the girl had said was true, wouldn’t he be settling for second place yet again? A runner up, a silver medal. The gold of the sun melted teasingly through the leaves around him.
“How do I get to your sister?”
The dove-maiden reached slowly to his sword and touched it. The moment her fingers brushed the blade, it turned ice cold and sharp frost bit the prince’s fingers.
He dropped the weapon, startled, and turned fiercely to the girl:
“What did you do to it, witch?”
She tilted her head at him curiously:
“I thought you were familiar with magic, prince. You carry it all over you. What is one more spell?
“Well… what does it do?”
“Your sword will be your guide. The closer you get to my sister the warmer it will get, the more the frost will melt. Follow your sword and you will find her.”
In truth, he did not like how easily she had disarmed his weapon. It somehow rendered her capture a few moments ago inconsequential. And besides, how was he to ward off any foes along his way with a frozen weapon? But there was naught to be done about such concerns now. The path was unwinding ahead of him and he had to follow it.
"Very well,” he agreed, jumped down from the branch and carefully put the sword back in its sheath.
He was just about to depart, when something stopped him.
A little unsure, for the first time since he’d set off, he turned back to the maiden, who was still perched gracefully on her branch:
“My brother…”
She said nothing.
He cleared his throat.
“Did he pass through here?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
“He did not find what he was looking for and he went along, searching for it elsewhere.”
“Did you tell him about your sister as well?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Then perhaps I will see him along the way,” he smiled.
The girl hesitated for only a second:
“Where you are going, your brother is already waiting to welcome you.”
“Then I must not keep him waiting.” And he ran, grinning, deep into the forest not hearing as she spoke after him:
“Don’t worry, my prince, you have all the time in the world.”
And so, without as much as whisper in protest, the second also son disappeared from this world.
Some say Vasilisa the Beautiful and Vasilisa the Brave were queens of their own kingdoms. They say the prince found his brother and the two live happily every after, kings in their own rights with their beautiful wives.
But you know as well as I, this is not that kind of story.
*
The Third son was called Ivanushka.
Ivanushka had no weapons.
By the time he was old enough to hold a blade, his brothers were masters.
“Why do you need a weapon, Vanka?” his brothers teased him happily. “We’ll be here to protect you.”
“What if you go on an adventure and leave me?”
“What adventure could there be that we don’t go to together, brother?”
He couldn’t answer that. But he knew then he would be no master. The most skill he developed with a blade was with the kitchen knife when he prepared his mother‘s favourite meal when she was sick during his childhood. Ivanushka was his mother’s favourite. She fretted over all her children but he was the only one who let her. He let her question him after his lessons and found he was always willing to learn new ones. He listened at least as often as he spoke and he knew to think before he commanded.
Vanka was the only one who knew he shouldn’t go into the forest.
At some point during the balls, during the feasts and dances, the queen had tried to speak to her other sons too. But words of warning were not in their vocabulary. Fear was not an emotion they recognised with ease and to caution them would have been an insult.
Her words, worthless to begin with, were drowned by the music and the promise of glory, the fantom weight of the crown pushing all other consideration out of their minds. Her sons left for the forest and as she watched them go, one after the other, she begged her husband to stop the next one. To call them back.
But her husband was the king and the queen – she was only a mother. So as a mother she used what sway she could over her last son. She tried to convince him to feign sickness, to send others in his stead, to run.
“I cannot run, mother.”
“Of course you can. I will help you, I know ways out of the palace, my son, I can help you get out. Please don’t go into that forest.”
“And where would I go, mother?” he said gently. The question was as maudlin as it was rhetorical. There was no where to go. The forest circled the kingdom like the gentle grip of a paranoid protective parent.
“There was a prediction,” the queen wept then at her son’s feet, unable to think of anything else to do. “There was a curse when you were born. A white dove would be the end of the royal line it said. My sons would be killed by a dove, white as snow.”
Ivanushka listened, terrified by his mother’s tears even more than the story.
