TY - JOUR
AU - Wood, Danielle
AB - Introductory Note In order to provide some context for the following excerpt from my novel-in-progress, “The House on Legs,” let me first share some thoughts about the reasons one might choose to reinvent Baba Yaga, the witch-crone of Russian and Slavic folk tales, as a wildlife warrior in Australia’s island state of Tasmania. Generally, it is accepted that Baba Yaga’s signature trait is her profound ambiguity. Straddling such binaries as good/evil, natural/supernatural, human/nonhuman, she is a character famous for her unpredictability. Should a heroine or hero approach her house on legs, she may help them in their quest. Or, she may attempt to eat them up. Contradiction is a key component of her reputation, and the same can be said of Tasmania, Australia’s island state, and also of that island’s wildlife icon, the Tasmanian devil. In stories told about Tasmania (formerly Van Diemen’s Land) since settlement/invasion, the island has been by turns “Eden, Hell, Alcatraz, Lilliput” (Bellette, 5). Systematic violence by white settlers against indigenous people in the early colonial period entrenched Tasmania’s reputation as “the Holocaust of the British Empire” (Taylor, n.p.), while the years that the island was primarily a penal settlement gave rise to enduring narratives about transportation, brutality and cannibalism among escaped convicts. Tasmania chalked up another terrible global distinction via the man-made disaster that was the extinction of the thylacine, or Tasmanian tiger. For a period in the 1980s, when the Tasmanian community was tearing itself apart over the decriminalization of homosexuality, the island was characterized in the international press as a homophobic backwater. “Perversion” has always been part of the picture, and the oldest joke in the book about Tasmania is that the locals have two heads because the island is Australia’s “incest capital” (Hodgman, cited in Wood, xiv). Yet Tasmania has also appeared on the world stage as an Edenic paradise, the cradle of green politics in Australia, a pristine wilderness retreat and bushwalking mecca, and—more lately—a hipster wonderland, a New York Times-recommended tourism destination and home to a famous museum (MONA) and its associated art and music festivals. The social historian and gay activist Rodney Croome writes: Tasmania is both the abominable Fatal Shore and the felicitous Apple Isle, together at the same time. The fact that such a paradox can exist in the heart of a single people and place is not easy to grasp. But without at least attempting to grapple with Tasmania’s contradictions, the island remains impossible to explain. (37) Try to explain, we have. The island’s writers, artists, filmmakers, historians and cultural commentators tell and retell the same foundational myths, examining them from new angles but finding it nearly impossible to avoid them altogether. It seems that thinking about the fundamental nature of Tasmania consistently generates images of duality: Mark Twain famously referred to Tasmania a “sort of bringing of heaven and hell together” (281); Martin Flanagan titled his book of essays on the Tasmanian condition In Sunshine and in Shadow; his Man Booker Prize-winning brother Richard Flanagan ends his novel Gould’s Book of Fish with the protagonist’s impassioned question: “[t]hese two feelings, this knowledge of a world so awful, this sense of a life so extraordinary – how am I to resolve them?” (401). Perceptions and depictions of Tasmania’s animal emblem, the Tasmanian devil, have also been polarized. This year [2018], curators of a major museum exhibition have advertised a public lecture entitled “Fierce and satanic to cute and cuddly: curating The Remarkable Tasmanian Devil.” The devil is the island’s best-known endemic species, and—since the extinction of the thylacine—the world’s largest marsupial carnivore. In reality, the devil is a fairly small and reasonably harmless creature, although it does smell, and can bite. However, early colonists literally demonized the animal, naming it “devil,” perhaps because they heard rather bloodcurdling nocturnal vocalizations before they ever saw the creatures that made them: “Why else christen a small, lolloping scavenger after the supreme embodiment of evil?” (Owen & Pemberton, 8). Among the early scientific names ascribed to the animal were Sarcophilus satanicus, meaning “satanic meat lover,” and Diabolus ursinus, meaning “diabolical bear.” (The name that was eventually adopted by the scientific community was Sarcophilus harrisii: “Harris’s meat lover.”) Like the thylacine, the devil was targeted in a colonial government bounty scheme that aimed to rid the island of animals that landowners disingenuously claimed to be destroying their stock in large numbers. Unlike the thylacine, the devil survived the impact of this program, only to be greeted by the twentieth century’s onslaught of new persecutions: strychnine poisoning, attacks by trained dogs, mass trapping and fast cars, only the last of which were not, usually, driven by an ongoing and misguided hatred. Owen and Pemberton