Meeting the Dark Goddess: The Myth of Vasalisa the Brave
Gather round this winter eve, kindreds and community. It is time to remember who we are, to find our resources and recall the power of the…
Gather round this winter eve, kindreds and community. It is time to remember who we are, to find our resources and recall the power of the hearthfire. This is a story from my grandmother Mary’s people, a story spread with many names and places, a story with a form recognizable to those of us on the myth path. Things are hard now, beloveds. The ice is crusted, the rivers in flood, the fever wanders the land. We learn from our ancestors it is time to press our hands to the earth, pull on the woolen cloak, feed the blessing in our pockets, and do not lose hope. Aid is always near.
As you listen, you may find yourself remembering. If so, you may wish to deepen in, dream on this tale.
Storyteller Martin Shaw asks of us: who are you in the story? Character or symbol, spirit or song? Each element offers us new medicine.
Now, clap three times, call in our helping and compassionate spirits, that we might hear what needs hearing, read what needs reading, speak what needs speaking, recall the wholly holy myth.
The story.
Vasalisa was a beloved child, always dressed in the Goddess’s colors of red, black and white. Her childhood was calm and joyful. But one day, her mother became ill and after moons without improvement it was clear she was dying. Vasalisa, on the cusp of adolescence, was brought to her mother’s bedside.
“Daughter,” her mother breathed, holding Vasalisa’s smooth hand in her own, “I am bound to leave you on this earth alone. But I will always be with you. She pressed a beautiful doll into her daughter’s other hand. This is my blessing and protection, daughter. You must feed her regularly and always keep her in your pocket, hidden from the world. In times of your greatest need do not forget me, remember to ask for assistance when all seems lost and dark.”
With these words, Vasalisa’s mother died.
For months Vasalisa and her father grieved. He was a kind but simple man, given to eccentricities. Vasalisa cared for him as best she could, cooked his porridge and mended his shirts. She never forgot her mother’s blessing and took care to feed and tend her doll each day with her mother firmly in her heart.
Things went on this way a while, seeming almost like life itself. But then one morning Vasalisa woke with blood soaking her shift beneath her. Later, behind the bathhouse, her father saw her scrubbing at the bloodstain and in his look Vasalisa knew something had changed.
Later that evening he laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Vasalisa, it is time,” he said. “I knew this day would come, for now you are a woman and no woman is here to welcome you. It grieves me child, but I must let you go to the sisters at the edge of the wood. They will teach you womanly secrets, ways and arts of which I know not at all.” He bade her to pack her things, for they would leave at dusk the next night.
Vasalisa had little to bring, and nothing but heaviness in her heart as she and her father made their way from the cottage home she had always known toward the forest. She felt afraid, and clutched the little doll feeling it warm beneath her hand with something like life.
The forest hut at the edge of the wood was plain and sturdy. Etched around the door were sigils Vasalisa remembered from her mother’s embroidery. Just as her father was to knock the door flew open and in the entrance was a wide, soft Elder woman with a large spindle. Deep in the shadows were two more Elder women, one carding, one spinning. Vasalisa could just make out tidy pots and drying herbs, and the scent that filled her nose was one achingly familiar.
The exchange was brief and wordless. The Elder Sister looked to Vasalisa’s father, and he patted Vasalisa with pain in his eyes before urging her with his hand toward the Elder who reached for Vasalisa with open arms.
“Welcome, child,” she said. “You are most welcome here, Vasalisa. We knew your mother well, and we hope you will see us as kindred, as family. Come in, come in. The things we do here are all for the joy of living. You have nothing to fear.”
Vasalisa crossed the threshold with a sigh, and felt her doll warm in her pocket in such a way it almost felt like movement. That night was full of song and story, a brisk rich tea of raspberry and oat, thick waves of eiderdown and dreams of a life so beautiful it belongs in another story.
The Sisters lived in rhythm. There was much work, much play, and only one rule: Never let the fire go out.
Tending the fire was a simple enough task in the warmth of summer, the cool of fall. The great hearth always had something bubbling on it, the coals were always full of baking. Each evening the coals were banked with a blessing, and Vasalisa learned to feed the spirit of the home, the Domovoi, even as she fed her doll.
Through her time at the Elder house Vasalisa learned true the womanly arts, some begun in her mother’s house, some entirely magicked with the Sisters: The ways that stitching can be a spell, how to sing to the plant spirits, the brewing of medicine as food, signs of a child in the womb, bindings and wards. Through it all the doll remained in her apron pocket, feeling to Vasalisa as if she were listening, alert, aware, and Vasalisa was most comforted by this. In the evenings Vasalisa fed her doll and began speaking to it, sharing her fears and desires. Sometimes the next morning there would be a solution to her troubles, a technique for twining wool would come clear on the day before she was to spin, or herbs for sunburn would appear on the windowsill on the day she was to collect the sheep from the upper pasture.
Winter came, as it does in the North, with strafing rains, driving wind and, at last, snow. On the eve of the darkest day the Sisters sat at their wool work. “Vasalisa,” said the Elder, “It is your turn to get wood for the fire.”
