Baba Yaga

I follow footprints. Kangaroo prints, tyre prints, raven prints, people prints. This day I tracked a small child, toe marks pocked into the silt of a recently drained road gutter. The child had wandered into a scrubby driveway past the guardian tree and continued south towards the inlet. When I got to the tower she came out to meet me.

She was possibly seven years old. She had bright orange hair and carried a ringtail possum on her shoulder. Both of them stared at me with eyes glossy and dark. ‘Is your mother or father here?’ I asked. She looked at me with horror and turned away to the stairs, the possum’s white tail like an upturned query against her back. The door slammed shut in front of me before I realised I had failed the basic courtesy of introducing myself.

Making my own prints on the inlet shore, I waded into the dark water. When it reached my waist, I waited for the wake to settle, until the water mirrored my image. Was I really such a frightening sight? Of course, my red dress and lipstick, my wrinkles, my long black hair were reflected in the inky surface. The wind came up and shredded this image into streaks of red and darkness. I opened my mouth and saw my true teeth filed to sharp points. The glamour cloak of a friendly maid had failed when I did not utter my untrue name to the child. I turned, disappointed and saw the child watching me from the window of the tower.