Play & Book Excerpts
The Baba Yaga Mask
(Wyatt-MacKenzie Publishing; Tantor Audio)
© Kris Spisak
The next morning, the smell of the small campfire Dmytro had made for them covered her like a blanket, even as she woke in her own bed. Across the room, Vira’s sister fingered the floral wreath she had tossed aside on their shared dresser when she’d snuck back in. The blooms had wilted, curling into themselves. They surely smelled as smoky as she did.
“When did you make this?” Lesya whispered a moment after her sister’s eyes cracked open. Her fingers traced the small yellow blooms before plucking a petal away and bringing it to her nose.
“Yesterday, as a surprise for you.” Her voice cracked with dry-mouthed sleepiness. Vira sometimes worried that lying came too easily to her. Perhaps, deep down, she wasn’t a good person. “I fashioned it near the bees when they were smoking the hives,” she continued. “Sorry about the smell.”
Lesya didn’t respond. She plucked another yellow petal and tickled herself on the chin. Downstairs, voices became louder. “Is Uncle Oleh here? He’s back?” Vira sat up. She didn’t know how she’d wash off the hint of smoke.
“Tak.” Lesya carefully weighed the crown in her hands before easing it onto her head. “He’s been here since sunrise.”
Vira traced her bare foot against the lines of grain in the wooden floor. She’d barely gotten home before dawn. Her sister mimed a conversation at her reflection in the glass windowpane of their bedroom.
“You were up at sunrise?”
“I’ve been up since you came home.”
Vira’s eyes widened, and Lesya’s grin did too.
“I won’t tell. I can lie like you.”
The fourteen-year-old turned back to the window, re-adjusting her curls around the crown of flowers then shifting it forward to cover her eyes.
“No, be a better person than me, Lyalya.”
The smoke from the campfire still filled her nostrils. Her body heat rose when she thought about the night, the boy, the kiss she allowed him to have under the shadow of the trees. The overhead branches seemed to bend around them. The roots and brambles formed a protective wall. Her lips were still warm, and she didn’t want to wash them.
Downstairs, the men’s voices rose again. Their father, their uncle, and their brother, Ivan. Ivan spent his days mostly in Lviv now, just like Uncle Oleh who was a poet at the University. Two years older than Vira, Ivan had been offered a spot with the symphony. Her father’s brother rarely came to their house unless he had cryptic news to share, usually about the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists.
“I don’t want to go down there.” Lesya whispered, eyes still covered with flower petals.
“Mama will worry if we don’t soon.” Vira stood, and in doing so, she released a cloud of gray dust. Flecks of ash sprinkled the wood grain at her feet. “It’s already late.”
Lesya nodded, removing the crown from her head. She slid it under her bed.
“You look…” She made a face, tightening her mouth and scrunching her eyebrows. “You look like you snuck out last night.”
Vira didn’t need to look at her reflection to believe it. She ran her fingers through her hair and found a tiny twig. Lesya handed her a brush. After weaving a fresh braid and fastening it around the crown of her head, Vira crossed the room to their washing bowl and splashed her face, rubbing the cool water into her temples and the corners of her eyes. She pulled a wet rag lathered with sweet French lavender soap across her neck, her arms, anywhere the tiny remnants of flame hid. But not her face, not where his hands had rested on her cheeks, nor where his lips had met her own. Vira blew out a breath and closed her eyes before raising her chin and readying herself for her family.
The sisters descended the stairs together hand-in-hand.
“They stand with us,” Ivan said as the sisters entered the room.
“For the moment perhaps, but they aren’t to be trusted, like the Soviets weren’t to be trusted when they freed us from Poland,” their uncle answered sharply.
The two men stood by their father’s tall bookshelves, the bookshelves Vira, Lesya, and the twins weren’t allowed to touch. Their father sat next to them in his favorite armchair—short and thickly upholstered with a button-tufted back. Dark green to match the sunflower leaves, their mother always said. She sat at the opposite side of the room, sipping coffee. Her eyes focused on a pink cross-stitched rose in its wooden embroidery hoop in her lap. Her fingers neatly pulled the thread taut, found a new hole for the needle, and slid the thread through, but her ear tilted toward the men. Her eldest daughters crossed over to her without a sound.