“So when your bothers were born I started asking your father for a white dove on every birthday. Every celebration, every new moon. I told him I love them and he would bring me more and more of them, each bigger and more beautiful than the last. I would thank him and swoon. Then I would bring them to my bedchamber and snaps their necks in the night. The cook, Greta, would take care of the bodies. Hide the evidence,” she whispered. “Your father never knew. I thought if he knew he would take a risk and face the threat head on, risk your lives. Perhaps all our lives. Or,” she sniffled. “Or he wouldn’t believe me.
“And look where we ended anyway.”
Despite what his mother expected of him, the Third son was not afraid. He was an intelligent soul with an appreciation for symmetry and romance. Not only did the story make sense to him but so did his place in it. Having drifted back and forth between his brothers, unanchored, waiting alongside his mother in the shadows, feeling himself like a superfluous decoration, he finally could see a purpose for the direction his life had taken.
If he couldn’t avoid this curse, if he couldn’t defeat it, if he couldn’t save his brothers from walking into its jaws unsuspecting, then here was one thing he could do, which his brothers couldn’t – he could walk into the forest prepared and with his head held high.
“Don’t worry mother. All will be well.”
And if his mother couldn’t bring herself to believe him then she could give him a hug and a kiss on the forehead as she had when he had had nightmares as a child and allow for her husband to send him off to his death with yet another banquet[9].
The next morning Ivanushka left for the forest with nothing but a satchel of food, a flask of mead and the clothes on his back.
Strangely, even to himself, the farther he moved from the kingdom, the lighter his step became. Despite his mother’s threats the forest was pleasing. The breeze was light and fresh, the grass – fragrant and bouncy under his feet and the sunshine was warmer among the trees than within the stone halls of the castle.
He took deep breaths, admired plants he’d never seen before, counted the stars at night and sang with the birds during the day. He greeted them and counted them and was unsurprised to see that none of them were white doves.
He carried on. Finally, he came across Baba Yaga’s house. He noted the chicken legs and the twelve wooden pikes encircling it and spoke calmly:
“Little house, little house. Turn with your back to the forest and face me.”
The house swayed and squatted inelegantly so he could climb up its crooked steps.
Inside, the Baba Yaga was just waking up from her afternoon nap.
Ivanushka was just wondering if he should apologise for waking her when she spoke:
“19 years. 19 years I have lived here in peace and quiet and now in the span of single moon cycle all three of the king’s sons come to my little hut. Well, would you look at that?” she sat up, wobbled over to the Third son and looked right at his thin face for a very long, quiet moment. “You look like your mother.”
“You know my mother?”
The old woman smiled.
“You’re far from home, young man. Are you here of your own free will or by compulsion?”
“I am getting the feeling, Babo Yago, that I’m here because you will it.”
Her lips stretched further over uneven rows of rotting teeth and she turned amused back to her rocking chair.
“It’s been a long few weeks, prince,” she said, “and your brothers are terrible cooks. Bring me something to eat, give me a drink and I’ll tell you what you came to ask.”
“Well.” The prince sighed. “I hate to admit it but I am no cook myself. However, walking the forest was so nice that I ate nothing but fruits and roots for the last few days. So the food I brought from the palace is still untouched,” he showed her the bag. “You are welcome to it.”
The Baba Yaga nodded approvingly. The two shared the rashes, drank the mead and talked of the best apples pick.
When the table was empty, their bellies full and the Baba Yaga was done picking her teeth with the bones, the Third son asked:
“So my brothers passed through here?”
“Everyone passes through here, boy.”
“Where did they go?”
“Same way you’re going I s’pose.”
“To search for the white dove?”
“Isn’t that what your mother asked for?”
“Actually no, it’s not.”
“Really?” Baba Yaga squinted at the boy, small fires glinting dangerously in her eyes.
“My father wants my brothers and I to compete in catching the dove for my mother.”
“And what does she want?”
“She wants me to find my brothers and come back safely.”
“And you?”
The Third son stopped.
“Me?”
“Yes you. The unassuming sack of flesh sitting here before me as innocently as if you were accidentally blown over by a strong bit of wind. What do you want?”
“I- … To find my brothers and bring them safely to my mother.”
