Babushka

The road runs by the side of a stream too big to be called a stream in spring time, when the snows from the mountains run in fat ribbons downhill. At the height of summer large stones are clearly visible and the stream is just a stream and easy to ford.

The boy walks slowly listening to the night. In the bushes by the road side away from the water hundreds of eyes are watching his every step, retreating and advancing but never leaving the safety of the dark. The moon has disappeared beyond the hills which surround this narrow valley. He walks on enjoying the spectacle of fireflies. 'Lampyridae, lampyridae' he chants. He is very young and not afraid of the night.

Usually the stream tinkles and sings through the shallows but last night's thunderstorm changed its tone to something deeper, more mysterious. The line of willows ends suddenly, and there is the ford. In the undark darkness the boy can see the stepping stones and the figure. Someone is standing by the stream waiting. Waiting for him.

An old woman. A stranger facing him. He can't discern her features but can make out that she is a small, round babushka in a peasant skirt and scarf. Few more steps and he is close enough to smell her. Milk? Yes, she smells of warm milk of the cowshed. But there is also something else, elusive and slightly bitter, hanging in the air between them. Yarrow or unripe gooseberries perhaps?

His greeting is short but friendly and she responds likewise. But her next sentence stops him as he mounts the first stone. 'Take me across' she whispers. He looks at her round, bland face and considers refusing. 'Take me across on your back'. And he does not refuse, but is almost bent double under the weight of the round peasant who is hanging onto his back. Slipping and sliding over the stones he reaches the bank and sinks into the grass breathing heavily. She touches his head and moves away without a word. Slowly he stands up. His shoulders hurt where her fingers dug into him. He turns to wish her a sarcastic goodnight and thanks for nothing but she is gone. There is just the road born again out of the stream and winding its way towards the lights of the first house on the hill, his home...

The old man opens his eyes wide as pain rakes through his ribcage. In the undark darkness he can see someone standing by the bedroom window. She is a small, round babushka in a peasant skirt and scarf. He smiles knowingly as the smell of warm milk and gooseberries fill his nostrils. 'Take me across' he sighs.

My Grandmother told us this story when we were staying in a small village during a summer holiday. The house was on top of a hill which fell steeply into the valley below, where a small stream meandered by the roadside. The night was stormy and wild and we were deliciously scared. The electricity cables were down and the candles flickered in the hot air. We could hear thunder rumbling in valley and we hoped that the lightning will not strike the chimney. Few days afterwards we went to the village shop and came back in the dark. And there were the fireflies, and the moon was gone and we run all the way back and did not look at the ford as we passed it...