The Creek and the Witch

This is a symbolic story of the rite of passage that happens to every young girl into womanhood.

There is a fast-flowing creek in the middle of the forest at the foothills of the Rockies that everyone has heard of, but nobody can find. It is believed that the creek is inhabited by a young man who protects the wildlife and creatures, and because of him this water has never been touched by human skin.  It’s told to children that the entire area is shrouded in magic so that only the purest of hearts can find it. 

One day, Lisa strolled down a path in the woods, picking flowers for her grandmother, whose home was at the edge of the trees.  She heard the sound of faint whispers and the wild whoosh of flowing water.  She skipped down the path toward the sound, following the whispers carried on the wind, and this lead her to the creek.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, with vibrantly colored flowers of the most sensational hues like sparkling purples, hungry reds, and liquid blues.  The berry bushes and trees were lush and abundant, the soil surrounding the clear flowing water dark and fertile.  Large rocks scattered from one side of the creek to the other like a bridge.  They were overgrown with green and brown moss and crawling with water-life creatures. 

Lisa let out her childish giggle and set down her basket to step into the creek. 

As she moved closer, a young man appeared suddenly before her, with big blue eyes the color of the sky, hair the color of the sun, and skin the color of the moon. 

“You cannot come to this water, girl.  Run away,” he bellowed in a voice so deep it rumbled the ground below her feet. 

Frightened, she ran.  Back down the path, all the way back to her home at the edge of the trees.

Lisa could think of nothing else but the beautiful creek and the flowers and the bushes and the rocks.  She wanted to let the cold water wash over her feet and the dark soil settle between her toes.

“Perhaps, he will not be there again,” she said to herself one afternoon as she watered her grandmother’s garden.

Bravely, Lisa ventured past the trees, into the forest, up the path, following the whispering of the wind and the sound of cascading water. 

Her eyes twinkled at the sight of the creek.  There was no sign of the young man, so she moved closer to the edge.  This time, she got so close, she could taste the earthy soil on her tongue and feel the misty spray on her skin as it danced downstream against the hardest parts of the earth.

But before she could touch her feet to the water, the young man appeared from behind a tree.

“You cannot come to this water, girl. Run away!” he roared in his hallow, aged voice.  His eyes were stormy gray now and his hair a brighter yellow.  His skin was more sallow, but he was still just as frightening.  So Lisa ran, as fast as she could, back to her home at the edge of the trees.

Still, as is typical of young adventurous girls, her curiosity was stronger than her fear.  Every month, Lisa would venture back through the woods, up the path, following the whispers in the wind and the splashing whoosh of the water.  Each time, just before she reached the water, the young man would appear and shake her in her soul as he roared his usual threat.

“You cannot come to this water, girl. Run away!” 

And each time, he looked slightly different, with his hair a different shade of yellow, his eyes to match the sky, and his skin to match the moon.

As the years passed, Lisa grew older and more beautiful and brave.  Each month, moving up the well-worn path she’d created with her bare feet over the years, she would come to the creek.  Just before touching the water, she would smile at the sudden appearance of the young man and run back down the path before he could create the tempest inside her soul that was caused by his voice, which seemed to encompass both sky and earth. 

Finally, on one warm summer day, the Lisa dared to speak to him.

“Please, don’t try to stop me again,” she cried in frustration.  “I just want to feel the water on my feet, and I will do it whether you like it or not!”

The man, shocked at her sudden outburst, thought he’d never heard a voice so enchanting and filled with soft, subtle crystals. He stood and stared at her in awe.

Lisa smiled at him and moved to touch her feet to the water.  As she stepped in, she slipped on a slimy rock and fell hard under the current, banging her head and body on the rocks as the water churned her body about. 

The young man, horrified, fished her out of the now raging water.  Her blood was washing onto land, into the fertile soil, and splashing on the roots and pedals of the surrounding beds of flowers, plants, and bushes. 

The young woman lay dying in his arms.

