Posts Tagged ‘Kikimora’

The following is an edited transcript of an illustrated talk I gave at Inspired at Wirksworth Festival on Tuesday 19th September 2017.

I’m going to talk about a piece of art that was a very direct inspiration to me. But also about some of the other ideas and influences which fed into the creative process, and helped to shape what eventually became my second novel. I want to show the sometimes meandering route that inspiration can take, the seeming dead-ends, and the role chance can play in tying a lot of disparate ideas together.

Seven years ago, in October 2010, I’d recently published my first novel, Darklands, and I finally had time to think about what I was going to write next. I had it in my head I’d like to write a ghost story. I’m not quite sure why, but I’ve always enjoyed the creepy and macabre.

I did some initial research. I took a field trip to an Elizabethan manor house, Baddesley Clinton in Warwickshire, which boasts not one, but three, priest holes.

A priest hole is a small hidden room where Catholic priests could hide to avoid persecution during a time when it was illegal to practice Catholicism. This was because of various Catholic plots against the life of Elizabeth I. Catholicism was considered high treason, and punishments could include torture and death. When the authorities came round, a priest might have to hide in one of these cramped spaces in the dark for hours, or even days, before he could be safely released.

I’m sure you can imagine the creepy and sinister potential of a forgotten priest hole in a ghost story.

So I had a few ideas, and some atmospheric material from my field trip, but I didn’t yet have a story.

One day I was driving to work, and listening to the radio, as usual, and I heard Anatoly Lyadov’s tone poem, Kikimora.

Pleasant though it was, I can’t say it actually grabbed me that much at the time (though I’ve listened to it a lot since, and love it more each time). But what particularly struck me that day was after the music finished the presenter read out Lyadov’s program notes about Kikimora.

This is what he wrote.

“She grows up with a magician in the mountains. From dawn to sunset the magician’s cat regales Kikimora with fantastic tales of ancient times and faraway places, as Kikimora rocks in a cradle made of crystal. It takes her seven years to reach maturity, by which time her head is no larger than a thimble and her body no wider than a strand of straw. Kikimora spins flax from dusk to dawn, with evil intentions for the world.”

As soon as I heard those words it was a story I wanted to read. It conjures so much that is familiar from the kind of stories I loved when I was growing up, from fairy tales and folk tales.

Kikimora grows up with a magician – like so many iconic protagonists. Like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, like The Once and Future King, like many of Diana Wynne Jones’ books: Howl’s Moving Castle, Charmed Life, The Lives of Christopher Chant.

The magician’s cat can speak – like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. Like Aslan. And, again, there are many examples in Diana Wynne Jones’ books.

The cat tells endless stories – like Sherazade in 1001 nights.

Kikimora’s head is no larger than a thimble – bringing to mind classic fairy tales, like Thumbelina or Tom Thumb.

And like Rumpelstiltskin, she spins flax.

With just a few words Lyadov has summoned a storm of associations and memories – treasured memories from childhood, of the magical, fantastical stories I loved best, and that transported me to other lands and other lives.

But then right at the end, he gives it a twist: she has evil intentions for the world. So is she the heroine of this story, or is she the villain?

I wanted to find out. So I searched online for books about Kikimora – and I found nothing. She had a mention in a couple of books on Russian and Slavic folklore, and a wikipedia page, but I could find absolutely no fiction in English that mentioned her.

14-Kikimora

Kikimora, 1934 illustration by Ivan Bilibin

I found it incredible that seemingly no one had picked up on this gem of a story, when it seemed to me so ripe, so full of potential. I decided that I would write her story.

I read what little I could find on Kikimora. She’s a figure from Slavic folklore, a kind of household spirit. She often lives behind the stove, and helps good, respectable housewives who leave out offerings for her, but plays tricks on mean or slovenly households.

In reading about her, I found other fascinating figures from Slavic folklore, and they also found their way into my story. Such as Leshy. Leshy is a spirit or god of the forest. Like Kikimora he can be kind or troublesome, depending how he is treated. He can shape-shift, and can be very temperamental.

Leshy

Leshy, from a magazine cover, 1906. I’ve been unable to find the artist’s name.

Rusalkas also feature in my story. If you’re not familiar with Rusalkas, they’re basically a Slavic, fresh-water mermaid. They live in the water, are very beautiful, and lure unwary men to their death.

