April 2026: Storytime Bloghop

Time flies. My kickstarter is already over and it’s time for the bloghop once more. You might already know the main character if you own my short story collection The Fire in my Soul. It’s a little longer than my usual BlogHop stories but I think you’ll like it. So without further ado, here’s your quarterly story:

Baba Yaga Babysits

The young tsarevna turned her head from where she was hanging from a rafter. “Can you tell us a story, please?” Her small hands grabbed the next rafter before she pulled her legs off of the one she’d been hanging from and dropped down to the table below her.

“This isn’t a circus, and I’m not a clown,” Baba Yaga said. “I’m the oldest and meanest witch in all of the East. I do not tell stories.”

“Can you tell us one when you were a child?” The future tsar, still small enough to fit in her smaller cauldron, beamed up at the wrinkled hag with wide eyes. “A child like me?”

Baba Yaga frowned, trying to hide the little pang of happiness that shot through her as she watched the two children claim seats at the narrow table by the window. “I’ve never been a child.”

The hut clucked.

“Fine. I was smaller a long time ago, but I was never a child. I was just smaller.”

The hut clucked again.

“Yes, I liked building things. But that stupid son of our voivode always destroyed everything I made. And that was before my magic kicked in.” The frown that came with the memory felt much darker and more dangerous, so she bit it back, trying to think of something nice from her early years. It simply didn’t do to turn her best friend’s – her only friend’s – children into frogs just because she couldn’t control the shadows any more.

“I would have beat him up for you,” the little tsarevitch said. “I’m strong.”

“Not strong enough.” His sister eyed him. “But you could help to push him into a ground hornets’ nest.”

At this suggestion, Baba Yaga had to suppress a smile. These were children to her liking. “Well,” she said, “the hut did protect us, in the end.”

Both children looked around at the rough-hewn wooden walls of the chicken-feet-hut with their mouths hanging open.

Baba Yaga chuckled. “I built a whole village with some houses elaborately carved castles and others less luxurious for the poorer inhabitants. For people I used pine cones and sticks. I’d barely begun to play with my creation, when my tormentor appeared. He stomped on every building, every person, until nothing was left but splinters and a pair of chicken legs he had probably been tasked with depositing.”

“Father would have put him in prison for that,” the tsarevna said.

“That he would have.” Baba Yaga agreed with a solemn nod. “But back then, hundreds of years ago, the tsar was far and the voivode corrupt. So I was all alone, crying myself to sleep.”

The tsarevitch wiped away a tear. “Poor you,” he whispered and another pang shot through Baba Yaga’s heart.

Hurriedly she frowned again. “Well, that night I was sad and awake and angry enough to leave the voivode’s stable where I slept. I was determined to restore at least one of the houses and worked all night, removing splinters, collecting beams that were still usable, and putting everything together in a new way.” She sighed. “In the morning I had a hut the size of the palm of my hand. I’d added the chicken’s feet, so it could run away if necessary. And I wished with all my heart that this little hut would live forever, or at least for as long as I lived.”

The hut clucked once more and it sounded a bit like laughter.

“Stop spoiling the end.” Baba Yaga glared at one of the walls. “I wished so hard, my fingers tingled, and all of a sudden, the hut started moving. It had come alive, and I was delighted because I didn’t know yet what that tingling meant.”

“Your magic?”

Baba Yaga nodded at the tsarevna. What a bright child. “I played with my little hut by the river in the cows meadow, away from the village in the early morning hours and thought myself safe from my tormentor. After all, he liked to sleep in. Still, he showed up just after sunrise and stood with the rivers rapids roiling in his back, glaring at me with a wicked smile and with arms akimbo.

“‘Another one?’ He snickered. ‘You’re not supposed to play. You will work just like my father ordered you to.’ Lifting his foot, clad in an iron studded leather shoe with a wooden sole, he aimed for my little hut which huddled beside me soundlessly. I didn’t dare to say a word.

“His foot came down.

“My hut jumped to its feet and it grew … and grew … and grew …

“It grew so fast, it knocked the boy over. He flew backwards, landing a few yards from the bank in the river with the strong current. So he drowned.”

“Surely you didn’t let him die!” The tsarevitch’s eyes were wide as saucers and his gaze glued to Baba Yaga’s face, a worry-line clearly visible on his smooth features.

Baba realized that this kind of ending probably wasn’t the best one for this particular audience, so she tried to smile as best she could. “Of course not. But I let him swallow plenty of water before pulling him out a little ways downstream.” She’d never tried smiling so she wasn’t sure if it worked but at her words the tsarevitch relaxed.

“Well he had that coming,” he said.

The hut clucked, but this time it sounded quite annoyed.

“What did she say?” The tsarevna looked at the rafters.

Baba Yaga shot the hut a warning glance – just good that they understood each other without words. “Oh, she just wants me to add that she and I left the voivode and the village that very day.” She pressed her lips together and pushed the memory of those endlessly lonely learning years from her mind.

The tsarevna studied her. “One day, I’ll learn her language and then she can tell me all the stories you can’t or won’t.”

Most definitely a very bright child, Baba Yaga thought. Her gaze went out the window, where the royal troika, a sledge with three horses, was just pulling up to her yard. She pointed. “Look who’s come. Get your stuff together, it’s time to go home.”

 

Visit the others:

Florals by Angelica Medlin
The Price Of Freedom by Amy Keeley
Danger on Raylon 4 by James Husum
The Little Cloud Ray by MJ Vergo
Rise by Barbara Lund