We begin our story in the Great Steppe, this grassland was home to a lively people. I will tell you of the Cossacks who lived and roamed those great grasslands; and of one small village in particular. And among those Cossacks I will tell you the story of a young girl who grew into the strongest man that village had ever raised. Around that village were the poppies–and oh, how they grew! Like a wreath that surrounded all who called the village home, the horizon was bathed in their scarlet brilliance. The wind of the Great Steppe made that scarlet dance around the village. It was a dance of life and of love and of beauty–but it was also a dance of death.
This young girl had a toothy grin and bright eyes. The girl who would become a man did not like the name he was given, but he loved his mama, his baba, and his little brother. On any given day he would come home covered in dirt from practising swordplay, and his mama, his poor mama would be so frustrated to clean his cotton shirts. But before she could be so mad, he would bring her handfuls of flowers. No matter how great her anger, his toothy grin and bright eyes made her quickly forget it.
On any given day he would bring her poppies. But sometimes he would bring her sunflowers, or peonies–and when he could find them, he would bring her mallows. Under the fuchsia of the setting sun they would weave those flowers into vinky together. During the day they would wear their favourites and give the rest to the other women and girls in the village. During these days he would wear that toothy grin as he gave the prettiest vinok he made to his baba.
From his family he learned to embroider, always trying to copy his baba’s intricate patterns and flowers. He learned to cook their foods and make their sweets–his mama had a special love for fresh bread with freshly churned butter. He especially loved making varenyky with his baba. He would get so frustrated when he couldn’t pinch them right, but his sweet baba would laugh heartily and show him her tricks. His baba’s favourite was pampushky. She would make enough to hand out to any villagers who came by their small home, and when children came by she would give them extra sweets and say, “Eat them before your parents see.” The children would giggle in delight, and every day another wrinkle from another smile would settle on her rosy face.
The girl’s love of swordplay and riding bloomed while he was very young. His mama would chastise him for being unladylike, but she saw the glittering light in his eyes when he held a sword or the toothy grin when he was near the horses, and all she wanted was to see that look on his face again. He was often teased by the village men and boys–oh, how cruel they were! They would give him the heaviest swords, and when he struggled they would say he was too weak to hold a sword. They would only let him ride the most wild of horses, and when the horse would kick him off they would say, “It’s because you’re a girl!”
Many of those nights under the Great Steppe sunset, while the village was bathed in the warm reds and oranges and fuchsia, while he and his mama weaved vinky, he would tell his mama of his day. He would tell her these things and hold back his tears, for if he told her how cruel they were she would never let him near the swords, or the horses. The girl knew that he would rather suffer their ridicule than never be able to grow strong, never be able to feel the wind on horseback, and never be able to grow into a man. “I’ve seen them call you names and attack you ten to one with those training swords!” His mama would say, white knuckled with concern. But her daughter would just grin that same toothy grin and reply, “It will make me the better swordsman, Mama.” And, dear reader, from all this he became the best swordsman in the village. His mentor was a large strong man with arms like tree trunks. And I tell you that even as a little girl, he was a challenge for that man.
“I don’t spar with little girls,” the strong man would say. The girl would raise his voice and his sword and shout, “Then you will lose to one!” And they would sword fight. The man would win the match, but not without bruises on his arms and sweat down his back and his heart racing in his chest. This little girl covered in dirt, with a bloody nose and purple bruises on his own arms, would grin up at the man and say, “Are you too much a coward to spar with me again, to train me?” The man would always refuse, but one day he didn’t. He shook his head and put his sword away. He didn’t want to train a girl. He had never done that before. But never did his heart race so much as when they fought. “If you want to be a warrior, girl, I won’t make it easy for you.” The man said this, it was a promise. He knew that this girl would grow stronger than any man. The girl stood and tried to brush the dirt from his shirt, and he said to the man, “Do you make it easier for the boys to be warriors? Is that why none of them can beat me?”