But again, they are not always seen as evil in early traditions. And I think this ambiguity in all these folklore characters is a large part of what appeals to me about them. They are largely reactive – they treat humans according to how humans treat them. And that seems a very obvious, but still very powerful way to view the natural world – which I think is essentially the purpose of a lot of folklore. In a pre-scientific and pre-industrial age, to try and make sense of the often cruel and capricious world around us.

These Slavic characters may well be unfamiliar to you, and you might wonder why I was so drawn to them and their stories. How could they mean anything to me?

But although their names are unfamiliar, there is much about them that is familiar. There is a universality in these characters which transcends their origin. The same tropes and archetypes are evident throughout British folklore, European fairy tales, and mythologies from all around the world.

Rusalkas have obvious parallels in mermaids, sirens, kelpies – our more local versions, Jenny Greenteeth or the grindylow.

In British folklore, we have our own versions of household spirits, like Hobs or brownies – or Dobby the house elf.

When I was growing up my family had our very own version: Icky. I’ve no idea where the name came from, but whenever something went missing or a mess was made that no one would own up to, we said it must have been Icky.

Even the very fact of being Russian seems kind of familiar. The Brothers Grimm collected their fairy tales from all over Europe – including Russia. And many of the most evocative and beautiful fairy tale illustrations have a Russian flavour to them. Such as the works of Jan Pienkowski or Edmund Dulac.

Fairy Tales, illustrated by Jan Pienkowski

Fairy Tales, illustrated by Jan Pienkowski

So I gathered a great amount of inspiration from these folk characters. I had Kikimora, my protagonist’s, origin story in the quote from Lyadov, and I had a sense of conflict or unease between humans and the natural world.

The inspiration that had eluded me when I was trying to write a ghost story came flooding in. I was very close to having a story. But one more ingredient came along which directed the course of the novel.

I mentioned at the beginning that it was October 2010. If you remember, it was during that time that 33 miners were trapped deep underground in a copper mine in Chile. By then the men had been trapped for two months. Their story gripped the public imagination, and it gripped me just as much as everyone else.

I have long had a mingled horror and fascination for underground spaces. There is something primal about being deep underground – think of the neolithic cave paintings of Lascaux and Altamira.

cave paintings at Lascaux

cave paintings at Lascaux

The common interpretation of these paintings is that they serve some sort of spiritual or ritual purpose.

Think of hidden caverns where incredible, gigantic crystals grow, such as Naica cave in Mexico.

Naica Cave, Mexico.

Naica Cave, Mexico. Look at the size of these crystals. It’s like Superman’s fortress of solitude!

Underground places can be beautiful, awe-inspiring.

But they are also dangerous, and frightening on a very primal level. All that weight of earth and rock balanced above you. The fear of your only light being extinguished – of the utter, pitiless darkness. Of being trapped. Lost. Alone. Being unaware of anything happening outside the cave – say, torrential rain that could flood the caves before you know a thing about it.

When those Chilean miners were finally safely rescued it seemed the whole world breathed a sigh of relief.

All of these things fed into the story I eventually wrote.

And in the end, I did write a sort of ghost story, without realising it. My version of Kikimora creeps around someone else’s home, silent and invisible, doing mischief, throwing things on the floor and causing trouble. Just like a poltergeist.

I even used the idea of being trapped in the dark – albeit, being trapped underground, rather than the priest hole I was initially researching.

I used characters and tropes from folklore and fairy tales – but they are very much my own personal take on those characters.

I seasoned it with the mingled terror and awe I feel about underground spaces.

And of course, in any story there must be conflict. In this case, another of my preoccupations, the conflict between humans and nature, between technological advancement and the exploitation of the planet’s resources.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story about writing a story.

I include below a short excerpt from Kikimora.

To set the scene, Anatoly is a powerful magician. He lives in splendid isolation in the mountains of Korsakov forest. Every month he plays cards with his friends, Leshy and the North Wind, and they stay up very late, drinking lots of vodka and setting the world to rights, as men are inclined to do.

Between them they try to ensure the natural world is all in order, and things are kept in balance. But they are disturbed by the activities of some miners from the nearby town, who are encroaching on the forest, and don’t show the proper respect.

During one drunken night they hatch a plan to deal with the miners by creating a monster. This Anatoly does, but his plan goes awry from the start.

He names his monster Kikimora.

Excerpt from Kikimora

Kikimora gathered up her embroidery to finish in the pantry. It was cold in there, but that had never troubled her. She was a creature of the cold, and though she enjoyed the comfort of a crackling fire, her resilience to Korsakov’s bitter winters was remarkable. She had never owned a pair of shoes, nor felt their lack.