For the first time since he walked in Baba Yaga looked tired and distant.
“I expected more from you, prince.”
“But I do.”
“You may go now,” she dismissed him, the lights in her eyes, diminished; her face turned away from him, like a sunflower folding on itself in the dark of night.
“You won’t tell me where the white dove is?”
“You don’t care about the damn dove,” Baba Yaga said absently.
“But-“
“You want to grant the last white dove in the kingdom to the woman who snapped the necks of all its sisters for no reason other than an impatience to hurry her fate?”
Ivanushka was silent.
“How did you-?”
“Why are you here?”
“For my brothers,” he tried again.
“You don’t care about your brothers either.”
“Of course I do…. Of course I do,” he pronounced, a little too loud, a little too desperate.
Baba Yaga sighed. She moved not an inch but asked evenly:
“When your father gave you the task to find the white dove, did it occur to you to suggest to your brothers you join strength and go after it together?”
“No, Babo Yaga.”
Her face moved towards him lightly now.
“And when your oldest brother disappeared in the forest, did it occur to you stop your second brother from following him?”
“No.”
She faced him fully now, the attention back in her voice.
“Did it occur to you to offer to take his place?”
“No.”
“To join him?”
“No.”
“I wonder what you think caring for your brothers really means then, prince?”
“I- well, I-”
Now he wavered. She heard the crack in his voice as he choked a sound and held on to it tight.
“What do you want?” she prodded.
It was the most important question Ivanushka was ever asked. And he was unprepared.
Baba Yaga pulled a worn out blanket up her scrawny legs, which the prince could swear were the same kind of chicken claws as were supporting the house. She settled and waited, calm as a statue.
“Babo Yago, how did you know my mother?”
“Ah!” she faced him. “You know your father, the king, was married before?”
Silence.
“Of course you don’t. She couldn’t have sons. His first wife. So the king chose a new wife. For a long time your mother worried she wouldn’t be able to conceive either. But she did. She got pregnant just weeks after the ceremony. It was a beautiful baby girl.”
“Ah-“ Ivanushka stuttered. “A girl.”
“Yes. Vasilisa they named her. Not that it mattered for she was stuck in a cellar with a tiny window and told to pray for a brother. So the queen got pregnant again.
“Another girl. Fierce and strong. I could hear her cries from here.”
“No.”
“Yes. And so much the worse for the girl. Barely bothered naming her they did. No use naming an offspring you care not to call to you. She shared her sister’s cell and her name too.”
“But-“
“When the queen gave birth for the third time, the king was away. It was late at night. When the midwife pronounced yet another wretched female, your mother formed a plan. She told the servants to tell the king she was ill from childbirth but the baby was a boy. She took the girls, all three of them, climbed in a hay cart and rode out to the woods to find me.”
Cold acid poured along Ivanushka’s veins. He couldn’t move.
“’I will trade you,’ your mother told me that night. ‘Give me sons and I will trade you these girls here. They’re not much good to me, but you’ll sure find some use for them.’ And sure I could. So I gave her the sons she asked for. She left the three girls here with barely a name between them and took your eldest brother with her that night.
“But it wasn’t enough. ‘I gave you three,’ she said. She wanted back ups.”
“A fair exhange,” Vanka tried to object, even as his voice broke halfway through the words.
“She wanted options.”
“She must have been afraid of the king’s retribution.”
“Maybe so,” Baba Yaga sniffed smugly. “’So you will have three boys’, I told her. Though one would have been plenty for me, but I suppose she knew what she were doing for herself. I gave her what she asked. One the easy way, if you can call it that, but the other two she would need to bring into the world herself. Mind you, I could still smell the blood on her from earlier that night, the babe she left with me was never even cleaned, wrapped up on a kitchen towel and its own juice as she hurried to get rid of it.”
“But- What about the dove?” Ivanushka couldn’t bear any more descriptions of blood and guts.
