Vasilisa the Brave and Baba Yaga

Number seven. Vasilisa the Brave and Baba Yaga. If you were to travel deep into the heart of the great northern forests of Russia, past the places where the roads end and the ancient birch trees stand so close they seem to whisper to one another, you would find yourself in the land where this story was born. In the old days, when the winters were so cold that the breath turned to frost before it left your lips, families would gather around the great brick stoves in their small wooden cabins. They would listen to the crackle of the birch logs and the howling of the wind outside, and they would tell stories. The story of Vasilisa is one of the oldest of these tales. It was kept alive for hundreds of years by village storytellers who passed it down from parent to child, until a man named Alexander Afanasiev wrote it down so it would never be forgotten. Like all old stories, it has been told in many different ways, but at its heart, it is a story about what it means to be brave when you are very small, very frightened, and entirely alone. Our story begins in a small village, surrounded by those dark whispering woods. In this village lived a merchant, his wife, and their only daughter, Vasilisa. Vasilisa was a child with eyes the color of a summer sky, and hair that fell in soft dark waves. She was a happy child, but her happiness was not to last. When Vasilisa was only eight years old, a terrible sickness swept through the village, and her mother fell gravely ill. As the cold autumn wind rattled the window panes, the mother knew her time was short. She called Vasilisa to her bedside. The room was quiet, smelling of dried camomile and beeswax candles. From beneath her pillow, the mother drew a tiny wooden doll. It was no larger than the palm of Vasilisa's hand, carved from warm limewood, wearing a simple red dress and a tiny white apron. Its painted blue eyes looked up with a quiet, comforting gaze. "Listen to me closely, my darling," her mother whispered, her voice as faint as the rustle of dry leaves. "I am leaving you, but you will not be alone. I give you this doll, along with my maternal blessing. Keep her always with you in the pocket of your apron, and never show her to anyone. If you ever find yourself in great trouble or do not know what to do, go to a quiet corner, give her a little crumb of bread to eat and a drop of water to drink, and ask her advice. She will help you." Vasilisa pressed her face against her mother's hand, weeping softly. She took the little doll and slipped it into her pocket. The very next day, her mother passed away. For a long time, the grief was like a heavy gray blanket over the house. Vasilisa's father wept, and Vasilisa felt as though a piece of her heart had been torn away. But when the sadness felt too heavy to bear, she would slip away to the quiet corner behind the big brick stove. She would take a tiny crumb of rye bread from her supper, place it before the doll, and pour a single drop of water. The doll's painted eyes would seem to brighten, and she would eat the crumb with tiny invisible bites. Then, in a voice as soft as the purring of a cat, the doll would whisper, "Do not weep, little Vasilisa. The morning is wiser than the evening. Dry your eyes and go to sleep. Tomorrow will bring its own strength." And indeed, the next morning, Vasilisa would wake feeling lighter, as if a gentle hand had smoothed away the sharp edges of her sorrow. As the years passed, Vasilisa's father grew lonely, and he worried that his daughter needed a mother's care. He decided to marry again. He chose a widow who had two daughters of her own, believing she would be a good mother to Vasilisa. But the merchant was a busy man, and his trade often took him…

Continue with the full plain-text transcript.