A Remedy for Kikimoras

She comes from the forest.

You do, too; you were born and bred in the purple shadows of the pines. You gained wisdom in the dew drops falling from the irises, sought solace in the crunching leaves and in the chill of the autumn frost.  

But times change. The old gods have grown tired through the years, and their antlers are worn and cracked with the tremors of time; they now entrust you with the stewardship of their lands. And so you walk the worlds from marsh to mountain, through the underbrush and fens. You speak to the vilas and they sing back. You learn to dodge the drowners’ grip, to fear the gryphons’ claws.

You think you know the forest. But you did not know of the house. You did not sense its change. The forest gods did not warn you. How could they? It is a place of in-between.  

The house is small. You like it for its humility; it is meek, as are you. You enter through the barn and find piles of damp hay for hiding. That is where you first meet them. Not the big ones, yet—it is the small one that first comes to you, palm outstretched, with moldy bread to try. You like the small one because they are not afraid. You take the offering.

(part of it will always be for the forest gods)

The little one comes back most days, and sometimes the big ones follow. They bring other creatures in some nights as the frost begins. These creatures are not as you are. They are not of the forest like you. They do not smell like you. But they are also not of her.

One day you watch the little one leave, spot the crack in the wooden door. You see the footsteps in the evening snow. You take a chance and follow inside, to the warmth and the noise and the glow.

You like it, in the house. But it is a place of in-between and that is where she lives. 

She mimics you, in the house: the squeaking, the quiet scurrying. She rustles in the wood stove and hides beneath the floorboards. Shadows move with no cause. Doors creak in the night.

There is a doll on the center beam at the front of the house. It is an offering, an invitation. Someone invited her. You can see that, in her permanence, in her roots. She is more like the forest than you thought. You suppose that in the best of moods, she is close to a domovoy, a kin-fellow and guardian; but what hearth spirit does this? 

She steals away towards their dreams and hides from waking light. Empty your pockets and clear your mind – you wish you could speak to them now as they sleep, as they flip their pillows and cry out in the night.

(she always loved the dreamers best)

Look to the window. Pray to the old gods. Pray they see you and not the mora in the corner.

Stuff the keyholes with paper or keys. Place the broom inverted beside the door. She is of the forest but no more; she is a creature of in-between. 

She comes out at night to spin her yarn. This is no Anansi, no gentle trickster or story-weaver; beware the needle and the news she brings. Beware the faces that she takes. The tapestries she creates tell a story of in-between.

She’s outstayed her welcome.

So have you, you decide. You’ve become a creature of in-between. There are no goodbyes, not to the little one and not to the mora. You return once again to the fens and the forests of the old gods. You leave the dreamers to their restless sleep.