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Uncial Press - C Bunnell John

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16 pages

English

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"This is not the Russia I remember."Baba Yaga, legendary witch and mistress of the chicken-legged hut Izbushka, has awakened to find her ancient homeland a blasted, nearly lifeless wasteland. Forestland has vanished, the old spirits are gone, and even humanity has nearly disappeared."You are stubborn as we were stubborn, fierce as we were fierce, self-reliant as we were self-reliant."One young man, Josef, finds himself caught up in Baba Yaga's search for answers. But even with Josef's insight, and with all the magic in Russia at her fingertips, will Russia's most notorious sorceress be able to restore her homeland to even a shadow of what it was?

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Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)

Fantasy

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Publié par	Uncial Press
Date de parution	14 mars 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781601741882
Langue	English

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Spirit of All the Russias

By
John C. Bunnell

Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon 2014

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places andevents described herein are products of the author's imagination orare used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Anyresemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons,living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-6174-188-2
Spirit of All the Russias Copyright ©2014 by John C. Bunnell
Cover design Copyright © 2014 by Judith B.Glad
All rights reserved. Except for use in review, thereproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in anyform by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known orhereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission ofthe publisher.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distributionof this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement,including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by theFBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fineof $250,000.
Published by Uncial Press, an imprint of GCT,Inc.
Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

For my parents, Rod & Sally Bunnell inthanks for a lifetime of books, bedtime stories, and otheradventures.
Spirit of all the Russias
In the tangled shadows of a clearing surrounded by blastedtrees, power gathered. Stray bits of light mingled with less visibleenergies until a vortex crackled in the center of the clearing. In thespace between one moment and the next, the cloud of power took onvague form. Its mad spinning slowed to reveal a decrepit hut whosestilt-like chicken-legs chased themselves in an endless circle.Gradually, the pace of their running decreased until finally the hutcame to a stop, bending its legs so that its floor was only a few inchesabove the bare ground.
The door opened to reveal a figure, nearly as warped andweathered-looking as the hut itself, who stared out at the deadlandscape. "What is this?" The old woman stroked her chin withbony, clawlike fingers. "This is not the Russia I remember."
She stepped cautiously outside and made a brief circuit ofthe clearing, leaning on a thick, knobby walking stick even thoughher sure movements made it clear that she didn't need its support. Atintervals she bent and studied the dirt, as if looking for animal tracksor stray bits of vegetation, though none of either were to be found.Finally she stood as straight as her crooked form would permit andstared out into the remains of the forest, eyes and ears alert for theslightest sign of life, tangible or intangible.
Only a breeze so thin it could not even be called the ghost ofa wind answered.
"Damnation!" the woman screeched at last. She stalked backinto the kneeling hut, and her staff banged against the door-frame. Afew moments later, she emerged, no longer afoot. Now she stood in adark wooden mortar fully half as tall as she, which floated a foot orso above the ground. Her hands gripped a long pestle of the samewood, wielding it with a stirring motion, and under this guidance themortar revolved until the old woman faced the door of thechicken-legged hut.
"Izbushka!" she said, her voice fierce yet not angry. "Guard!"The hut stretched itself to its full height and again began to run inplace.