This eve was no different than the rest. Vasalisa hung her thick shawl over her head, pulled on her heavy boots and opened the door. For a moment, all seemed still, but before she could step outside a curl of wind slipped past, feeling almost like a body against her. The doll jumped in her pocket, suddenly hot to the touch. And everything slowed down.
These are the moments in the story. You know them too. When everything stills, when the old world breathes last and there is an edge of pause. At the hearth of the Elder house, the animate wind, with a name lost to history and humans, licked the coals. The fire in the hearth went out.
The house was instantly dark and cold. Though she could not see their faces, Vasalisa felt the Sisters turn to her, expectant, their hands full of spinning.
The Elder Sister spoke, “It is time, Vasalisa, for you to make the journey to Baba Yaga’s hut. You must seek a coal for our fire, for we will not survive the winter without it. Go now, little Sister. There is no time to waste. You are carrying your mother’s blessing?”
“Yes,” Vasalisa answered. The chill of the night had already snuck beneath her clothing and she wasn’t sure which was more frightening, the prospect of the icy dark forest, the Sisters freezing at her failure, or meeting the witch Baba Yaga, of whom she had heard many terrible stories.
“With her blessing and ours you are as prepared as you can be. You must follow the path of the deer to the far edge of the forest. You will come to a clearing and see the home of Baba Yaga. Goddess be with you, Vasalisa, and all the forest spirits too,” said the Elder Sister as she closed the door and latched it.
Vasalisa began on the deer path. At first the way was familiar, and even with dark falling she was able to find her courage. She sang a little, the old fire song the Sisters had taught her:
The fire is burning
Burning, burning
Mother of the Earth
Fuel this fire
Keep the spark
Keep the light
Keep the ashes
Warm this night
After many hours of walking, Vasalisa saw a glow far off in the forest. She clutched her doll. “Mother, I am afraid,” she whispered. The doll warmed in her hand, moved a little and spoke.
“Do not be afraid, child. Have you not tended me? Have you not fed me? Have you not received my solutions before? Nothing bad can happen to you as long as we are together.”
“But Baba Yaga eats people. Bones and all. I know the stories.”
“Not all stories are true in the way you think,” said the doll. “Now, you must continue.”
Vasalisa walked and walked. The glow came closer and closer until it was as the dawn. With a rush a white horse with a rider dressed all in gleaming white galloped by Vasalisa, opening the day, descending the dew in a froth of frost on her shoulders.
Then the sun rose, and in a rush a red horse and a rider dressed all in crimson galloped by Vasalisa, melting the frost and lighting the world around her.
Vasalisa walked and walked through the entirety of the day until at last she came to a clearing in the forest. There on chicken legs was a hut, surrounded by a tall fence. As Vasalisa approached she saw the fence was made of bones, the gate of human ribcages, the fence posts of femurs topped with grinning skulls, the gate hinges vertebra, the latch a pair of wicked teeth.
In a rush a black horse with a rider all dressed in black galloped by Vasalisa, straight up to the gate and vanished. Night fell around her, and each grinning skull began to glow with a fierce light. The earth beneath her rumbled and trembled, and Vasalisa turned to see Baba Yaga arrive. She was ancient and everchanging, her face moving swift, her hair whipping around her as she rode in her pestle, swinging the mortar in one hand and sweeping her broom behind her with the other, covering her tracks.
“I smell living blood!” Baba Yaga cried. “Who dares approach the house of Baba Yaga?”
Vasalisa trembled, but her doll jumped in her pocket and she stepped forward with new courage.
“It is I, Vasalisa, Grandmother. I have come to see if I can get a coal for the Sister’s hearth.”
“Ah, the Sisters are my kinswomen,” said Baba Yaga. “And I have been expecting you. Come in.” She called to the gate of bones, the latch of teeth, “Open up and let us pass, and leave the maiden for my own!”
As they passed through the gate a birch tree reached out with branches sharp. “Let us pass,” said Baba Yaga, “and leave the maiden for my own.”
As they approached the house a fierce dog came barking. “Let us pass,” said Baba Yaga, “and leave the maiden for my own.”
In the house each corner was filled with mess, years of dirt and rags, clothes and detritus. But a bright feast was laid on the table. Baba Yaga sat immediately to eat it, slavering as she filled herself with rich, steaming dishes of porridge, meat and vegetables in sauce. She tossed Vasalisa a crust of hard dark bread.
“Vasalisa you must work for this food. See in the larder that great pile of millet? You must sort each grain and remove all of the black pieces. Do this by morning or I will eat you tomorrow.”
And with that Baba Yaga fell deep asleep.
Vasalisa took her doll from her pocket and offered her the crust of bread. She whispered, “How will I ever sort that millet? It is a task for days, not only one night.”
The doll warmed in her hand and said, “Let us call on our many helpers, Vasalisa, in this night they will come to our aid. By morning all will be well.” And the doll sang a song that had no words, but immediately the larder was full of the tiny birds Vasalisa had learned to feed in the winter forest. They quickly sorted the millet, and Vasalisa laid down and slept a dreamless sleep.