Here the Baba Yaga hesitated:
“The forest has its own rules, prince. Believe it or not I did not birth you, or your brothers, right here on this floor. Your mother made her deal with the forest and the forest delivered. There was a storm that night, thunder rolled and a murder of crows surrounded the house. When they landed, a small cradle sat on the grass, your brother cooing into the wind like a changeling sprite. Before your mother could take him, the chief among the crows warned her: “If you are cavalier with these children, your majesty, and let them trespass onto our forest again, our sister, the white dove, will claim them back.
“I was just trying to warn her. A gift couldn’t be so precious without also being a little precarious.”
“Gift?”
“Yes.”
“A ruthless trade – you made her leave her childr-“
“Made her?” Baba Yaga coughed a vulgar laugh which vibrated through the house. “Were you not listening, prince? She brought them to me. Offered them over. She woulda left them at my doorstep, boys or no boys, trade or no trade. I took her discards, gave her her future, but I told her, I did – she should be careful and watch out, for one day a single white dove could take it all away.”
The Third son was quiet.
“And now that you know, young prince. Now that you’re here and know the full path that led you to this place, tell me - where do you want to go?”
He took a long time. The sun set. The moon rose. Stars glistened teasingly. Baba Yaga slept. He was quiet. He was taking a long time to answer and was it because he didn’t know the answer or because he did? Who’s to say? But perhaps it didn’t matter so much in the end.
He could have left. He knew at that moment he could have left the house, turned and walked home without incident. He could be in his bed by the time the church bells rang on Sunday. His father would deny the odds but in the end, by Christmas at the latest, Ivanushka would be king. He saw his whole life ahead of him. He would marry Tania, the youngest daughter of the Chief Financial adviser. She was always shy when she spoke to him. They would have two daughters and one son. He would never have to pick his heir…
At length he finally found a way to speak:
“I want- I want not to be a prince.”
Through her sleep, Baba Yaga heard and smiled.
“Yes. That’s better.”
“Well…,” he was startled at himself. “What happens now?”
“Now,” she said into the blooming dawn, “you stop being a prince.”
“How?”
“You leave this house and become someone else.”
“Like what?”
“Well, that’s not up to me is it?”
“I- How do I start to find out?”
The old woman’s dark eyes pierced him savagely, she savoured the moment as she answered him:
“I’ll tell you how—”
*
When you leave this house, stand outside and close your eyes.
He planted his feet on the ground and felt the rustle of autumn leaves around him.
Take a deep breath.
He inhaled deeply.
The winds will spin around you as the house moves, so you follow and spin with them. Keep that breath in your lungs and hold it. Keep spinning until your lungs scream and you need to fill them again.
Open your eyes.
As he opened his eyes, the Third son felt dizzy and lightheaded.
Whatever direction you face, walk that way. Walk however long you need. When it is time, a white dove will come and present itself to you.
The dove came at sundown on the first night. Barely had Ivanushka had time to get used to the dimming sun, the shadows around him came to life. The dove glowed in the dimming light, its wings catching the rays like the tips of sea waves.
Its shadow extended like it was taking a deep stretch after a long day and landed at his feet. Fully formed. Fully grown.
“Vasilisa the Wise,” he said, the name apparent to him, as obvious as the young girl, who smiled tenderly.
“Yes, brother.”
“And my other brothers. You came across them too?”
“They came across me.”
“You were the white dove that was meant to take them away.”
The fair maiden laughed then and the Third son was disconcerted to find the sound reminded him of Baba Yaga. It was jovial and empowered, but also thoroughly unsympathetic.
“They came here of their own accord, brother. They asked for a way and I pointed them.”
“They were sent here to find you. If they asked for a way it would only have been the way home. There’s nothing else they need.”
There was that laugh again. Equal parts merry and merciless.
“A king is always in need for more subjects, my prince. In the same way a fish needs water. A bird - more air.”
“They were neither of them kings.”
“Is that so? They were here, in the forest, for their health then?”
“For their father.”
“For their king. And his boredom.”
“Did you mind their boredom and amusement so much, sister, you would kill them over it?”
“A bored person may look for companionship, prince. But a king has no concept for companions. He merely looks for more capital.”