Quickly, he lifted her up and rushed her into the darkest part of the forest, where no human has ever traveled before.  Through the thickest of trees and the most forbidding of wildlife, he found the old cottage that stood in a clearing on many wooden legs.  Smoke billowed from the chimney and there was a large rusted cauldron and spoon sitting on the porch. 

The broken down cottage looked abandoned and the stairs were old and crickety, threatening to give way under his weight.

He kicked the door three times.

Thump, thump, thump

There was a great deal of shuffling inside, but nobody came to the door.

“Open, Baba Yaga. It is an emergency!” he yelled out.

The door creaked open slightly and the young man pushed himself through, his pale skin turning a hint of red from the blood that was touching the skin of his shell.  The air inside the cottage was potent and smelled of cloves and cinnamon and bergamot and earthy herbs.  The shadow of a hunched figure stood in the corner. 

“Why have you come here?” the voice was ragged, old, and dangerous.

“I’ve come for help.  She has fallen in the creek and is dying.”

The figure was silent for a long time, and then she shuffled slowly toward them.

“Set her on the sofa and leave,” the voice cut through the darkness as she moved toward them.

“I can’t just leave her here,” he said staring at the crawling figure.

The old woman shuffled into the light that was streaming through a crack in the boarded window.  There before him was the oldest woman he’d ever seen, with a nose that looked like a tree branch, wrinkles as deep as chasms, a hunch like a sack of flour, and the blackest eyes that oozed with the power of death, yet filled with timeless knowledge and archaic wisdom. 

He laid the woman on the couch, backed out of the cottage slowly and walked back toward his creek, thinking the new red hue in his skin would somehow depreciate his mother’s gift of a moon-lit shell.

Inside the cottage, the old witch hummed and sung the song of life over the body that was most surely already dead.  She sang from her bones, the marrow that gave life; she sang with her breath, the air that gave oxygen and the wind that cleared the way; she sang of the fire in her will and the power of her healing; and she sang of the wisdom of love and the fluidity of life it provides. 

All the while through the song, Baba Yaga gathered her herbs, stoked the fire, filled the cauldron, and listened for the tick-tock thrum that gave away that exact moment in time the potion would be ready.

Several hours later, after many songs, and many chants, and many drinks from the spoon of the cauldron, the young woman awoke and stared at the terrifying woman before her, but as she looked in the eyes and saw life without end, the young woman knew that before her stood a creature older than time itself; this was an ageless woman before her, and she was not afraid.

“What happened?” she croaked out of a dry and tightened throat. 

“You died,” Baba Yaga said simply and moved to the fire. 

“Died?” Lisa repeated weakly.

“You’re very clever.  Yes, that’s what I said.  You are not a parakeet, girl.  Sit up and take this drink.” Baba Yaga handed her an old ceramic bowl the color of earth. 

“Thank you,” she said.

“Humph.”  Baba Yaga sat in the rocking chair across from the sofa to watch the young maiden before her.

Many minutes passed as Lisa drank from the bowl and looked around the small cottage, which was bright and colorful, with patterns of such intricate detail they could have only been handmade and divine-inspired.  It wasn’t at all what she expected for the old woman.  There were tapestries on the walls, brightly patterned curtains on the windows, and large fluffy multi-colored furniture spread about the room.

“You have a lovely home, miss,” suddenly she realized she didn’t know the woman’s name.  When she turned, she found the old woman staring at her with a curious expression.

“What is it you see, child?”

Confused, Lisa explained in great detail all she could see in the room around her, from the overstuffed orange couch she was sitting on to the bright purple and red tapestry hanging on the ceiling like a tent.  Suddenly, the old woman cackled loudly.

Lisa jumped at the abrupt assault of that wicked laugh.  Surely, she’d said nothing particularly amusing, but the old woman continued to laugh anyway.

After a while the old woman settled down and said, “you are in a broken down old hovel, child. The fact that you see the beautiful surroundings suggests you were right to find the creek. I am Baba Yaga.”