write: [A farmer] used to kill [devils] by nailing a baited shark hook to a tree trunk, at a height that would hook the devil on tiptoes so that it couldn’t escape and would die in agony. A head keeper at [a wildlife park] witnessed fifteen shot devils being thrown on a bonfire. A Senior Parks and Wildlife officer was heard to say that while he would avoid a wombat on the road, devils were fair game. (27) Today, while the devil faces less of this kind of deliberate persecution, it is one of the many species caught up in the nightly carnage that takes place on Tasmanian roads, where some 300,000 animals are killed each year (Knowler, 7). Even as humans have hurt Tasmanian devil populations through a mixture of deliberate action and carelessness, they have also fetishized the animal. Images of the small black and white marsupial, often with its pink mouth wide open, have been used to sell everything from Tasmanian fudge, beer and tourism to visor wipes for motorcycle helmets. Tasmania has vigorously adopted the devil as a mascot, recognizing it as a perfect match for the island’s idea of itself as small but fierce. (Tasmania is Australia’s perennial underdog; it is the country’s smallest, poorest and most socially-disadvantaged state.) Large sums of public money have been spent on protecting the Tasmanian devil since the discovery in the 1990s that populations were plummeting as a result of Devil Facial Tumor Disease (DFTD)—a rare form of contagious cancer transmitted between animals by the usual biting that takes place between devils competing over food. Many organizations have taken the opportunity, in the name of fundraising for DFTD research, to put appealing pictures of devils on their product packaging and advertising materials. Just how much attitudes to the devil have shifted is evidenced by the fact that, increasingly, people with homes in rural areas are leaving devils in peace when the animals choose to den in the foundations of homes, rather than aggressively turning them out, as has been the traditional approach. The way the animal appears in popular imagery has also changed: an Anne Geddes-style picture of a small devil pup, wrapped to the chin in blue fabric and sleeping angelically on a human palm has been widely disseminated. This is now one of the best-recognized contemporary images of the species, and a far cry from early colonial sketches which showed the animal as a fearsome predator. Good or evil? Helper or foe? Fierce or kind? These are questions that also arise in relation to Baba Yaga, a kaleidoscopic “storyland being” (W.R.S. Ralston, quoted in Johns, 3) who appears in many traditional Russian and Slavic tales, and who has been copiously re-invented—in music, image and text—across the globe. Andreas Johns, in his survey of over four hundred texts in which Baba Yaga appears, found her most consistent attribute to be her “striking ambiguity” (Johns, 30). In some tales she is a helpful wise woman, in others a terrifying villain. In Vladimir Propp’s system of classifying the function of fairy tale characters, she is sometimes the “donor” and sometimes the “villain,” but frequently she is both at once. Here in Australia, representations of Baba Yaga in creative texts have been rare. Things are changing, however. In recent years, Baba Yaga has sprung up, quite independently, in a range of Australian creative works, including a story by the writer Juliet Marillier and images by photographic artist Lorena Carrington. This surge of local interest is likely symptomatic of a global current of thought and feeling. I hypothesize that Baba Yaga’s status as a “liminal, borderline character, mediating between human and supernatural, human and nonhuman” (Johns, 271), gives her enormous potential at this moment in history, which some describe as part of a new Anthropocene epoch, a time in which humans are becoming aware that their impact on the planet may be permanent, and in which the boundary between the human and nonhuman is being investigated with a spirit of urgency. In traditional tales, Baba Yaga’s hut has a peripheral location; it lies both on the edge of human society and on the edge of a wilder realm—usually the forest, but sometimes the sea, and other times death itself. The Jungian ecocritical writer Susan Rowland has identified such fictional “borderlands” as potential sites for “healing” (83), citing such children’s texts as Frances Hodgson Burnet’s The Secret Garden and C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe as key examples. In these texts, children follow a herald of the natural world—a robin—into a natural world that heals the trauma of loneliness (in the case of The Secret Garden) or war (in the case of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe). Perhaps what is proving fascinating about Baba Yaga, here at the beginning of the twenty-first century, is not that her house on legs lies at the edge of an Edenic natural landscape, but that Baba Yaga’s fierceness conjures a vision of nature as arbitrary; that is, it might be cruel as well as nurturing. Perhaps this is also a vigorously hopeful vision for this