“Oh.” Belinda looked down, blinking in mixed shock and relief. “You are the Baba Yaga. Will you help me find my daughter, please?”
“It is not that simple,” Baba said. “If your mother told you the stories, then you know that there is always a price. Are you willing to pay it?”
“Anything,” Belinda said, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “She’s my child. I would trade my life for hers, if that’s what it takes.”
Baba felt the universe shift; reality changing in some minute way to accommodate the bargain offered and accepted. No turning back now. She was well and truly involved.
She sighed, snapped her fingers to make the vines slither grudgingly back into the soil, and gestured toward the Airstream. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, shall we? You’d better come inside. We have a lot to talk about.”
*
BABA PUT A kettle on the stove for tea and started pulling assorted herbs out of jars to toss into the teapot. After a minute, she realized that her guest was still standing awkwardly by the door, and waved her toward a seat at the dinette table. Too many years living with the old Baba and minimal contact with normal humans meant her manners were less than smooth. She did much better with tree sprites and talking dogs.
Chamomile for calming, she thought, crumpling a few white-and-yellow flowers between her fingers and releasing their pungent odor into the small space. Rosemary for remembrance and honesty. Lemon balm for healing. Without turning around, she said, “So, tell me about your daughter.”
Belinda made a sound that caught halfway between a sigh and a sob. “She’s seven; just celebrated her birthday two weeks before she disappeared. Small for her age, with long blond hair and blue eyes. She takes after her father, not me,” she added, as though answering a question that most people asked. “She’s beautiful.”
“Of course she is,” Baba said impatiently, pouring hot water over the herbs to steep. She realized with a start that she’d never turned the stove on. The water still got hot, because she wanted it to, but she’d have to be more careful if she was going to have wayward guests and snooping sheriffs around. “But I want you to tell me about her. What is her essence? What makes her unique? I can’t find her if I don’t have any sense for who she is.”
She turned around, leaning back against the counter, and gazed calmly at the distraught mother, waiting for her to say something vaguely useful.
“Oh,” Belinda took a moment to think. “Well, she’s smart. She already knows her alphabet, and how to write her own name, the whole long thing: Mary Elizabeth Shields. She loves the color yellow, hates Brussels sprouts, and she wants a dog in the worst way. She’s been bugging me for a puppy for years, especially since her father left.” She sniffed. “If she comes home, the first thing I’m going to do is get her a damned puppy. I don’t care if I end up walking it every single time.”
Chudo-Yudo chose that moment to appear from the back of the Airstream and let out the short, growly bark that was his version of “hello.” It gave most people a sudden inexplicable desire to be elsewhere, but Belinda just smiled and held out a hand to be sniffed.
“What a handsome dog!” she said, which got her the honor of a wet black nose pressed against her knee. She took the hint and scratched him behind the ears, and Chudo-Yudo’s eyes drooped closed in doggy bliss. “Is he a pit bull? What’s his name?”
“Chudo-Yudo,” Baba said and waited to see how extensive the tale telling had been.
“Chudo-Yudo; wasn’t that the name of the dragon who guarded the Water of Life and Death?” Belinda asked. “Is he named after that Chudo-Yudo? How cute.”
Cute. Baba shook her head. “He is that Chudo-Yudo. And don’t call him cute. It will just give him a swelled head. And look at the size of the one he’s already got.”
Belinda’s eyes got big. “He’s a dragon? But, but, he looks just like a dog.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Baba said, a warning hum behind her words. “Often.”
Belinda started, probably feeling the menace of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but knew alarmed her. Baba had that effect on people. Often. Sometimes even on purpose.
Baba changed the subject, pouring tea into two pottery mugs carved with ancient magical symbols and decorative chickens, placing one in front of her visitor. “So, your daughter is the third child to be taken. Do the children who vanished all have something in common, that you know of?”
Tired brown eyes gazed back at her. “Not that we’ve been able to find. And believe me, Sheriff McClellan has been looking for a connection. Not to mention the state police, who searched every database they had for any disappearances remotely like these. There are two girls and one boy, between the ages of two and eight, from different areas of the county. They don’t all go to the same school; their parents aren’t members of the same organizations. Nothing.”