Babayaga

owl was already off, flapping its broad wings high up over his head. A few drops of the mouse’s blood splashed loudly about him on the pavement as the massive bird carried its prey away. Owls again! First in Leon Vallet’s apartment with those strange bony pellets, and now here. He had lived in Paris his whole life and never seen a single owl, and suddenly they seemed to descend upon the city. They were like a plague! Where did they come from? And where was Bemm? Had he jumped clear? Vidot gazed out at the broad flatness of the empty sidewalk and waited for his friend.
    The night crawled on and there was no sign of life. The loss of his companion filled Vidot with a terrible loneliness. Finally, he decided to set out again on his journey, changing his destination to the one place where he knew he belonged. There was no need to head for the station, he realized: he would find no one to listen to him there. They would no doubt merely crush him like the bug that he was. So instead, he now headed to the comfort of home and his wife. He needed her consolation, as for the first time since this adventure began he found himself anxious and worried. Overwhelmed and vulnerable, he longed for the solace of his small living room, kitchen, and bed. He did not know how he could possibly communicate his situation to Adèle or what she would say. He imagined pulling off a series of tricks, improvised variations on the flea-circus acts those bohemian British street performers Sir Billy and Dottie had shown him so long ago, perhaps writing messages to Adèle on the steamed bathroom mirror or leaping from the inkwell to spell out his dilemma. Yes, that might work, he thought, realizing almost at the same time that this was an inspiring example of the power of love, as all he had to do was think of Adèle and the puzzles began solving themselves. She would be his muse, his soldier, his salvation. Together, they could solve “The Mysterious Case of the Flea Detective.” The thrill of possibility again flooded his heart. He was ready to go. Vidot looked about in vain for a wandering rodent who could be his ride home. The cobblestone streets and gutters were quiet and empty, not a shape or shadow stirring. Ah, he thought, what a truly cursed city, the rats are never around when you need them.
    XV

    Witches’ Song Two

    Ah, look, so rash and wrong,
    so sure and shortsighted,
    watch Elga’s little spells scurry,
    see her black intention tearing into fortunes,
    tearing like a startled, blind mare
    breaking through a weaver’s beaded loom.
    Elga, Elga, oh, I’ve crawled alongside this crone
    for how long now? Solstice to solstice, far back to where?
    To there, when I eyed her quayside on that cold slimy wharf
    arguing over a broken crate of rotting root weeds.
    Orts and offal were her wrangled trade and at first sight I could see it all:
    skunk cabbages, bleeding radishes, and a fistful of horsetail,
    a telltale mirror to her tangled soul.
    She traveled alone then, and, curious for company,
    we gathered round, compared char-scribbled crib notes,
    congealing into a dark hymnal congregation
    all muttering, humming, and spitting for luck.
    Ravenous for the musty, mystery spoils
    we pulled from the clasp of those new found lands,
    we tested and tried much, oft with bitter ends for the unlucky
    (sailors shrunk to pea size, shrieking whores sprouting curled pig’s tails).
    Our effort was tremendous as our new age dawned,
    never a belfry rung to our victory but hidden here in the cellars,
    proud hard work, seeds dried, stews simmered,
    round sounds married to sharp tones
    and turned backward like a citrus peel until
    our fresh curses were cooked and our efforts done.
    The loot was split fair,
    Elga loaded a half dozen bartered asses
    and rode off, beating them down the lane,
    laden with potent bounty.
    It was only long later that she turned up again,
    sprouting in our path like a drizzle-day mushroom might,
    now pulling Zoya along, fresh bait for her fancy.
    Elga was always a barb, you know her well enough now,
    even a small taste of her bitterness lasts a cur’s age.
    And the young one too often caused us grief,
    too pretty. Such wide blue eyes, such fulsome paps,
    pulling like a strong northern tide.
    Elga and Zoya were good enough companions
    but at times so dark, too conniving for me—
    their trick was idiot simple,
    Elga dangled the girl,
    first luring in arguably deserving devils,
    then milking them of their shiny kopecks,
    before