one of the cubs – it dangled limply in her hands, as if it had fallen asleep. The other two froze on the spot. 'Now who do we have here?'
Paying no more attention to the children, the wolf moved sullenly towards the woman, who started chanting:
Dense wolf 's thickets dark with fear,
There's no way you can hide in here . . .
The wolf stopped.
The truth and lie I both can see,
Now, who do you look like to me?
. . . the woman concluded, looking at the wolf.
It bared its teeth.
'Ai-ai-ai . . .' said the woman. 'Now what are we going to do?'
'Go . . . a . . .way,' the wolf barked. 'Go . . . a . . .way . . .witch.'
The woman dropped the cub on the soft moss. As if they had suddenly woken from a trance, the cubs dashed across to the wolf in panic and jostled under its belly.
Three blades of grass, a birch-bark strip,
And one wolfberry from a branch,
A drop of blood, of tears a drip,
And skin of goat, of hair a lock:
I have mixed them in my crock,
Brewed my potion in advance . . .
The wolf began backing away, with the cubs following.
You have no strength, you have no chance,
My spell will pierce you like a lance
. . . the woman declared triumphantly.
Then four grey bolts of lightning – one large and three small – seemed to flash from the clearing into the bushes. Tufts of grey fur and shreds of skin were left swirling in the air. And there was a sudden sharp smell, as if a whole pack of dogs was standing there, drying off after the rain.
'Aunty, are y-you a w-witch?' Romka asked in a hushed voice.
The woman laughed. She walked up to them and took them by the hand.
'Come along.'
The hut wasn't standing on chicken legs, like the one in the fairy tale, and Romka was disappointed. It was a perfectly ordinary log house with small windows and a tiny porch.
'Have you got a b-bathhouse here?' Romka asked, looking around.
'Why do you want a bathhouse?' the woman replied. 'Do you want to get washed?'
'F-first of all you have to heat up the b-bathhouse really hot, then f-feed us, before you can eat us,' Romka said seriously.
Ksyusha tugged on his hand. But the woman didn't take offence – she laughed.
'I think you're confusing me with Baba-Yaga, aren't you? Do you mind if I don't heat up the bathhouse? I haven't got one anyway. And I'm not going to eat you.'
'No, I don't mind,' Romka said, relieved.
The inside of the house didn't look like a place any self-respecting Baba-Yaga could live either. There was a clock with dangling weights ticking on the whitewashed wall, a beautiful chandelier with velvet tassels, and a small Philips television standing on a shaky dresser. There was a Russian stove too, but it was heaped up with all sorts of clutter, and it was obvious that it was a very long time since any bold young heroes or little children had been roasted in it. The only thing with a serious and forbidding look to it was a large bookcase full of old books. Ksyusha went over and looked at the spines of the books. Her mother had always told her that the first thing a cultured person should do in someone else's house was to look at her host's books, and then at everything else.
But the books were worn and she could hardly make out the titles, and she didn't understand even the ones she could read, although they were all in Russian. Her mother had books like that too: 'Helminthology', 'Ethnogenesis' . . . Ksyusha sighed and walked away from the bookcase.
Romka was already sitting at the table and the witch was pouring hot water from a white electric kettle into his cup.
'Would you like a cup of tea?' she asked in a kind voice. 'It's good, made from forest herbs . . .'
'It is g-good,' Romka confirmed, although he was more concerned with dipping hard little bread rings into honey than drinking his tea. 'S-sit down, Ksyusha.'
Ksyusha sat down and accepted a cup politely.
The tea really was good. The witch drank some herself, smiling and looking at the children.
'Are we going to turn into little goats when we've drunk our tea?' Romka suddenly asked.
'Why?' the witch asked in surprise.
'Because you'll put a spell on us,' he explained. 'You'll turn us into little goats and eat us up.'