The Hut on Chicken Legs
Baba Yaga
It's a feeling you'll never feel. You'll never feel it because it doesn't really exist and all of this is just a lie, a made up fantasy for you to dream about tonight. It's a beautiful cold feeling, that's dark and blue, like the moon at night. It's the feeling you get when you run your tongue across the roof of his mouth, to his teeth, and feel those two, sharp, perfect fangs, so pure, so deadly. And it doesn't stop you, because you know he wouldn't hurt you, no matter what, no matter how much he wants to.
And then, it's the feeling when he smiles to you like he does.
**
I don't really know when this all started. I'm not sure. I know it was in the middle of the night, in the confessional of a church. It was dark and Saint Agustine and Saint Monica were looking down upon me in disdain becuase I wasn't supposed to be there. No, I should have been across the way, in my bed, in my dreams, but I wasn't. I am a perfectionist. I was still playing, still practicing, still trying. It was me and my violin, sitting in the confessional, butchering sheet music, striving to a nonexistent goal. Perfection.
I didn't notice the door open, or him come in. I was playing, drawing my bow across the strings, rosin pillowing up in dust around my face. My hair was in my eyes, I couldn't see my fingers. That was good. If I saw my fingers, I would trust them. I had to put all trust into my ear. Into myself.
"Beautiful," he said from the shadows when I drew the final note to a close and flipped back through the pages to the begining.
I was surprised, but too scared to show it. "No. Not really."
"Yeah it was, it was beautiful. What was so wrong with it?"
I ran off a list of things in my ears. At bar one twenty nine, I lost intonation. Bar one sixty seven, my bowstroke was off. Bars seventy two through two hundred, my timing was imperfect. There was always something wrong. Always something I could do better.
"Everything."
"Oh."
I looked at the boy I had been talking to for the last five minutes, "Who are you?" I had never seen him. Boys didn't often wander into here, an all girls orphanage, run by nuns and priests, who slammed religion into us like a drug. Did you know that Antonio Vivaldi, the great violin composer wrote several pieces for orphan girls in Vienna? Yes, he did. They were meant to bring them up from the social class that they were seeming stuck in forever by giving them something that might someday pass for talent.
"Gerard."
"Why are you here?"
"I'm hiding."
"From who?"
"No one."
"Oh."
"Who are you?"
I hesitated, "I'm Juliet. As in Romeo."
"Oh. Cool." He flashed a smile. Something about his smile was wrong. Something was...his teeth. There were two that were longer than the others, pointy.
"What are you?" I gasped.
"I'm...a vampire," he muttered quietly, "But don't tell! That's why I'm hiding!" His face was now paler, if that was possible, than before.
**
And that was how we met. Every night, Gerard was there. And every night, I was as well. Me and my violin, still imperfect. Somehow though, nightime became more than just a time to talk to him. It was a time to love him and find out about his past. He had a brother, and a mother, and a father. He loved them very much. But he had been a vampire now for two and a half years, and for one of those years, he had been out on his own, on the streets, in shelters, hiding and sucking blood from all of those who he found the time to prey upon. And slowly, I began to love him.
It never scared me, his being a vampire. It scares some people, that's why he's hiding. But one night, he asked me to come away with him, because he was afraid that he didn't have much time left here. He asked me and my violin to come with him. Where? We had no idea. But somewhere. Hopefully. We'd find somewhere.
In the world of violins and cellos and basses and violas. And flutes and horns and clarinets and all the rest, there are stories about pieces. When you're little, in the middle of your classical training, the conductors of youth orchestras often tell them too you. There's one about a woman's tragic plea with death, another one having to do with a great gate in Russia that never came to be. But there is one, I really do love. It's a Russian folktale called Baba Yaga or The Hut on Chicken Legs. It's about two children who literally find a witch named Baba Yaga who lives in a hut on chicken legs. She captures them, as most evil witches do in fairytales. They escape and as they do, the hut begins to chase them, running faster and faster on it's chicken legs. But eventually, they slip through trees that the hut can't pass through and escape.