She was almost at the door, when the North Wind said, “Wait. How old are you now, girl?”

“Almost seven.”

Anatoly’s long fingers fumbled as he filled the glasses, which all clinked and rattled against one another.

“Has it been so long?” asked the North Wind in some surprise. “Surely it is time?”

Anatoly swallowed his vodka at a gulp. “There is still much I would teach her. Her reading is sorely neglected. She has not yet begun The Art of War-”

The North Wind snorted his disdain. “She might have completed all the reading even you could wish for years ago if you didn’t have her working as your skivvy all the day long! I heard your banshee wail,” he told Kikimora. “It wasn’t too bad. What else can you do? Can you sour the milk with an evil thought?”

Kikimora nodded.

“Can you hide from human eyes? Creep past men silent and unnoticed?” Two more nods.

“Can you send bad dreams to trouble the sleep of man, woman or child?”

She hesitated.

“Well?”

“I have no one on which to practice such a skill.”

The North Wind frowned and harrumphed. “What of that cat I’ve seen around the place? Surely you could disturb its sleep?”

Kikimora’s eyes grew wide at this suggestion, and Anatoly muttered that it was more than any of their lives were worth to interfere with the cat.

Leshy took a bite of cake, and exclaimed at its sweetness. Washing it down with a mouthful of vodka, he added that he’d never tasted finer spirit. Kikimora knew he was trying to cheer her up, and she summoned a smile to show she appreciated it.

“Congratulations,” the North Wind said sourly. “Your monster is a fine cook and house-keeper. How those men will tremble in their boots.”

Earlier this year I was honoured to be invited to take part in a peformance at the Wirksworth Festival. Titled ‘Inspired,’ the evening showcased local artists and performers talking about their work and their inspiration.

It took place last Tuesday at Wirksworth Town Hall.  Seni Seneviratne read some of her moving and beautifully written poetry about growing up in Leeds as a child of Sri Lankan heritage. George Grignon spoke very engagingly about how he became a musician, and played us some of the music he loved as a teenager. Photographer Kate Bellis showed some of her recent work documenting the lives of Derbyshire hill farmers, and talked about her motivations. And I presented a short talk on how my version of Kikimora came to life while I was struggling to write a ghost story.

Public speaking is most definitely not my natural environment. I was in a state of constant, stomach-churning panic from about two weeks before the event. But somehow it all came off flawlessly. And I must admit, it was very gratifying when people told me the story of Kikimora’s genesis intrigued them to read the novel.

You can read an edited transcript of my talk here.

Thank you to Pam Taylor and Debi Hedderwick for inviting me, and to compere Paddy Turner for talking to me calmly and soothingly pre-performance. Thank you also to the audience, who listened attentively and laughed in the right places.

Below are a few photographs from the evening, courtesy of Phil Richards.

Emma at Inspired talking about classic fairy tale illustration by Edmund Dulac

Emma reading from Kikimora at Inspired

You can barely even see the fear in my eyes

Kate Bellis at Inspired

Seni Seneviratne at Inspired

Well, it may be a couple of years late, but I’ve finally come up with the perfect sales pitch for Kikimora.

While signing books in Cromford recently, I was asked numerous times, ‘So what’s this book about?’

Despite having done these things a few times now and always getting the same questions, I was no better prepared than usual. I floundered my way through a couple of vague explanations, before tiredly offering,

It’s basically Poldark with magic.

That got a response (although one punter astutely pointed out: that pitch will only work on women).

Demelza Carne

‘Scruffy, neglected waif’

It’s not a facetious or cynical pitch though. In a blog post from five years ago I mention reading the first couple of Poldark books as research into mining in the (approximate) era, and being pleasantly surprised by their pace and humour. But I was very aware it was an obscure reference, meaning little to anyone under 40 who didn’t remember the 1970s TV show.

By the time new Poldark became the Sunday night TV phenomenon, I’d moved on from promoting Kikimora, and forgotten all about it.

But Kikimora actually bears a few similarities with Poldark, notably in the relationship between the charismatic but troubled mine owner, and the scruffy, neglected waif who takes up residence with him; in the families of marriageable young ladies eager to make his acquaintance, and their bafflement at his reluctance. Then there is his very plain (and consequently pitied and scorned) sister (cousin in Poldark)…

I won’t say more, to avoid spoilers.

Of course, Kikimora has many other things going on as well, in the battle of wills between the miners and the spirits of the forest, in Kikimora’s troubled genesis, and her journey to find acceptance.