“The Germans understand what we want. They can help save us from the Communists,” Ivan pressed, bringing a hand to his brow.
“Or they could do to us what they did to Poland.”
Vira thought of the big Russian parked in his truck on the road by their sunflower field. His arms were as thick as hams, not so different from the Russian soldiers in town, like the one who had backed her between the buildings. Breath like sardines. A grip like a machine. She almost wanted to cross herself thinking of Dmytro saving her that day. Was that sacrilege? She took a seat next to her mother and picked up her own embroidery. Her body warmed at the thought of his grip around her instead. Definitely sacrilege.
Her mother nudged her toward the kitchen, toward the breakfast rolls, cheese, and thinly sliced meats she had already set out for the men, but Vira shook her head. Lesya tip-toed past them both, toward the promise of food.
“They could free us from another forced famine, like in the east. They could free us from the jailing and executions of any- one who dares to write or teach or paint the truth.” Ivan tensed his fingers as if he held his viola.
“Why do we need liberators? We need to free ourselves. The OUN….”
Vira’s mother stiffened and wrinkled her nose, turning to her daughter. Vira bit her lip and dedicated herself to her embroidery hoop. She worked on a new blouse. Its black and red cross-stitched design would match the poppies in her hair for her friend’s wedding in the summer. But her mother’s eyes didn’t look away. They admonished her without a word, and Vira took the reprimand. She knew she deserved it, though for last night with Dmytro, she would take this one hundred times more. Her mother’s disappointment didn’t bother her as much as it used to.
When she met her mother’s gaze, she wordlessly apologized and waited for the stare to soften. Her mother had been so beautiful once, but at times, the woman looked little better than a baba yaga. There could be worse things, Vira supposed. There was power in being an old witch.
“When did you make this?” Lesya whispered a moment after her sister’s eyes cracked open. Her fingers traced the small yellow blooms before plucking a petal away and bringing it to her nose.
“Yesterday, as a surprise for you.” Her voice cracked with dry-mouthed sleepiness. Vira sometimes worried that lying came too easily to her. Perhaps, deep down, she wasn’t a good person. “I fashioned it near the bees when they were smoking the hives,” she continued. “Sorry about the smell.”
Lesya didn’t respond. She plucked another yellow petal and tickled herself on the chin. Downstairs, voices became louder. “Is Uncle Oleh here? He’s back?” Vira sat up. She didn’t know how she’d wash off the hint of smoke.
“Tak.” Lesya carefully weighed the crown in her hands before easing it onto her head. “He’s been here since sunrise.”
Vira traced her bare foot against the lines of grain in the wooden floor. She’d barely gotten home before dawn. Her sister mimed a conversation at her reflection in the glass windowpane of their bedroom.
“You were up at sunrise?”
“I’ve been up since you came home.”
Vira’s eyes widened, and Lesya’s grin did too.
“I won’t tell. I can lie like you.”
The fourteen-year-old turned back to the window, re-adjusting her curls around the crown of flowers then shifting it forward to cover her eyes.
“No, be a better person than me, Lyalya.”
The smoke from the campfire still filled her nostrils. Her body heat rose when she thought about the night, the boy, the kiss she allowed him to have under the shadow of the trees. The overhead branches seemed to bend around them. The roots and brambles formed a protective wall. Her lips were still warm, and she didn’t want to wash them.
Downstairs, the men’s voices rose again. Their father, their uncle, and their brother, Ivan. Ivan spent his days mostly in Lviv now, just like Uncle Oleh who was a poet at the University. Two years older than Vira, Ivan had been offered a spot with the symphony. Her father’s brother rarely came to their house unless he had cryptic news to share, usually about the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists.
“I don’t want to go down there.” Lesya whispered, eyes still covered with flower petals.
“Mama will worry if we don’t soon.” Vira stood, and in doing so, she released a cloud of gray dust. Flecks of ash sprinkled the wood grain at her feet. “It’s already late.”
Lesya nodded, removing the crown from her head. She slid it under her bed.
“You look…” She made a face, tightening her mouth and scrunching her eyebrows. “You look like you snuck out last night.”
