Babayaga

have a car, we can get her to the local doctor,” said Oliver.
    “No, no,” said the priest. “Do not take her to the doctor, he would have no idea what to do. She needs a very specific cure. Do either of you know where she lives?”
    Will was about to reply when a loud, retching sound came out from the barn’s darkened corner. The priest squinted into the shadows and then looked quizzically up at Oliver and Will. “Who is that naked man?”
    XVIII

    Elga looked down at the point of the knife blade sticking out of her chest. She pinched it with her fingers and tried to push it back, but it seemed she could not apply enough pressure. She tried reaching behind her and pulling it out by the handle, which was sticking out from her spine at a perfectly perpendicular angle, but the blade was lodged deeply in an unreachable point between her shoulder blades, and her short, stiff arms could not extend that far.
    “It’s stupid to try,” came a voice. Elga looked up to find the ghost of Mazza standing there, a hole of blood still sitting where her left eye should be. Lyda stood next to her.
    “Oh,” said Elga.
    “Yes,” said Mazza, nodding toward the knife. “I could try to pull it out, but I’m guessing it’s in there for good.”
    The spirit of Lyda opened her mouth and out dropped a smattering of small silver fishes.
    “See what I’m up against?” said Mazza. “It’s going to be good to have someone to talk to now. These two are useless.”
    “Two?” said Elga, itching at her chest.
    “Come, you remember Basha?” Mazza gestured toward a spot where the light seemed a bit crooked.
    “Oh, right,” Elga said.
    “We must go now, there are still some matters to attend to,” said Mazza. “Basha has had us flying around like barn swallows, but now most of our work is done.”
    “Work? What work? Killing me? Is that what you stupid bitches came to do?” Elga said, placing her hand to her chest where the point of the knife poked out. “Ow.”
    “Always so easy to offend, Elga.” Mazza paused. “But, possibly, yes. It may have been time for you to go. I do not know. I don’t ask questions and Basha shares so little.”
    XIX

    Vidot sat in the passenger seat of the car, wearing the oversized clothes he had borrowed from the priest. He had not said a word to anyone, other than “Il est très compliqué,” “Puis-je voyager avec vous en ville?” and “Merci pour le pantalon.”
    Oliver had been pointing a pistol at Vidot when he finally emerged, naked, from the shadows. Feeling as exposed and vulnerable as he had ever felt, Vidot raised his hands in surrender just as Will stepped forward and told Oliver to put the gun down. “He’s okay. I told you, I know him.”
    “Where in the Lord’s name do you know him from?” said Oliver.
    “He’s a friend,” said Will, nodding to Vidot. Then, addressing him: “Merci.”
    Vidot made a small bow, relieved that Will had remembered him from their mutual hallucination. After a few more awkward moments, the priest had finally gone to get him a set of clothes.
    In the car now, he tried to use logic to reassemble the surreal course of events. All he could come up with was that the death of the old woman had broken her spell over him, returning him to his natural state. He wondered if the same thing had happened that day all over Europe. God knows how many others were sprung free. The woman was ancient and had, no doubt, cast countless spiteful spells between Russia and Paris. He imagined legions of bears, squirrels, and tortoises spontaneously becoming men again, awakening naked to their restored form, as bewildered as he was. Driving along in the car now, he scratched his fingers lightly along the top of his hand, pinching himself and pulling at his skin. He rubbed his arm and ran his fingers through his hair. He never imagined the intensity mere existence could cause, but now, as tears ran down his cheeks, he scratched at his testicles and wiggled his ten toes in the old priest’s roomy loafers, all while savoring the simple satisfaction of being back in his own skin. He looked over his shoulder at Zoya, lying unconscious with her head in Will’s lap. The American was softly stroking her forehead, gazing down at her face with an expression of tender affection that almost made Vidot’s heart burst.
    Oliver drove fast. As they left the countryside behind, buildings slowly filled in the spaces, crouching together and growing in height, as if they were