I’d be interested to know, do any of my readers see the similarity? Or is it just my own over-familiarity with the story that brings it to mind? Let me know in the comments?

Books and freebies

This Saturday I’ll be signing copies of Darklands and Kikimora at Wirksworth Big Book Day. I’ve also got some freebies and goodies to give away, so do come and say hello if you’re in the vicinity.

There’ll be other book stalls, and I am promised a variety of book-themed events going on around town.

Wirksworth is where I went to school many years ago, and is a picturesque little town with bags of character. There is fantastic involvement with and support of the Arts in the town, and its annual Arts Festival in September is deservedly renowned.

If you haven’t visited before, now is an ideal time to acquaint yourself with its charms.

The Book Fair will be in the Memorial Hall on St John’s Street, from 10am until 4pm, Saturday 8th April.

I look forward to seeing you there!

I’m thrilled to reveal Kikimora’s cover design, courtesy of Uncut ID, and to announce the ebook is now available for pre-order.

Kikimora by Emma Woodcock

As mentioned previously, it’s an ebook-first soft launch, to be followed by paperback in a few weeks (hopefully before Christmas!)

The first reviews are also in.

I’m really pleased with the cover design. It’s just what I had in mind: a cold, blue, snow-laden forest, and something mysterious lurking within…

This post from two years ago shows that I already then knew exactly what I wanted!

I hope you like it too. Let me know your thoughts in the comments?

For the past few months I’ve been hard at work completing a final edit of Kikimora. I’ve now made the last checks for continuity, spelling, grammar, formatting, etc…

Guys, it’s done.

In true difficult-second-album stylee, this one’s been a bit of a slog. I thought it would be easier the second time around! I thought: I know what I’m doing now. I know the pitfalls to avoid. I know how to motivate myself. I know how stories veer off track, and how to steer them back. And I’m doing something much simpler and shorter!*

Yeah well, apparently I don’t know Jack…

There have been setbacks aplenty; some personal, some professional (as in the job that actually pays me…) and some writing related. But finally the Is are all dotted; the Ts are crossed, and Kikimora is ready to go out into the world and seek her fortune. You can read the final, expanded version of the opening chapter here.

sunlight on water

A shady pool, as beloved by Rusalkas

I expect to publish Kikimora at the end of October. As with Darklands I’ll do a soft-launch first of ebook only, followed by a paperback within a month or so (before Christmas!) Currently I’m putting together some review copies, and my design consultant is working on the cover design – check back soon for a sneak peak!

To all those who’ve stuck with me, thanks for your patience. I hope you’ll enjoy the results.

* Kikimora has actually turned out exactly the same length as Darklands :-/

How it begins

Anatoly took a card from the pile, sighed, and laid it back down on the table. “They have trampled a road all the way across the lower slopes and up to their infernal workings,” he said. “Once the river ran cold and clear. Now it is bitter with sulphur. The Rusalkas have been driven from their home. It is bad, my friends, bad indeed.”

“But what’s to be done?” asked Leshy, picking fretfully at the dried leaves caught in his beard.

The North Wind puffed out his ruddy cheeks, and roared, “They need teaching a lesson! They’re getting too big for their boots.”

“Another dozen trees felled today. That makes-” Leshy paused, bringing short, hairy toes up to the table to assist his counting. Finding himself still far short of the necessary digits, he threw his hands up in the air. “Too many. Too many of my trees hacked down and burned. And not a single token or sacrifice left in exchange. My time is done. I may as well lie down and die right now.”

Leshy’s gloom made the North Wind chuckle, his wheezy gusts scattering playing cards onto the floor. Leshy complained that he’d just built a good hand, but it was now lost – as all his endeavours seemed doomed to failure and insignificance.

Anatoly drummed his long fingers on the table top. It was dark with grease, and splashed with tallow drips from countless candles. The squalor of it irked him all of a sudden. He found himself imagining Yevgenia’s pretty nose wrinkling in distaste, and he determined that tomorrow he would take the time to clean the kitchen – perhaps the entire cottage. And then he fell to thinking about all the other parts of Yevgenia, just as pretty as her nose. For a time he forgot all about the problem of the mine, and the men and the road and the town.