moment, since it shows nature as capable of defending itself. Baba Yaga may be the “mother of animals” (Johns, 23), but there seems to be contemporary resonance in the spirited ways she defends her realm. In my novel-in-progress, The House on Legs, the protagonist is called, simply, “the woman.” She lives in the bush in a crude hut on a hill, high above a winding road and she rescues baby marsupials from the pouches of female animals killed on the road. After undertaking the time-consuming task of hand-rearing them, she releases them only when her house rises up onto its chicken legs, as it periodically does, to turn its back on the known world of roads, cars and disease, and to face out onto a much more Edenic version of Tasmania. While maternal and nurturing, the woman is not a straightforward character. Like nature itself, she is sometimes arbitrary and brutal. The central events of the The House on Legs are catalyzed by the woman’s discovery of a teenage boy on the road beneath her house. He has killed a female wallaby during an unauthorized joyride in his mother’s car, but when he steps out of the vehicle to investigate, he himself is struck. The young man presents the woman with a dilemma. Will she help him, or leave him where he is? Is he, being human, beyond her remit? Or, is he simply another injured creature? The following excerpt takes place in the days immediately after the boy’s road accident. Excerpt from The House on Legs Faced with a glass-stunned bird, the woman would only put it in a quiet place and wait for it to recover its wits, and she has done no more than this for the boy. But in the morning, he is still there. Breathing mist into the cold, she stands on the porch and regards him where he lies fetal on the old couch, his forehead and knees pressed into the seat back and his feet jutting off the edge. The coverings are more or less where she put them: her oilskin jacket over his legs and her woolen coat over his shoulder. But he has rolled inwards a little, so that a stripe of his t-shirt-covered spine sticks out from under the hem of the coat like a lumpy white seam. The woman shivers. She has spent the night in her chair and feels her own chilled-down stiffness in the hand’s span of muscle between her shoulders and in the creaking of her hips. “Stupid boy,” she mutters, and kicks at the base of the couch. She has enough to do. She does not need a boy on her porch. This is October. Spring, supposedly, but freezing. On the far side of a stretch of cropped and wintry grass is her woodpile. Such as it is: nothing more, now, than a wet pile of un-split logs. Splitting wood is just one of the many things she must do. Inside her shirt is the wallaby orphan that the stupid boy has made with his stupid car, and each time the animal rolls or twists, she feels its oversize heels against her breasts. Every now and then it makes a small, bleak call of pain. Making a brew of willow bark is one more of the many things she must do. She kicks at the base of the couch again. “Idiot boy.” She wants the boy to wake up and fly away. Better still, to simply disappear. But he doesn’t. He only lies there with the nape of his neck exposed so the woman is forced to see the way his hairline curves down into two soft points on either side of his neck bones. There is something particularly juvenile about the downy, dull-brown hair that lies in the cleft between those points that reminds the woman of the vulnerable dip at the back of a wallaby joey’s skull, right between its ears. “Go on. Get out. Out with you.” But although she kicks the couch a third time, the boy does not move. Beneath the floorboards, where the hut’s simple floorplan is re-mapped in crumbling concrete foundations, the devil dozes, half-waking each time her pups’ needle-lined mouths clamp to her nipples. Like the woman, the devil has a kitchen that takes up half the house, and two smaller rooms—rarely used—that take up an equal share of the remaining space. As is the case for the woman, for the devil there is only one door. One way in, and one way out. The devil’s door is an irregular triangular of missing concrete—narrow and easily defended. Her ceiling is low and gappy, and through the cracks in the timber, she smells everything that happens in the realm above. She smells the woman’s happiness and her hate, the medicinal trace of her home-brewed vodka, and every meaty, leafy, herbal thing that the woman sets to bubbling on the stove. Most days the devil smells warm milk and cold ash and baby animals, fur and feathers, herbivore pellets and piss. Always piss. Today she also smells two new creatures, and the scent of each of them is tinged with the tar-whiff of the road. One of them is young and pink-smelling; it is also giving off the promising ketone of death pain. The other—the one that reeks of dried blood and hair that has been rinsed in false flowers—has not been allowed into the house. The devil’s den is in the warmest place, right beneath the oven. It is a sandy-earthed hollow and the devil has lined it with the woman’s door-side leavings: woolen jumpers and thick socks and knitted