Page 43 of I Will Always Find You
And the magic of others, especially those touched by pure love, empowered and rejuvenated her; she could live on it for years until the host had no more to give, dried up, and died. The Cannibal Hag was immortal in the flesh, but her dark magic took its toll on her spirit, weakening her over time; all magic had a price. Syphoning the mana of mystics was a welcome feast to restore her sorcerous strength.
Baba Yaga lived a solitary life; she had no coven, no friends, and no family. Due to Hecate’s binding spell, she could not travel beyond the borders of Ruthenia, the land of her mortal birth, a reality she had accepted two millennia ago. The Cannibal Hag’s single attempt to defy the goddess of witchcraft had led to the very internment forced upon her, one she could not escape.
Wherever Baba Yaga set her hut down, in whatever forest, that place became her home until she chose to move on. And the woods always had visitors.
Baba Yaga left some straying travellers alone as long as they treated the forest,her forest, with respect and stayed quiet. This included children. Deep within her darkened soul, she loved her Motherland; for this reason, she never harmed a truly innocent person. It was her only redeeming quality, not that the Cannibal Hag’s soul could ever be redeemed.
Now, the rude and aggressive interlopers? The annoying folks who made too much damn noise in her forest? Those ones she killed, skinned, and boiled the flesh and fat from their bones. She ate some of their pieces while preserving others for dark spells and fiendish thaumaturgical experiments, especially the fat, an essential ingredient for flying.
The bones Baba Yaga collected formed a horrific fence that encircled her hut, each post adorned with the grinning, empty-eyed skull of a lost soul.
The gate, too, was a macabre masterpiece crafted from the very bones of her victims, but what truly set it apart was the lock—a grimacing mouth lined with sharp teeth, forever caught in the likeness of a man’s final scream before death. The bolt was a skeletal hand, its bony fingers curled menacingly, ready to secure the entrance to her ghoulish dwelling.
No one who stumbled upon her hut would dare to enter unless they were addled, mad or seeking death, which she would gladly deliver unto them; that was the dark witch’s strident belief. Occasionally, she would lower the mystical barrier that rendered her home—hut, yard, and fence—invisible just to see what The Fates might bring her way.
As for the spoiled, impudent, and mischievous children playing loudly in the woods—or better yet, lost and crying, bellowing for their mama, they were Baba Yaga’s favourites. Those she ate whole, cooked in her ever-blazing oven. Their bones were then added to the fence.
However, at this time, the magical barrier was not dispelled; it was functioning just as intended. The Cannibal Hag wanted nothing more than to capture the lovers, imprison them, and slowly consume their power, their very essence.
“Yes, this is a love most pure, most potent, a much greater feast than you have been for me, Hutsul witch,” Baba Yaga cackled. Her voice was as shrill as a screech owl. “These lovers will last me decades—perhaps a hundred years! But first, I shall feast upon you, my sweet cherub.”
Baba Yaga thrice struck the cage of bones on her kitchen floor with her broom, shrieking the entire time; it rattled cacophonously. Inside the magical pen, one spelled to keep anyone entrapped, no matter how gifted or clever, a child and his mother were imprisoned.
The woman was scarcely alive, a shadow of her former self, her mana almost entirely depleted. The boy fared better, stillrosy-cheeked but terrified, clinging to the frail figure beside him, though she could offer no protection.
These prisoners were Damek’s mother and brother.
“Now, do not go anywhere while I am away, you two rascals,” the Cannibal Hag chortled menacingly. It was a highly sarcastic comment; she knew they could never escape. “This will not take me long. I promise to bring back some friends for you to play with, little one. Well, until I eat them—or you.”
Dawyd began to cry uncontrollably, screaming for his brother to come save him. The poor boy did not realize that Baba Yaga had cast her Spell of Silence upon the cage of bones; he shouted his heart out, but no sound escaped the walls of his small prison.
With her pestle in one hand and her broom in the other, Baba Yaga jumped into her magical flying mortar and set out from her hut to find and capture the lovers.
Elsewhere in the forest, oblivious to the approaching danger, amid the calm, cool waters of the Temnyi Lis river, the Romani witch and Damek frolicked as they washed away the remnants of their lovemaking.
The Hutsul was the first to emerge from the river, feeling completely waterlogged. As he got dressed again, he watched his lover swim freely, without a care in the world. His own heart remained broken, the loss of his mother and now Dawyd, a wound within him he feared would never heal.
Still, Damek thanked the Great Spirit for gifting him the best remedy for sorrow and despair: finding a love with whom to be his true self. A beautiful soul to share his life with through both the joys and the tragedies.
While the Romani witch continued his water play, Damek strolled among the great oak trees.
Not too far into the woods, he heard distant sounds of branches breaking and leaves rustling. As the noises grew louder and closer, he began to feel a sense of unease, almost dread. Thepattern of broken branches was happening too quickly for any animal to be considered responsible, as it jumped from tree to tree.
It is as if something is flying through the trees without stopping, crashing through the branches as it barrels forward.
But at Damek’s core, he felt no hawk or host of sparrows was to blame.
Suddenly, Baba Yaga burst forth from the shadows of the dense forest, her imposing figure perched atop her legendary mortar forged from iron. Her nose twitched as she inhaled the rich, earthy scent of the damp woodland air.
Pointing her pestle at Damek, Baba Yaga screeched, “I smell Hutsul blood! Magic blood, blessed by the Great Spirit! It shall be mine. Mine!” She let out a raucous cackle that echoed through the woods, punctuated by a series of snorts.
To protect himself, Damek instinctively reached for his axe, which he had laid against an ancient stump—back at the river.
He cursed his own unpreparedness. Having encountered no dangerous obstacles during the months of fruitless searching, he had too easily let his guard down. He realized he had no chance at casting a magical defence before the beast was upon him; he lacked the quick, powerful spellwork his lover possessed.
Damek barely had time to panic, for the Cannibal Hag proved unnaturally swift. She drove her mortar directly at him and battered his skull with her hard wooden pestle, knocking him unconscious. Before Damek could tumble to the ground, Baba Yaga scooped him up in her long, hairy arms; her limbs possessed uncanny strength. She then commanded her mortar to turn around, and off she returned to her hut.
“Your lover will come for you, handsome one, and I will be waiting.”