Vira didn’t need to look at her reflection to believe it. She ran her fingers through her hair and found a tiny twig. Lesya handed her a brush. After weaving a fresh braid and fastening it around the crown of her head, Vira crossed the room to their washing bowl and splashed her face, rubbing the cool water into her temples and the corners of her eyes. She pulled a wet rag lathered with sweet French lavender soap across her neck, her arms, anywhere the tiny remnants of flame hid. But not her face, not where his hands had rested on her cheeks, nor where his lips had met her own. Vira blew out a breath and closed her eyes before raising her chin and readying herself for her family.
The sisters descended the stairs together hand-in-hand.
“They stand with us,” Ivan said as the sisters entered the room.
“For the moment perhaps, but they aren’t to be trusted, like the Soviets weren’t to be trusted when they freed us from Poland,” their uncle answered sharply.
The two men stood by their father’s tall bookshelves, the bookshelves Vira, Lesya, and the twins weren’t allowed to touch. Their father sat next to them in his favorite armchair—short and thickly upholstered with a button-tufted back. Dark green to match the sunflower leaves, their mother always said. She sat at the opposite side of the room, sipping coffee. Her eyes focused on a pink cross-stitched rose in its wooden embroidery hoop in her lap. Her fingers neatly pulled the thread taut, found a new hole for the needle, and slid the thread through, but her ear tilted toward the men. Her eldest daughters crossed over to her without a sound.
“The Germans understand what we want. They can help save us from the Communists,” Ivan pressed, bringing a hand to his brow.
“Or they could do to us what they did to Poland.”
Vira thought of the big Russian parked in his truck on the road by their sunflower field. His arms were as thick as hams, not so different from the Russian soldiers in town, like the one who had backed her between the buildings. Breath like sardines. A grip like a machine. She almost wanted to cross herself thinking of Dmytro saving her that day. Was that sacrilege? She took a seat next to her mother and picked up her own embroidery. Her body warmed at the thought of his grip around her instead. Definitely sacrilege.
Her mother nudged her toward the kitchen, toward the breakfast rolls, cheese, and thinly sliced meats she had already set out for the men, but Vira shook her head. Lesya tip-toed past them both, toward the promise of food.
“They could free us from another forced famine, like in the east. They could free us from the jailing and executions of any- one who dares to write or teach or paint the truth.” Ivan tensed his fingers as if he held his viola.
“Why do we need liberators? We need to free ourselves. The OUN….”
Vira’s mother stiffened and wrinkled her nose, turning to her daughter. Vira bit her lip and dedicated herself to her embroidery hoop. She worked on a new blouse. Its black and red cross-stitched design would match the poppies in her hair for her friend’s wedding in the summer. But her mother’s eyes didn’t look away. They admonished her without a word, and Vira took the reprimand. She knew she deserved it, though for last night with Dmytro, she would take this one hundred times more. Her mother’s disappointment didn’t bother her as much as it used to.
When she met her mother’s gaze, she wordlessly apologized and waited for the stare to soften. Her mother had been so beautiful once, but at times, the woman looked little better than a baba yaga. There could be worse things, Vira supposed. There was power in being an old witch.
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Kris Spisak knows that well-written words and well-told stories have the ability to change the world. She wrote her first three books – Get a Grip on Your Grammar: 250 Writing and Editing Reminders for the Curious or Confused (Career Press; HarperCollins India ’20), The Novel Editing Workbook: 105 Tricks and Tips for Revising Your Fiction Manuscript (Davro Press, '20), and The Family Story Workbook: 105 Prompts & Pointers for Writing Your History (Davro Press, '20) - to help writers of all kinds sharpen their storytelling and empower their communications. Her Grammartopia® events and Story Stop Tour programs follow the same mission.
Her debut novel, The Baba Yaga Mask (Wyatt-MacKenzie Publishing, '22; Tantor Audio, '23), was inspired by her family’s experience in the post-WWII Ukrainian diaspora and has been called “A complex, poetic tale” by Kirkus Reviews. Her fifth book, Becoming Baba Yaga: The Eastern European Witch Colliding with Modernity, will be published in 2024. |
Photo Courtesy: Kris Spisak
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UPCOMING EVENTS:
Kris continues to actively visit with book clubs, libraries, and community groups to speak on the Ukrainian history and artistic traditions that shape her book and give greater context to world events today. If your group is interested in a book talk or joining Kris's ongoing humanitarian aid drives for the people of Ukraine, CONTACT HER. |