“Life is too easy,” said the North Wind. “That’s the problem. They have no real hardships, and so they’re free to poke and meddle and delve and steal. In the olden times-” Anatoly rolled his eyes, and Leshy gave a discreet little sigh. “In the olden times, they had no time for such nonsense. They were too busy fending off lions, finding bison to hunt, discovering which berries were good to eat and which would turn their guts to slop – all the time fearing the sky might fall on their heads. I had only to whip up a little thunderstorm, and they ran whimpering to their caves. Now many of them are idle. That’s the nub of it. They’re bored, and so they breed mischief.”

“You’re saying they need a distraction? If some calamity were to befall them, they might be too busy to come plundering the forest?” Anatoly drained his glass thoughtfully, only grimacing a little at the harsh taste of the vodka. He distilled it himself from turnip peelings and bog myrtle, and the flavour was highly distinctive.

“But I have set traps. I have raised fires. I have confounded and befuddled them. Still they come back – more and more of them, like ants from a woodpile.” He glanced at the North Wind, a little fearfully, a little hopefully. “Perhaps if you were to-?”

The North Wind’s sigh rattled the pans hanging in the pantry. “I would love to help, of course. But my time is barely my own. You know how hard it is for me to even find the leisure for our card game each month. There is not a town in the world I don’t visit. Not an hour of the day I can rest. My duties are endless.”

“Then it is over,” said Leshy. “Before long we’ll be driven from our homes, just like the poor Rusalkas.”

“You are not without talents, though?” The North Wind’s voice was soft now, but still it sent a cold breeze down the back of Anatoly’s neck.

“I have studied the moon, the sun and the stars,” said Anatoly. “I have studied the movements of beasts, and the flights of birds. I have learned the language of flowing water and what the trees whisper to one another through the hard, frozen winters.”

“Tell me, when the men come to fell your trees, what do they use?”

“An axe,” said Leshy unhappily.

“And when you want to turn a field, ready for planting, what do you use?”

“An iron plough,” said Anatoly.

“And when you distil your vodka, what do you use then?”

Anatoly gestured to the large brass kettle hanging from the rafters.

“You use a tool appropriate to the task. So, finding yourselves unequal to the task of driving the men from your mountain, what tool do you suppose might assist you?”

Anatoly thought for a moment. A brightness flared in his eyes, and he met the North Wind’s gaze. “A monster. We need a monster to do what we cannot.”

The North Wind nodded thoughtfully. “I expect someone of your learning could create a monster the like of which had never before been seen or imagined.” His voice dropped lower, but it whistled around the eaves of the house, quick and cold as a knife. “Cold, unforgiving, incorruptible. Such a monster could drive these men far from your mountain, and from Leshy’s forest. The Rusalkas could return to their pools, and you could resume your studies, undisturbed by their endless hammering, blasting and grinding.”

Anatoly glanced at Leshy, who nodded encouragingly.

When his guests had departed, he shut himself in his study with a samovar of tea, and didn’t come out until morning. He studied the treatise of a Persian necromancer. He read an incomplete fragment of ancient Arabic concerning the nature of evil. He cross referenced works by monks and astronomers, alchemists and scholars. He scribbled notes, drew diagrams, and performed complex calculations. He consulted nine different almanacs, and identified an auspicious day to set his plans in motion.

In the dead of night he climbed through a blizzard to the lair of an ice wyvern. Silently, so as not to wake the slumbering creature, he captured its breath in a bell jar. Hoar frost formed on his fingers, cracking and falling to the cave floor in tinkling, diamond drops. The wyvern stirred and groaned; it might have woken, but Anatoly conjured a lullaby of howling winds and scouring hail, and it sighed and rolled over, returning to its decades-long sleep.

As the sun rose he flew from town to town until he heard a certain distinctive sound. To an untrained ear the inconsolable cries might seem those of any other grieving parent. But Anatoly heard the edge of drama, of extravagance, and knew the cries to be insincere. It was no trouble at all for him to collect the child-killer’s discarded handkerchief and harvest her crocodile tears.

As evening fell, he tracked an ill-omened comet across the sky. Debris from its wake fell screaming to earth, crashing into a vast, uninhabited desert. From its steaming surface he gathered fragments of rocks and metals unknown to man.

With these ingredients Anatoly returned to his forest home. There he collected the final piece he needed, and he worked through the night, spinning his baleful creation. When at last it was done, and the creature lay on his table, kicking its thin legs and gazing at him from large, solemn eyes, he invited Leshy and the North Wind to witness it.

“I thought it would be… bigger,” said the North Wind after a moment.

Anatoly explained that it would grow. He’d created an infant, so that he could teach it everything it needed to know to perform its duty.

“How long will that take?”