The Third son started to argue but his treacherous mind quickly reminded him of his mother, haunting the castle in a whirlwind of her own echoes. Of his own monicker, stacked against his brothers in clear measurement of his value to the crown.
“Besides,” Vasilisa the Wise smiled a little more forgiving then, “I did not kill them. Like I said, they came asking for a prize. And in the end they found a simple dove was insufficient for their rank.”
“So what did they ask for?”
“What every king asks for, second to the crown. A queen.”
The other sisters, the prince realised with dread. “Did they know? Did my brothers know who you were?”
“They would have, if only they cared to ask. As it were, they only wanted to know my sisters would be a fitting match for them,” she tilted her head pensively. “A little like clothing.”
“And I suppose they will get what they asked for.”
“Oh fear not, I think your brothers will find my sisters more than a match for them,” she smiled, seeing the Third son pale in the dimming light, his features stony.
“But this is all beside the point, isn’t it? We’re here to discuss what you want.”
The night was dark and the trees were quiet. The winds receded as if he’d dragged them into his lungs. The forest was still in anticipation of his answer.
“I want a way out of the cycle. I want out of the palace. I want no crown on my head.”
Vasilisa the Wise seemed unsurprised but pleased.
“Very well, brother. But you should know, this is a gift you cannot return. If you forfeit your place in the kingdom, that is exactly what you shall get. You may never return.”
Ivanushka exhaled, a light breeze caressing him for comfort.
“I understand.”
“Very well then.”
And with a raise of her hand, Vasilisa the Wise transformed her brother so that no crown could ever rest on his head.
*
Ivanushka spent some years enjoying his life as a dove. His wings were strong, his sight reached farther than his father’s will and his sister taught him how to make his nest strong and soft.
But in time the seed of dark pride in his chest grew larger. He had passed the test. He had survived his brothers. He had cracked the riddle. The path to the crown was free.
Who would take the throne in his absence? It belonged to him after all.
So one day he flew past the borders of the forest and into the familiar streets of his own home.
He circled the palace and the fragrant gardens. He saw his father, encircled with advisors.
He saw his mother’s balcony, covered in blooming spring flowers and perched on its edge. She startled when she saw him. Eyes wide, filling with tears. He cooed, wanting to embrace her, as she walked to him slowly, certain she had recognised her favourite child. Her soft hands covered her mouth in disbelief.
She reached over and stroked his snow white feathers as he leaned into her warm hands.
And made a choking sound as she snapped his neck for good measure. The queen had never learned to differentiate her enemies.
Better to be safe than sorry, she thought and passed the dead bird to the cook.
Dinner was especially delicious that night.
And if there is a moral to this story, think nothing of it, for those who need it are not here to heed it.
[1] There is no official statement by the queen to support she made this request. In fact, unofficial sources close to the royal family strongly suggest the queen was miffed that the first time her husband deferred to her supposed preference it was on such a calamitous occasion… but more on that later.
[2] For what weapons could he get that he didn’t already have? The kings’ firstborn’s weapon was spared no materials or magic.
[3] For what guard could he employ against such an attack?
[4] We should not judge the prince for thinking Baba Yaga’s concern would be with his success rather than her daughter’s happiness. For, in fact, during the whole length of his life every parent he had been acquainted with’s biggest concern was his success.
[5] He feared if he looked up at the bird he would spook her.
[6] This was becoming a pattern for the boy, and his completely confounded expression almost made the dove-maiden take pity on him. But doves, white or black, are rarely compassionate to those who know not what they seek.
[7] He had servants for that. Or were they scholars? Different robes, similar pay, matching job dissatisfaction rates. He never learned to tell the difference.
[8] This was the proverb gifted to the young man by the craftsmith who imbued his magical sword with its power. The prince had liked the saying all the more for not understanding it and taken it with as much authority as he had the weapon itself.
[9] This time the king served red wine, pomegranates, bright red plums and figs. The king felt if his son got comfortable with the notion of blood that would make him that much braver. The queen on the other hand felt sick to her stomach and retired to her rooms with a chamber pot that was about to retire with honour after that night.