The girl trained under him from then on, and every day the strong man was challenged. And it wasn’t just the girl’s growing skills with the sword, I tell you! It was his passion and his gusto; always ready to spar, always ready to argue, but always ready to shake his opponent’s hand. One moment he would be training alone or sparring, another he would be helping his mama and his baba with chores or getting his little brother out of trouble. Then late in the evening, he would oil his mentor’s shashka, and later he would angrily call upon the strongest Cossack men to spar with him, and when he was covered in dirt and bruises he would hand out flowers to the village girls, always sure to save some for his mama.
You are wondering about the girl’s dear tato, yes? During these times their village saw much peace and freedom, but that was thanks to their warriors, their strongest men. You see, their lands were full of thieves. These thieves came from the land to the east. They came to build their empire and they would say, “Your land, your coin, and your culture belongs to us!” But they would say this in their tongue, not the Cossacks’. They would tell the Cossacks their language was wrong, that their words weren’t proper. “You can’t even speak the language right!” They would say. They would burn villages to the ground, they would kidnap the children and raise them as their own, and they would do so while claiming it was their right. The girl’s tato was one of the village’s finest warriors, as was his tato before. The girl remembered burying his gido when he was no more than four, for it was his first memory. His gido was slain while protecting their home, and his gido’s beautiful shashka had been passed down to his tato. The girl had much pride in the men of his family, but for all that pride there was the fear. His tato had been gone for some years now.
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The day his tato left was a scar, a tear stain on his hand me down vyshyvanka that his tato once wore. I know you must wonder why his tato did not come home sooner, and I tell you it is because his tato wanted him and his little brother to grow up knowing only peace. “I will see you again.” His tato had said to him. This was when his little brother was still in his mama’s belly. His tato never did get to meet the youngest child. “Take care of your mama, and the little one she will birth soon.” His tato told him. If he was ever truly a girl, that was the day the girl began to die and the man began to grow. When his tato did come back he ran to the village entrance, all he had wanted was to see the man he admired most once more. He did see that man again, but wrapped in a blanket and carried in a wagon. He did see that man’s face, but with closed eyes and blood stains, and wet with tears from his mama. He watched his mama place her scarlet babushka embroidered with roses over that man’s face. His tato rested in the tears and blood and roses of those he fought to protect. The girl, his little brother, his mama and his baba, took their turns covering the body with soil. The day his tato left was a scar, a tear stain, but the day his tato returned was an open, bleeding wound, a scarlet pain only matched by the dance of the poppies in the steppe wind.
The day he buried his tato, it was as if he aged ten years–but he was still just a child. And oh, the pain in his mama’s eyes. She had no words for it, but I tell you she knew that she lost her daughter that day too. The girl focused on his strength. He laughed less, he played less, he smiled less. He took care of his mama and his baba, they were never the same after that day either. His little brother became more reckless, causing him more and more trouble each day. One day it was stealing a chicken from their neighbour, another it was a fist fight with a group of boys. The girl had pulled his brother aside and wiped the blood and dirt from the boy’s face, all while chastising him.
Even with all the love the girl had for his brother, he became so angry that day! He grabbed the boy’s arm and shouted, “What of our mama and baba? This is so hard for them and you just make things worse!” And his brother cried before shouting back, “You fight all the time! I’ve seen Mama upset when she washes your face too!” The girl became so angry–and oh, how red his face was! “I train!” The girl yelled, “I train and I defend myself. You are just a coward who steals from our neighbours and a crybaby who throws his fists when another boy insults you.” He threw the cloth he was using at his brother’s face as he continued to shout, “Perhaps you should run away. If a wolf eats you then perhaps Mama and Baba will have some peace!” And his little brother continued to cry, and then he fled. He fled past the poppies and into the woods.
The girl knew then that he had to follow and save the boy. They couldn’t lose another one. His mama told him never to go into the woods, to stay in the village and in the fields. Her words echoed in his head, “The woods are dark.” She had said, “They’re dark and full of monsters.” And as the shadows danced around him while he followed his brother’s cries, he knew she was right. I tell you, a mama always knows. The earth shook under his feet, he saw his brother ahead, but near his brother was an old house that stood tall on chicken legs. And all he could think while he gripped his training sword tight was, “Will this monster be like the ones who killed my tato?”