Anatoly wasn’t sure. “It will grow faster than a human, but it may take a year or two.”

The North Wind nodded. A year was nothing to him, who had been roaring around the earth since the first mountains rose from the sea.

Anatoly glanced at Leshy. He was less patient than the North Wind, and likely to object to such a long term plan. But Leshy gazed at the creature with an odd, foolish look on his face. “It’s a girl,” he said, and gently tickled the creature’s tummy. The infant kicked its legs more fiercely, and gave a little gurgle.

“Look at her fingers,” Leshy said. “Thin as a piece of straw, but each one perfect.” As he spoke, the creature closed its fist over his huge, hairy thumb, holding on with surprising force.

“How will you raise it?”

Anatoly said he would teach it terror and cruelty; he would teach it to show no mercy, to be single-minded, incorruptible…

The infant whooped as Leshy swung it up in the air and onto his chest. It burrowed into his warm fur, falling instantly asleep, a thumb stuck in its tiny mouth. “What will you call her?” he asked, gently rocking from side to side.

Anatoly hadn’t yet considered a name for the creature. He searched his memory for something suitably baleful. “Medusa? Lilith? Agrippina?”

“What about Kikimora?” The infant mumbled in her sleep, and gave a little sigh. “There, she likes that. You’re going to frighten the men, and drive them far away,” Leshy whispered to her. “Then the forest will grow again, and the streams will run clear. The Rusalkas will come home, and everything will be as it was before. You’re going to save us all, Kikimora.”

After Leshy had returned to the forest, and the still sleeping monster was tucked into a makeshift cot in a kitchen drawer, the North Wind took Anatoly to one side. “Are you sure you have the stomach for this?”

“Of course. The difficulty with any kind of monster is always controlling it. This method, though a little more long term, ensures it will truly be our monster – biddable, obedient…”

“As well as cruel, heartless, incorruptible, etc?”

Full of excitement for his creation, Anatoly didn’t hear the irony in the North Wind’s tone. “It will be whatever we raise it to be. That is the beauty of it.”

“Indeed it will. You have experience with infants, I suppose?” He supposed nothing of the sort.

“Every creature on earth manages to raise young,” said Anatoly lightly. “I would like to think I too am equal to the challenge. How hard can it be?”

The North Wind only smiled. His travels took him to many homes in many lands. He had some idea of how hard it could be. “And when do you propose to begin its instruction in cruelty?”

“It is only hours old! I think we must first master the basics of walking, speaking, reading and writing-”

“Your monster will write?”

Anatoly was astonished by the question. “What kind of education would neglect writing?”

“Your monster requires an education?”

“Of course! It will be no crude, simple beast. She will be subtle, intelligent, able to wield her cruelty as a sharpened blade.”

“I see. So this cruelty will begin to manifest some time after she perfects a fair copyist’s hand and once she has completed rudimentary deportment? Or will she need courtly dancing first?”

Anatoly frowned, realising his achievement was not garnering the praise it deserved, and wondering why not.

Seeing his friend’s hurt and confusion, the North Wind spoke more gently, “Just how do you suppose cruelty is taught?”

“Well,” said Anatoly, picking a book from the shelf. “There are conflicting treatises-”

“I have circled the world almost as many times as the moon,” interrupted the North Wind. “I have watched men live and fight and bleed and die. I have seen civilisations grow, break apart and fall back into dust. Do you allow that I might have a certain amount of experience in this matter?”

Anatoly nodded cautiously.

“Cruelty is taught by example.” The North Wind allowed a moment for that to sink in. “I ask again, do you have the stomach for this? Does Leshy? You saw how taken he already is with your creature.”

“It is in his nature to comfort and cherish-”

“Quite so.”

Anatoly’s frown deepened. “But it could be an advantage? We build up the creature’s love and obedience to us-”

“While instilling its hatred of everything else?”

“Not everything-”

“Well, I see you have it all worked out. I shall watch with interest as these events unfold over the coming year or two.” With a last smile, the North Wind took to the air, roaring his way through the night sky.

The draught from the open door caused the infant to stir and utter a thin cry. Anatoly crossed to the kitchen drawer, gazing down at her. His pride stung; he had anticipated awe and praise for his creation. Instead, the North Wind’s doubts troubled him, stirring up his own.

“Hush now,” he told her. But the creature began to thrash, beating her tiny fists. Her mouth drew open in an ominous dark square.

“Hush, I say.”

Kikimora began to howl.

Kikimora will be published at the end of October 2015