Read Online Tales of Wonder by Jane Yolen - Free Book Online

old woman.
    Boris stood up and automatically brushed off his clothes, a gesture his hands knew without prompting.
    The old woman touched the rudder, and the mug moved closer to Boris.
    He looked on both sides and under the mug for evidence of its motor. It moved away from his as soundlessly as a hovercraft, but when he stuck his foot under it cautiously, he could feel no telltale movement of the air.
    â€œHow do you do that?” he asked.
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œThe mug,” he said.
    â€œMagic.” She made a strange gesture with her hands. “After all, I am Baba Yaga.”
    The name did not seem to impress Boris, who was now on his hands and knees peering under the vehicle.
    â€œBaba Yaga ,” the old woman repeated as if the name itself were a charm.
    â€œHow do you do,” Boris murmured, more to the ground than to her.
    â€œYou know … the witch … Russia … magic …” Her voice trailed off. When Boris made no response, she made another motion with her hands, but this time it was an Italian gesture, and not at all nice.
    Boris saw the gesture and stood up. After all, the circus was his life. He knew that magic was not real, only a matter of quick hands. “Sure,” he said, imitating her last gesture. His right hand clipped his left bicep. He winced.
    â€œ Get in! ” the old woman shouted.
    Boris shrugged. But his politeness was complicated by curiosity. He wanted to see the inside anyway. There had to be an engine somewhere. He hoped she would let him look at it. He was good with circuitry and microchips. In a free world, he could have chosen his occupation. Perhaps he might even have been a computer programmer. But as he was a member of the Famous Flying Chernevsky family, he had no choice. He climbed over the lip of the mug and, to his chagrin, got stuck. The old woman had to pull him the rest of the way.
    â€œYou really are a klutz,” she said. “Are you sure all you want is hands?”
    But Boris was not listening. He was searching the inside of the giant mug. He had just made his third trip around when it took off into the air. In less than a minute, the circus and its ring of bright trailers were only a squiggle on the horizon.
    They passed quickly over the metroplexes that jigsawed across the continent and hovered over one of the twenty forest preserves. Baba Yaga pulled on the china rudder, and the mug dropped straight down. Boris fell sideways and clung desperately to the mug’s rim. Only a foot above the treetops the mug slowed, wove its way through a complicated pattern of branches, and finally landed in a small clearing.
    The old woman hopped nimbly from the flier. Boris followed more slowly.
    A large presence loomed to one side of the forest clearing. It seemed to be moving toward them. An enormous bird, Boris thought. He had the impression of talons. Then he looked again. It was not a bird, but a hut, and it was walking.
    Boris pointed at it. “Magic?” he asked, his mouth barely shaping the syllables.
    â€œFeet,” she answered.
    â€œFeet?” He looked down at his feet, properly encased in Naugahyde. He looked at hers, in pointed lizard leather. Then he looked again at the house. It was lumbering toward him on two scaly legs that ended in claws. They looked like giant replicas of the chicken feet that always floated nails-up in his mother’s chicken soup. When she wasn’t practicing being a Famous Flying, she made her great-great-grandmother’s recipes. He preferred her in the air. “Feet,” Boris said again, this time feeling slightly sick.
    â€œBut the subject is hands,” Baba Yaga said. Then she turned from him and strolled over to the hut. They met halfway across the clearing. She greeted it, and it gave a half-bob, as if curtseying, then squatted down. The old woman opened the door and went in.
    Boris followed. One part of him was impressed with the special effects, the slow part