hats that smell of the small creatures that have lived in them. Several shoes. Always the right feet. That makes the woman yell and stamp. At one edge of the hollow, there is a length of something brown and living. Half-submerged in the sandy soil, it might be a tree-root. But it is not, and neither is its matched pair, which lies over on the other side of the devil’s kitchen. These are legs, burnished and scaly, ending in claws that lie dormant in the earth. Until they do not. Always it is the devil who is the first to know when the house is of mind to turn. Like a chook in a dust-bath, it begins to twist against the earth, the concrete underskirts of its foundations grinding on bedrock. It does this on and off for days, while the claws tremble and twitch inside the ground, readying themselves for the moment at which the legs unfold in a great, staggering hydraulic lift that usually drags the porch steps against the earth and threatens to shear them off. But for now, the claws are still, the scaly legs are inert, and the devil stretches her powerful jaws in a yawn. White teeth in a pink cushion of mouth, barely visible in the dark fug of the den. She needs to sleep now, for when the night comes, she must leave her pups in the den and set out to forage. When the boy wakes in the darkness, he feels pain. Touching his hand to his forehead, he feels a crusty gash surrounded by swelling. Even his lightly brushing fingertips have the power to send bolts of a sharper hurt into the dull pain that seems to have expanded into the full measure of space inside his head, and is pushing insistently against the joins in his skull. He struggles to upright. Looking about him, he understands that he has not dreamed the piss-smelling couch, or the grime-stiffened coats. There is a vicious ache in his right hip and a series of deep cuts along his forearm. Above him is a tin roof held up by rough-hewn logs that fork at the top, as if they were still trees. Tilting away from the roof is the night sky, clear and wildly starry. The moon, near enough to full, pours milky light on the stretch of ground beyond the porch steps where the earth is covered in grass so short that is almost moss. Scattered on the grass is a broken jigsaw of white-shining bones. The boy has not dreamed the wheelbarrow either, for there it is, parked over by a low stone wall. In the shards of memory he can recover are his mother’s ruined Bluebird and the drizzle of blood that came from the wallaby’s nose. He remembers clouds, hovering and drifting like smoke rings around black patches of sky, and he remembers the woman’s grunts and the pain of his shoulder blades hammering on the wooden lip of the barrow as she jounced him up the hillside. When he turns his face now to the four-paned window behind the couch, she is there, inside the hut, lit from one side by the orange glow that comes out through the arched door of an ancient black oven, and from the other side by the paler light of a table-top lantern. In her arms there is a creature, half-wrapped in material. It is all pink skin and strange angles and the woman is doing something to it, holding its muzzle. It takes the boy a moment to understand that she is feeding it. She is tense with concentration and though the sounds she makes are muffled by the glass, he can tell now that she is soothing the creature with her half-sung words, encouraging it, willing it, to feed. A movement, or perhaps a sound, distracts him from the woman and her endeavor. There is something under the porch; the boy can hear its sneezy breathing. Whiskers first, then gleaming nose, it emerges. A black creature, although its chest is a moon-bright blaze of white. A devil. The boy is not afraid. Not exactly. But he is intensely alert in his silence and stillness as he watches the animal make its way across the lawn, slowing to a lop-sided amble as it approaches a large stone. The stone is pale and square, with a pronounced dip in its surface. Sandstone, the boy thinks, as the devil encircles the block, sniffing. The devil rounds the stone a second time, this time yarfing quietly, before lolloping away across the lawn and disappearing through a crack in the stone wall at its perimeter. The boy’s head is heavy, so he lies down again, this time on his left side so that his aching right hip is no longer taking his weight. He lowers his head to the armrest of the couch, already knowing that the angle will crick his neck. But almost as soon as he closes his eyes, he can feel the strong, deep undertow of a strange kind of sleep, irresistible as anesthesia. He has no sense of how much time passes before he wakes again with an aching neck and without the willpower to lift his pulsing head from the armrest. He remembers there was once a woman, an actress, who died from a headache a few hours after a skiing accident. Bleeding in her head, or something. Perhaps he is bleeding in his head. Perhaps he will die, he thinks, and then wonders why this thought troubles him so little. He has not moved, except to open his eyes, but this is enough for him to see that the devil has returned to sniff