Releasing on November 8th from Black Spot Books, Into the Forest: Tales of the Baba Yaga is a collection of new and exclusive short stories inspired by the Baba Yaga. The anthology comes from New York Times bestsellers to Bram Stoker Award® winners and freshly hatched voices, women in horror from around the globe pay tribute to the Baba Yaga in this collection of harrowing tales.
We are thrilled to share an excerpt from “Water Like Broken Glass” by Carina Bissett from Into the Forest: Tales of the Baba Yaga with a note from the author and an editor’s note from Lindy Ryan.
SYNOPSIS
Deep in the dark forest, in a cottage that spins on birds’ legs behind a fence topped with human skulls, lives the baba yaga. A guardian of the water of life, she lives with her sisters and takes to the skies in a giant mortar and pestle, creating tempests as she goes. Those who come across the baba yaga may find help, or hinderance, or horror. She is wild, she is woman, she is witch—and these are her tales.
Featuring Gwendolyn Kiste, Stephanie M. Wytovich, Mercedes M. Yardley, Monique Snyman, Donna Lynch, Lisa Quigley, and R. J. Joseph, with a foreword by Christina Henry and edited by Lindy Ryan, this collection brings together some of today’s leading voices of women-in-horror as they pay tribute to the baba yaga, and go Into the Forest.
Editor’s Take: Lindy Ryan
Storytelling has often been called the “world’s oldest profession.” As such, it has long been a primary way that humans have handed down knowledge, lessons, and, yes, even entertainment throughout history—prior to the advent of the printing press and prior, even, to the invention of written language. Humans are story creatures: we find meaning in stories, and we encode events, instruction, and emotion into our legends, parables, and fairy and folk tales. These life lessons reflect the beliefs and moral standards of the time, and today’s retellings—a ripe and fertile ground—offer modern writers the opportunity to pass down updated life lessons to today’s modern readers.
Baba Yaga, a figure as old as any in the fairy tale canon, has long been used to offer lessons, many of which are contrary to ideals we hold most dear today—many of which teach us to fear the wild, the unknown, and women who refuse to be trapped inside the tight and unyielding confines of societal expectation. Stories like those in INTO THE FOREST: TALES OF BABA YAGA (Black Spot Books, November 8, 2022) are giving a fresh voice to this forest witch of yore, embracing her darkness and spinning new yarns of how to approach the agency and ferocity of wild women, along with other messages that remind us that not all evil stays hidden in the forest.
A Note from contributor Carina Bissett
Several years ago, I discovered the story of Jannetje Johanna (Hannie) Schaft, a Dutch resistance fighter so dangerous and deadly that she even caught the attention of Adolph Hitler himself. As someone with a family history deeply entrenched in the fight for freedom, ranging from the American Revolution through both world wars, I can only hope that I would be as brave as Hannie and the other men and women who stood against the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands if I was in the same situation. However, I also wonder how the execution of German soldiers in back alleys and dark forests might have affected those who carried out the overt operations. I kept circling ideas of retribution and rage and recompense and how they might change a person.
When the opportunity came to write a story based on the legendary figure of Baba Yaga, I decided it was finally time to explore these questions. I introduced a rusalka, another feminine entity from Slavic lore, in an examination of violence and vengeance. In my story, the rusalka is a drowned bride haunting the Rhine River and the baba yagas are forest mothers, witches determined to stay neutral in the affairs of mankind. When a girl with hair as red as that of Hannie Schaft runs to the river with a Nazi soldier on her heels, the rusalka inadvertently joins the resistance on the path to self-discovery and the power of forgiveness.
Excerpt from “Water Like Broken Glass” by Carina Bissett
The first thing I notice is her shining red hair. It streams past her shoulders like a banner. Following that flag is a soldier.
“Watermeid!” The fleeing girl summons me even though I am only the ghost of a rumor, a common condition for all women who’ve been beaten, broken, and left for dead.
She lunges into the river as the man closes the gap.
“Heks!” She cries out. Witch.
I slip out of the embrace of my favorite birch and into the water below. The girl’s feet crash through the river. Her bare toes cling to the smooth stones. The man’s shiny black boots slip on those same rocks, but he is determined in his pursuit.
He reaches out to catch her, but she stumbles forward, and he is left grasping at the white ribbons trailing from the girl’s long hair.
The soldier’s fingers close in a fist, and her flight comes to an abrupt halt. He lands a blow with his free hand. The girl crashes to her knees, waist-deep in the rushing river. She is fumbling for the trench knife tucked into her waistband when she finally spots me, drifting along the riverbed.
The soldier mutters something guttural as he draws a pistol from his belt. The girl’s lips curve in a blood-streaked smile, and she raises both hands in surrender.
I might not be a witch, but I am a watermeid. A drowned girl. A birch bride. And my arms are empty.
I tangle the soldier’s ankles, drag him to the deepest channel. And then I let go. He surfaces, arms pinwheeling as he gulps for air. When he sets out toward the nearest shore, I follow, hidden in the current. His strokes grow stronger, more purposeful the closer he is to safety. He grasps a handful of grass clinging to the shore before I pull him back into my domain. His eyes widen when he finally sees me, as the river wraps the length of black hair around his throat. His armband pulls free midstream. The cutwater snatches at the flash of red. It curls to reveal a white circle stamped with the harsh black lines of a crooked cross. I permit him to surface, make another attempt for freedom as I gather the sash as tribute. The iron cross pinned to his gray-green collar is the price for our third encounter. And so, bit by bit, his uniform is stripped of regalia until the soldier’s strong body finally fails. His lungs fill with water and weed, and I turn away.
The girl with the red hair waits for me near my favored haunt, the birch with roots sunk deep into the river. Cradled in the remains of an old channel, a pool reflects a spring sky as blue as a robin’s egg.
“I heard rumor of a watermeid near here. Lucky for me, it turned out to be true.” Her laugh is one of joyous discovery. “Thank you, comrade.”
Curious, I drift closer.
“A woman of action, not of words, I see.” She uncrosses her legs, slides away from the safety of shore, and wades toward me with her hand outstretched. “I’m Tilde.”
I consider slipping away, but her bright-eyed stare dares me to stay. And so, I reach back, brush my fingers across hers, quick as a minnow darting with the current. Satisfied, she offers a mocking salute.
“Welcome to the Resistance.”