She said it with such certainty that Lisa got the sinking feeling she was supposed to know who that was.  Her confusion must have shown because Baba Yaga mumbled something vile and then said, “I’m the oldest witch in time with powers bestowed upon me by the Goddess!  For Pan’s sake, what do they teach you in this world?”

Lisa continued to stare blankly at her.  She has heard of Baba Yaga, but only in fairytales and the witch was always frightening and cruel, threatening to punish the naughty and mischievous children.  Each story from around the world differed in details, and many even have different names depending on the region, but Baba Yaga is the most popular. 

Baba Yaga smiled knowingly. 

“I have saved your life, but that does not come free,” she said after a while. “You will learn the way of this part of the forest, where all of the world’s healing and knowledge can be found.  You may go back to your home or to the creek, but you must come back to this cottage for three days at the full moon in every month to learn the ways I am destined to teach you.”

Lisa suddenly remembered something her grandmother told her when she was very young.  After one of her romps in the forest, looking for the creek, Lisa had bounded into her house to find her grandmother waiting for her with a serene and gentle smile.  She told Lisa to sit and listen to a story, which was about how a young girl learned the ways of being a woman in this world. 

“You must always remember, Lisa, should be given the chance to touch the divine wisdom, you must not ignore the call.”

Finally, Lisa nodded and agreed to come back every month during the entire phase of the full moon.  As Lisa left the cottage, Baba Yaga followed, got into the old rusted cauldron and swished the spoon in the air like an oar. With a loud rumble, the heavy cauldron lifted into the air, higher and higher.  Baby Yaga cackled in delight, moving the spoon-oar and sailed above the trees with her long gray hair flying behind her.  Lisa could hear that laugh all the way home to her house at the edge of the trees. 

Lisa vowed never to go near the creek again.  She feared the strength of the current.  But every month, she traveled deep into the darkest part of the forest to meet with the witch who showed her the magic of this part of the world no human could touch but her. 

After many, many months of returning to the cottage and learning the Ways, Baba Yaga told her that it was time she collected water from the creek.  Frightened, Lisa refused.

“This is your final lesson, child,” Baba Yaga said impatiently.  “Go and fetch water from the creek and bring it back here.”

“…but the creek almost killed me last time!”

“Yes, that part of the creek did, but there are others.  You need only walk a while to find a gentler stream.”

Hesitantly and with uncertain steps, Lisa made her way back to the creek with a large bucket.  She moved past the spot where she fell, further down the edge until the water soothed and gently trickled over the rocks. 

Close by, she could feel the presence of the man who had saved her, and she smiled.  She felt safe.  She stepped into creek and sighed happily as the soil settled between her toes and the cool water washed over her feet.  She leaned down and filled her bucket to the brim and then walked back to the cottage to tell Baba Yaga of her experience. 

“You are ready then,” the old woman said.

“For what?”

“To care for this cottage on your own.  You must return here each month to stoke the fire that must never go out, and you must always keep a fire burning in your own hearth and home.  Never should you be without fire,” Baba Yaga said sternly. 

“And most importantly,” Baba Yaga continued, “you must collect water from the creek to drink from every day.  Should anyone else try to drink this water, they will be overcome with illness and die, so you must keep your water bucket hidden.”

“But what if I should need your guidance,” Lisa asked nervously, unsure if she’d be able to do what Baba Yaga was requesting of her.

“Then you need only ask.”  The old witch smiled with her crooked, yellowed teeth and then transformed briefly in the shape of Lisa’s mother, who’d died when Lisa was born.  Tears filled her eyes, and she understood.  The shape of her mother shifted back to the old, grayed, hunched over woman before her, who smiled knowingly. 

“Yes, that’s right, child.  I am everything you think I am.”

With that, Baba Yaga left the cottage, crawled into her cauldron, lifted off with her spoon-oar and cackled her way to wherever it is Baba Yaga goes when she leaves the darkest part of the forest to the next Keeper.

Author's Note

This is highly symbolic to a woman's journey through maturing into a knowledgeable woman. It is largely based on many oral stories like Vasalisa and Baba Yaga tales. How does the story speak to you?