The accompanying piece is just as wonderful. It's loud, then quiet, then loud, louder, and suddenly quiet again. Gerard and I will be those two fairytale children. And those running after us will be the hut and Baba Yaga. But eventually, we will find solace somewhere, we will escape. Somewhere.
And then, it's the feeling when he smiles to you like he does.
**
I don't really know when this all started. I'm not sure. I know it was in the middle of the night, in the confessional of a church. It was dark and Saint Agustine and Saint Monica were looking down upon me in disdain becuase I wasn't supposed to be there. No, I should have been across the way, in my bed, in my dreams, but I wasn't. I am a perfectionist. I was still playing, still practicing, still trying. It was me and my violin, sitting in the confessional, butchering sheet music, striving to a nonexistent goal. Perfection.
I didn't notice the door open, or him come in. I was playing, drawing my bow across the strings, rosin pillowing up in dust around my face. My hair was in my eyes, I couldn't see my fingers. That was good. If I saw my fingers, I would trust them. I had to put all trust into my ear. Into myself.
"Beautiful," he said from the shadows when I drew the final note to a close and flipped back through the pages to the begining.
I was surprised, but too scared to show it. "No. Not really."
"Yeah it was, it was beautiful. What was so wrong with it?"
I ran off a list of things in my ears. At bar one twenty nine, I lost intonation. Bar one sixty seven, my bowstroke was off. Bars seventy two through two hundred, my timing was imperfect. There was always something wrong. Always something I could do better.
"Everything."
"Oh."
I looked at the boy I had been talking to for the last five minutes, "Who are you?" I had never seen him. Boys didn't often wander into here, an all girls orphanage, run by nuns and priests, who slammed religion into us like a drug. Did you know that Antonio Vivaldi, the great violin composer wrote several pieces for orphan girls in Vienna? Yes, he did. They were meant to bring them up from the social class that they were seeming stuck in forever by giving them something that might someday pass for talent.
"Gerard."
"Why are you here?"
"I'm hiding."
"From who?"
"No one."
"Oh."
"Who are you?"
I hesitated, "I'm Juliet. As in Romeo."
"Oh. Cool." He flashed a smile. Something about his smile was wrong. Something was...his teeth. There were two that were longer than the others, pointy.
"What are you?" I gasped.
"I'm...a vampire," he muttered quietly, "But don't tell! That's why I'm hiding!" His face was now paler, if that was possible, than before.
**
And that was how we met. Every night, Gerard was there. And every night, I was as well. Me and my violin, still imperfect. Somehow though, nightime became more than just a time to talk to him. It was a time to love him and find out about his past. He had a brother, and a mother, and a father. He loved them very much. But he had been a vampire now for two and a half years, and for one of those years, he had been out on his own, on the streets, in shelters, hiding and sucking blood from all of those who he found the time to prey upon. And slowly, I began to love him.
It never scared me, his being a vampire. It scares some people, that's why he's hiding. But one night, he asked me to come away with him, because he was afraid that he didn't have much time left here. He asked me and my violin to come with him. Where? We had no idea. But somewhere. Hopefully. We'd find somewhere.
In the world of violins and cellos and basses and violas. And flutes and horns and clarinets and all the rest, there are stories about pieces. When you're little, in the middle of your classical training, the conductors of youth orchestras often tell them too you. There's one about a woman's tragic plea with death, another one having to do with a great gate in Russia that never came to be. But there is one, I really do love. It's a Russian folktale called Baba Yaga or The Hut on Chicken Legs. It's about two children who literally find a witch named Baba Yaga who lives in a hut on chicken legs. She captures them, as most evil witches do in fairytales. They escape and as they do, the hut begins to chase them, running faster and faster on it's chicken legs. But eventually, they slip through trees that the hut can't pass through and escape.
The accompanying piece is just as wonderful. It's loud, then quiet, then loud, louder, and suddenly quiet again. Gerard and I will be those two fairytale children. And those running after us will be the hut and Baba Yaga. But eventually, we will find solace somewhere, we will escape. Somewhere.