I chose to read this short story as the name Baba Iaga seemed familiar to me, like something I knew of, but could not remember. The name triggered images of some Slavic deity, a witch possibly, surrounded by the mysticism of the natural, the magic of the unknown so well embodied by the forest and all of its intricacies undiscovered and untold. As I read the story of Baba Iaga and her pelican child, I began to realise the story was not created to highlight Baba Iaga, but rather to bring attention to something existing in our world.
Joy William’s writing reminded me of folktales I’ve heard in my childhood, whose stories seem to have disintegrated in my mind to whispers of syllables just out of arms reach. They kindle a fire somewhere distant, but close enough for me to experience its warmth; the fires erratic, echoing crackle somehow transports me, bundled up in the safety of my childhood blankets falling asleep to the lull of my grandmother’s voice. His writing seems non-sensical, possibly just a consequence of the fact I’m skimming over the surface, but I’d rather just believe that he uses it to further entrap the reader in the world so different from our own it does not need to make sense. One can truly accept baba iaga rowing through the heavens in an iron mortar, and conceive in their thoughts the image of occult architecture such as the chicken bones that rotate the hut to hide it from possible visitors. His usage of the third person to look at the characters in the story allows the reader to look at the situation as if they are an omniscient character further helps the reader dissolve themselves in his created reality.
The story follows this other-worldly narrative, until we, the spectators of these events, watch as a human enters the picture. From Baba Iaga’s description of the humans after scent being one of cruel death, one can already assume that the story begins to shape around the commonly adapted narrative of human interference disrupting the environmental balance of a natural system. I soon found myself screaming in my head ‘don’t let him in’, words that would have actually left my mouth 12 years ago. The story takes a slightly sadistic yet painfully realistic turn, leaving you with a heartwrenching sadness you thought you forgot you could feel.
Aryan, I like the way you’re pushing up on the limits of logic and asking questions about just how much logic you need in a story (and when the illogical is better suited for what a story is expressing).
You’ve got some very nice lines —”rowing through the heavens in an iron mortar” and the way the story sparks memory of your childhood self. You still clearly read with an admirable openness.
Some of your lines seem overcomplicated to me, and I’ll urge you to keep an eye on details —make sure all your words are what you intend. (ex. “description of the humans after scent being one of cruel death”)(ex. is “the commonly adapted narrative of human interference disrupting the environmental balance of a natural system” better than a 3-4 word phrase about humans disrupting the environment?