The Woodcutter by Kate Danley; © Lolloj / Fotolia Page B

are a man, yet smell of a tree. That means you can be only one being. Good afternoon, Woodcutter.”
     
    The woman was young, but she could not deceive the Woodcutter’s eye.
     
    The Woodcutter bowed, “Baba Yaga.”
     
    The maiden laid her finger on the side of her nose, “What brings you so far into the Kingdom of the Clouds?”
     
    “I have been told to seek the Crone.”
     
    Even as he said it, her shape began sagging, turning from young to old. Baba Yaga sighed as her breasts dropped and her waist expanded.
     
    “They said this Kingdom in the Clouds was full of blue roses, a supply large enough to make tea to keep my youth forever. I am afraid they lied.” She looked at the Woodcutter, “But the memory of the maiden is still fresh. You are lucky. You shall reap the benefits of the Maiden’s kindness, but also the wisdom of the Crone.”
     
    Baba Yaga walked to her house. The teeth in the keyhole quieted themselves as the door swung open. Unbidden, the Woodcutter followed her in. With each step, the woman aged, adding a wrinkle to her face.
     
    The Woodcutter felt invisible hands upon his arm, removing his heavy pack from his back. He thanked the invisible servant. The bone fence was made of those heroes who had not minded their manners. Baba Yaga was no mere faerie. She was the Dark Lady, the Wild One. With a tea made of blue roses, she was the Maiden, kind and loving. As the Crone, she was a formidable enemy.
     
    Indeed, the Woodcutter was lucky he had found her when he did.
     
    Baba Yaga flung herself into a crude rocker, the Crone taking over, and snapped at him, “Well, why are you here then? Why have you come to bother me?”
     
    “A question, Baba Yaga.”
     
    She nodded towards a chair, indicating the Woodcutter was allowed to sit. Two bowls of stew floated through the air and landed upon two small trays set up beside the chairs.
     
    The stew was green and smelled of dead things. Baba Yaga took the bowl and began shoveling the foul concoction into her mouth. She motioned to the Woodcutter to eat, eyeing him as he lifted the spoon to his mouth.
     
    The stew was slime and rot. The Woodcutter smiled as he swallowed.
     
    Baba Yaga cackled, “You’re a strong one, Woodcutter, to eat the meal presented by the Dark Lady. You are so polite to your host. Such a shame. I would have used you as my Yule log come the heart of winter.”
     
    The Woodcutter picked up his spoon and ate another bite, smacking his lips appreciatively.
     
    Baba Yaga pounded upon her knee, “Indeed, you have earned yourself a question.”
     
    She pulled a pipe from her apron and struggled to light it, her clawed fingers fumbling. Baba Yaga puffed, hacking and coughing a bit before settling in, “Well, what do you want? State your question.”
     
    “King Oberon and Queen Titania sent me.”
     
    Baba Yaga smiled, “Old Oberon and Titania sent you? My, I haven’t talked to them in years. We used to ride the Midsummer Eve together…” She chuckled softly, “Once, we asked Odin if he had ever hunted snipe…”
     
    “They said you would know how to stop a hellhound who no longer responds to Odin’s call.”
     
    Baba Yaga stopped rocking and looked at the Platinum Ax that hung from the Woodcutter’s side, “Terrible times, they are. Terrible times if a Woodcutter has to get an Ax from a River God.” She peered forward, shaking her pipe at him, “You’re lucky you didn’t lose your father’s ax getting that thing. You didn’t lose it, did you? You show it to me. Show me it is fine.”
     
    The Woodcutter took his father’s ax from his other side. Baba Yaga reached out and touched it fondly with one finger, “My, I never thought I would see this again. Your great-great-great grandfather was a good man and never you forget it. He could eat the entire bowl of my stew.”
     
    She leaned back, taking another puff of her pipe and hacking some more before closing her eyes, “That I should see the day that a