From the house an old woman gracefully floated to the ground, the shadows collected around her as if they were her pets. She had jagged yellow teeth and eyes that looked as if they were burning. Her body was thin and bony, her nose was crooked, her wicked grin was wide, and her dress and babushka were tattered. The shadows she owned fell over her face, her wrinkles so deep they lived in the crevices of her horrible face–oh, how ugly she was! Her eyes of fire landed on the little boy in front of her and she said, “Your mama told you the woods are dark and full of monsters.” The boy cried and she smiled her wicked smile. Her wicked yellow teeth dripped blood, wicked claws grew from her long and bony fingers. She spoke again, “What would your mama say if she knew you met a monster?”
The girl watched as the monster grabbed his brother’s arm, her wicked claws digging into the boy’s flesh. And the girl knew, I tell you, he knew the name of that monster. He whispered it to himself, for it was clear in his mind, his mama had told him, “Baba Yaga.” As he whispered, the monster cackled and began to drag the boy away and said, “You will become a stew by the night’s end.” Then the girl raised his voice from a whisper to a roar and called, “Baba Yaga!” And the monster turned her burning eyes towards him. He pulled the training sword from his belt and gripped it tight, aiming it at Baba Yaga.
The monster abandoned the boy and stomped towards the girl, with each step her feet grew bigger and jagged claws grew from her toes. The girl swore he could feel the darkness itself wrapping around him, gripping him. “Leave the boy be, or I will strike you!” He said to the monster. Baba Yaga laughed wickedly–oh, how horrible her voice was! She said, “What eyes of fire you have, girl.” And the girl held his ground and raised his voice, “I will strike! Leave now!” And all Baba Yaga could see was fire in the girl’s chestnut eyes.
Baba Yaga’s form grew more horrible–oh, what a monster she was! Her arms grew longer and her claws grew longer and she said, “And if I turn you into a rat? What then, fiery one?” And the fiery one replied, “If you turn me into a rat I will still hold my blade to you!” And Baba Yaga sneered, her neck grew longer and her bloody yellowed teeth grew longer, and she said, “And if I turn your blade to dust? What then, fiery one?” And the fiery one replied, “Then I will bare my teeth at you!” And Baba Yaga screamed a wicked scream, and her eyes became darker and her shadows became darker, and she said, “And if I squash you into a mess of blood and innards? What then, fiery one?” And the fiery one was unwavering, and he said, “Then you would have to squash me first! Go and try it, wicked one!”
At that, Baba Yaga laughed and smiled a wicked smile. She placed a clawed hand on the girl’s chest and said, “I like you, fiery one. In your heart I feel you are not happy in your current form.” The girl stood firm, his training sword still aimed at the wicked one. The wicked one continued to speak as her hand glowed. And that girl, he showed no fear! Baba Yaga said, “So I will give you a parting gift. You will feel nothing today, but as you grow, you will. Grow and blaze across the steppe, your nature may serve you well. Or it may become the death of you. You will grow into a man, and you should call yourself Amvrosiy. There is no other name for you.” Baba Yaga cackled and flew back up to her magical house, and her magical house ran far off into the dark woods. The girl, now a boy, helped his brother stand, and together they walked back to their village. The boy, Amvrosiy, felt nothing but the desire to grow as strong as he could, stronger than any man his village had seen.
That night they made it home to their poor mama waiting at the door in tears. “I thought I’d lost you!” She sobbed as she held her children close. Amvrosiy’s brother cried too, he told their mama of the woods and of the monster, and their mama, tired as she was, she couldn’t yell or be angry. She was simply grateful the monster didn’t take her babies away. Amvrosiy held his mama tight and he told her his name. Even as she mourned her daughter, she knew that night that she had two sons.