also poured the last of the milk and a generous amount of honey. My preparationsfinished, I brought my meal to the table and sat down again.
For a moment, I was pleased. This indeed was the first meal I had ever made for myself, except for picking berries or finding mushrooms in a hidden dell. But unexpectedly, as I sat in the silence of the little kitchen, steam from my cup gently drifting away, I started to cry. It was also the first time I had ever eaten a meal alone. No longer hungry, I pushed the plate away, cradled my head in my arms on the table, and wept inconsolably. What did it matter if I had survived my crossing over? What did it matter that I had found shelter and food? What did any of it matter without my sister?
“Serana, Serana, where are you?” I cried into my hands.
A tap at my shoulder made me sit up, shuddering with the effort of my sobs. A hand—the male one I am sure from the few dark hairs on the knuckles—handed me a linen hanky. The second hand—female from its pearl-colored fingernails—stroked my hair. The storm in my breast subsided, and in between hiccups, I wiped my eyes with the proffered hanky and finally, stood and washed my face at the little sink. Then I sat again and took sips of the fortifying tea. When I was done, I looked at the hands that were now waiting, palms downturned on the table.
“Thank you for your consolation,” I said and the female hand turned her palm up to accept my gratitude. “I need to go out,” I continued, “and I need your help.” An idea had come to me as I was splashing cold water over my face. “I need to work and to be in this world among people—even those not of my kind. So I must return to a shop Baba Yaga took me to. The Co-op. Do you know it?”
The hands waved excitedly—which I took to mean “yes.” It is difficult to tell with hands.
“Can you show me the way? I believe I can find work there . . . as a goodwife dispensing simples, salves, and tinctures.”
The male hand opened a drawer and produced apiece of heavy cream-colored paper, while its feminine partner found a pen. She wrote the name: “Co-op” and drew a map for me, naming the streets and placing a little star over Baba Yaga’s house.
“Thank you,” I said, folding the paper and placing it in my bag. I retired to the bedroom to wrestle myself into my matron’s attire. Exploring the chest at the end of the bed, I found a pretty blue silk scarf that I tied around my throat. I combed my graying hair and twisted it into a knot at the nape of my neck. Surprisingly, Baba Yaga had a silver comb set with seed pearls and I borrowed it to keep my hair from tumbling free.
I returned to the sitting room and snatched up the key from its hook by the kitchen door. The hands were still waiting on the table and I stopped, hearing something in their stillness.
“Is there something I can bring you?” I asked, wondering what hands could possibly need.
The female hand flew to the drawer and retrieved another piece of paper. She wrote a single word and then handed the pen to her partner and he wrote something as well. Then almost shyly, they handed it to me and I read “flowers” and “cigarettes.”
“Of course. I shall bring them back for you,” I said, grateful to have found a way to honor my debt. Though I wondered what “cigarettes” might mean. I hoped it wasn’t too large to carry.
Standing at the edge of the walkway to the house, I studied the map and tried to orient myself in the correct direction. I turned the paper around and around until I was sure I knew which way it was leading me. As I began walking, I heard a sniggering, then a shushing sound. I looked about, and then down when I heard another burst of giggles near my feet. There was only a stray clump of spindled grass rising between the cracks of the path. I bent over and patted the grass, wondering if I had found a patch of stray-away-sod on this city street.
“Did you lose something?” someone
For a moment, I was pleased. This indeed was the first meal I had ever made for myself, except for picking berries or finding mushrooms in a hidden dell. But unexpectedly, as I sat in the silence of the little kitchen, steam from my cup gently drifting away, I started to cry. It was also the first time I had ever eaten a meal alone. No longer hungry, I pushed the plate away, cradled my head in my arms on the table, and wept inconsolably. What did it matter if I had survived my crossing over? What did it matter that I had found shelter and food? What did any of it matter without my sister?
“Serana, Serana, where are you?” I cried into my hands.
A tap at my shoulder made me sit up, shuddering with the effort of my sobs. A hand—the male one I am sure from the few dark hairs on the knuckles—handed me a linen hanky. The second hand—female from its pearl-colored fingernails—stroked my hair. The storm in my breast subsided, and in between hiccups, I wiped my eyes with the proffered hanky and finally, stood and washed my face at the little sink. Then I sat again and took sips of the fortifying tea. When I was done, I looked at the hands that were now waiting, palms downturned on the table.
“Thank you for your consolation,” I said and the female hand turned her palm up to accept my gratitude. “I need to go out,” I continued, “and I need your help.” An idea had come to me as I was splashing cold water over my face. “I need to work and to be in this world among people—even those not of my kind. So I must return to a shop Baba Yaga took me to. The Co-op. Do you know it?”
The hands waved excitedly—which I took to mean “yes.” It is difficult to tell with hands.
“Can you show me the way? I believe I can find work there . . . as a goodwife dispensing simples, salves, and tinctures.”
The male hand opened a drawer and produced apiece of heavy cream-colored paper, while its feminine partner found a pen. She wrote the name: “Co-op” and drew a map for me, naming the streets and placing a little star over Baba Yaga’s house.
“Thank you,” I said, folding the paper and placing it in my bag. I retired to the bedroom to wrestle myself into my matron’s attire. Exploring the chest at the end of the bed, I found a pretty blue silk scarf that I tied around my throat. I combed my graying hair and twisted it into a knot at the nape of my neck. Surprisingly, Baba Yaga had a silver comb set with seed pearls and I borrowed it to keep my hair from tumbling free.
I returned to the sitting room and snatched up the key from its hook by the kitchen door. The hands were still waiting on the table and I stopped, hearing something in their stillness.
“Is there something I can bring you?” I asked, wondering what hands could possibly need.
The female hand flew to the drawer and retrieved another piece of paper. She wrote a single word and then handed the pen to her partner and he wrote something as well. Then almost shyly, they handed it to me and I read “flowers” and “cigarettes.”
“Of course. I shall bring them back for you,” I said, grateful to have found a way to honor my debt. Though I wondered what “cigarettes” might mean. I hoped it wasn’t too large to carry.
Standing at the edge of the walkway to the house, I studied the map and tried to orient myself in the correct direction. I turned the paper around and around until I was sure I knew which way it was leading me. As I began walking, I heard a sniggering, then a shushing sound. I looked about, and then down when I heard another burst of giggles near my feet. There was only a stray clump of spindled grass rising between the cracks of the path. I bent over and patted the grass, wondering if I had found a patch of stray-away-sod on this city street.
“Did you lose something?” someone
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