Babayaga

chicken.
    The chicken sensed Noelle’s gaze and seemed to grow slightly self-conscious. It got up, shook out its tail, and made its way to the edge of the hay. It walked around in a small circle and then sat down. It remained there, in an almost contemplative manner for a number of minutes, occasionally looking over at Noelle but then looking away again. When it rose, there was an egg.
    Noelle slurped it down and within moments the old women were back. They were no longer shouting at one another. Now they were all comforting Elga, who sat on the floor, sobbing into her hands. The one with the bloody eye leaned over and whispered words into Elga’s ear as she caressed the old woman’s shoulder. After a long time of this, the ghost of Elga finally rose, straightened out her skirt, and, wiping the tears and snot off her face, came over to Noelle.
    “Okay, well, it’s time to go. You can’t stay here,” Elga said, clapping her hands.
    Noelle felt nervous. She reached over and grabbed the chicken, holding it close to her chest for comfort. “I’m sorry I ran away,” she said.
    “Ah,” Elga snorted, “forget about it. Regretting the past only eats up the future. But now you must go.”
    “Where?” asked Noelle.
    “First, go to the train station and pick a stranger’s pocket. Look for someone tall to prey on, their brains and eyes are so far away from their pockets.”
    “But I don’t know how to pick a pocket.”
    The old woman nodded. “You will. All you have to do is try. You’ll be good at it. We’ll give you a charm to protect you. Then, take the train to the city. We are going to find you help there.”
    “But what if I get hungry. How will I get food?”
    “Oh, that’s easy.” Elga snapped out of her gloom and pointed at the bird. “You can always sell the chicken.”
    Noelle held the bird tight to her chest. “Oh, but I don’t want to give up my chicken.”
    Elga chuckled, her eyes were still glassy and wet from weeping but they sparkled now. “Don’t worry, that chicken is smart, it will always find its way back to you.”
    Noelle looked at the bird. “Really?”
    The old woman nodded. “Yes. Believe me, child, you’re going to be selling that chicken for a very long time.”
    III

    Slowly coming to, Will reached clumsily across the bed to where she should have been. Finding only the empty pillow, he got up fast, leaping out from the sheets and shouting Zoya’s name with an urgency that shocked him. Nobody answered, the room was empty. On the small table he spotted an envelope with his name written on it. Inside, the message was short.

Dear friend,
Good day to you! I have asked your friend Zoya Polyakov to come to the police station on rue St. Denis for some questioning. She is technically “under arrest.” Please excuse me for not waking you. There was too much to explain. A desk officer should be able to help you with any questions once you arrive. I may be out of the station on an errand but I hope you will await my return.
Sincerely,
Detective Charles Vidot
    Will was out the door in a shot. Tumbling down the hotel staircase as he buttoned his shirt, he tore through the lobby and out onto the street. There was no taxi in sight so he started running down the sidewalk. Cars flew by and he craned his neck over the automobile hoods, desperate for a cab. Finally he spotted one coming around the corner of rue Blanche. Will dashed across the street and threw himself in front of it, causing a shriek of brakes.
    He jumped in and rattled off the address to the driver. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was almost five o’clock. As the driver’s radio played a Polish polka, Will tried to piece together what must have happened. He remembered carrying Zoya to the room with the other fellow, the one he had seen in the dream world. Was that man this Vidot? The letter referred to him as a “friend,” so presumably they knew one another. And where was Oliver? The taxicab jolted, braked, and barked its horn through the traffic, the Place de l’Opéra was bumper to bumper. Will rubbed his face with both hands in frustration. His memory was cloudy. He remembered smoking the owl pellet as the priest had instructed. Then he must have passed out. He did not remember any dreams or visions, only a deep, soulful rest. He tried to remember what day it was, Friday? Saturday? The traffic on the street was busier than it would have been on a weekend. It must be Friday. At the thought of work, Will