She woke to the white dawn rider thundering through the dooryard. Baba Yaga was standing over her.
“I see you have done what was asked.” She threw Vasalisa another crust of the rich brown bread. “I am off to the woods. Here is a sack of peas and poppyseeds. Sort one from the other and then clean my hut and make me a feast or I will eat you for supper tonight.”
The red rider brought the sun in the hut with a brilliance and Baba Yaga was gone.
Vasalisa fed her doll the crust of bread. “How will I ever sort the peas and poppy? It is a task for many days, not one day.”
The doll warmed in her hand and said, “Let us call on our many helpers, Vasalisa, in this day they will come to our aid. By evening all will be well.” And the doll sang a song that had no words, but immediately the room was filled with the tiny brown mice Vasalisa had learned to feed in the winter forest. They quickly sorted the peas from the poppyseeds while Vasalisa worked to scrub and clean the hut while cooking a feast for Baba Yaga.
The black horse galloped through the dooryard and night fell, the skulls all aglow. Baba Yaga returned. “I am starved, Vasalisa, have you done what I asked?”
“Yes, grandmother.”
Baba Yaga looked to the peas and the poppyseeds then fell upon the meal Vasalisa had made. When she finished she cast her changing face on Vasalisa and tossed her a crust of black bread.
“See that pile of sesame in the larder? You must sort it seed from hull while I sleep or I will eat you for breakfast, bones and all.”
With that, Baba Yaga fell asleep.
Vasalisa fed her crust of bread to her doll, who warmed and together they called on the helpers with an ancient song. An army of ants rose up from beneath the floor of the chicken leg house, and began sorting the seed from the hull. The task was completed. When they finished Vasalisa laid down and fell into a dreamless sleep.
She woke with Baba Yaga standing over her, the dawn rider galloping past.
“Grandaughter,” she said, her face shifting and changing, fearsome and ancient, beautiful and young, “you have finished every task I asked. You have cleaned my home and fed me. Now it is time for you to receive your fire. Here is a bone, feed it to the dog on the porch. Here is a ribbon, tie it on the birch tree at the gate. Here is grease, pour it over the hinge of the gate. None will prevent your passing, for you have earned my gifts.”
“But Grandmother,” said Vasalisa, “I must return to the sisters with a coal for their fire.”
“First you must answer these questions:
Who is the rider in white?
Who is the rider in red?
Who is the rider in black?
Why do they disappear at my gate?”
“The rider in white is the dawn,” said Vasalisa. “And the rider in red is the day. The rider in black is the night. And they disappear at your gate because they are you, and you are they.”
“You have earned this wisdom,” said Baba Yaga. “Take one of the glowing skulls from the fence. It is a life coal, and will warm you for many years to come.” She placed her withered hand, her smooth hand, her hand on Vasalisa’s brow. “And never forget what comes in the greatest fear. Your own coal, your own fire, your own hearth. Tend it, daughter, child, granddaughter, for all who came before and all who come after.”
Vasalisa bowed to Baba Yaga, then passed from her house. She threw the bone to the dog, tied the ribbon to the quaking birch tree, greased the hinges of the gate and took from the fence a glowing skull. She was halfway back to the Sisters house when she realized the doll was no longer in her pocket.
She hurried through the forest, the path shorter than she had imagined when she left. At the Sisters house the door was ajar, and she felt fear overtake her until she realized the house was entirely empty. No herbs, no crocks, no piles of spinning. Just a single table and chair remained. And Vasalisa knew: she was home.
Vasalisa gathered tinder from beneath the eaves, twigs from the woodshed and built a nest for her coal. Taking her knife from her belt she cut a lock of hair and placed it on the fire in offering. Smoke rose from the chimney of the forest house, and rises there still.
Maybe your mother has died. Maybe your world has changed. Maybe you are out in the cold. Maybe you are alone or afraid. Check your pocket, the blessing is always there.
This is how we receive a home in the world.
This is how we learn who our helpers are.
This is how we face the unknown.
This is how we earn our sacred fire.
By this and every effort may the balance be regained.
ALU
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If you would like to deepen your exploration with the story of Vasalisa the Brave, there is a live telling on Vimeo:
This story was deeply explored in a class called Myth as Healer in 2020. You can still enroll in the asynchronous version of the class with its 13 Day Mythic Ritual Practice here:
Myth as Healer
Three Months for Myth as Healer This class and the 13 Day Mythic Ritual Practice (included) have a suggested donation…wildsoulschool.teachable.com
Stories come from many places, rooted in our unconscious and made conscious through the work of storytelling, writing. I am indebted to many versions of this story. The first is the retelling by Starhawk in Circle Round: Raising Children in Goddess Traditions, which reframed my explorations of Baba Yaga and strengthened my resolve when my children were small. The version in Russian Fairy Tales translated by Irina Zheleznova gave me the more traditional form of the story.[2]