once again at the indented sandstone plinth on the lawn. But no, it is not the devil he saw before. This is a different animal, smaller and sleeker, and without the white blaze across its chest. He feels the animal’s air of trepidation as it approaches the porch edge, and hears its bubbling breathing as it passes beneath the porch timbers below the couch. Then there is a screech. It is loud enough to tear open the edge of the tree-line that lies on the far side of the stone wall, and this time, the white-bibbed devil has no time to squeeze through the crevice in the wall, but scrambles over the top, hurtling towards the under-porch to see off the trespasser. Devil on devil. There is a tumult of noise, screams and guttural growls. The boy sits upright despite his pain and draws his knees close against his chest. They are devils, only devils, he tells himself. And then again. They are devils, only devils. But the noise is unearthly and comes at a terror pitch that sends it down into his bones and makes it echo there, setting his heart to a gallop. The boy thinks of his own bed, of his own home, of the white porcelain of the bathroom and its heated towel rail, also white like the Duco of his mother’s mangled car. He thinks of the strife that awaits him, of the distance into the future she can stretch her anger and his guilt, the endlessness of it, and how he cannot face her, not after she had said to him, that night, before she’d left with that man with the too-strong cologne and the buzz-cut hair, “I need this. Do you understand? I need this, so I need you to be … good.” “He’s already said,” she’d told the boy, her newly painted fingernails pressing into his upper arms and her face all pleading and desperate, “that he doesn’t want anyone with any … baggage. So I need you to be good.” The devils scream and burble as they wrestle together, their bodies bumping solidly into the underside of the porch timbers. The boy’s pulse is high in his temples, in his throat, and he wants to tap on the four-paned window, to go to the door of the hut and knock. But the woman inside, with her grizzled dreadlocks and her slitted black eyes, is almost as frightening as the noise. The door is flung open and the woman comes out onto the porch. Her footfall is heavy even before she stamps on the timber decking hard enough to send vibrations up through the seat of the couch. She stamps again and makes a shout that is unintelligible to the boy, but has the spitting vehemence of a curse word. There comes another snarling shriek from beneath the porch. Then the sleek and all-black devil streaks away, across the boneyard, over the stone wall and into the bush. “Sleep,” the woman commands gruffly, and the boy doesn’t know if she is addressing him, or the devil beneath the house. “Can I …?” the boy begins. But she either ignores him or does not hear, and the door shuts with a click behind her. In the morning, the woman wakes in semi-darkness to the flump of wallaby feet on the porch. It is the one of the older orphans, come home from a night of grazing. Again, she has spent the night in her chair and her lower leg is numb from sleeping with her boot sole wedged against the end of a log too large for the oven. Sometime in the early hours, too tired for more care, she had crammed the log on top of a sparse patch of coals and hoped. The log has not burned, only blackened, and now the kitchen has fallen cold. On the stovetop, willow bark floats limply in brackish water and a stew has skinned over. Without warmth, the kitchen’s perpetual smell of urine has lost its winter cider ripeness and begun, plainly and simply, to stink. The woman reaches inside her shirt and withdraws the bundle that lies there. Made from the felted remains of an old jumper and lined with a pillow-slip—this slip turned inside out so that tiny claws do not catch on exposed seams—it is the best she can do for a pouch. She slides a hand inside, but even before she pulls the creature out into the light, she knows. The woman cradles the joey in practiced hands, hooking the pink cord of its tail between two fingers. The way the small creature grapples, its claw-studded forepaws seeking some kind of hold, kindles a fleeting hope in her. But then she sees again the angry, blotchy signs of inflamed organs just beneath the pink of the skin, and also how the skin hangs too loosely on his gangly frame. Flump. Flump. The sounds of the homecoming wallabies wake the younger orphans, the ones who still spend their nights indoors. They nose their way out of their pouches in a basket at the side of the cold oven, and hop to the door where they beg to be let out to nibble at the night’s hairsbreadth growth of grass. The woman swaddles the joey’s disorganized limbs, and goes to open the door. Sunrise has yet to come to the house on legs, and the light that slides down the hillside is soft and pearly. Still, it is enough for her to see that the boy is still there. And this time, he is awake. “Is that …?” the boy asks. His words fall away when the woman looks at him, and he gestures helplessly at the bundle in her arms. He can’t work out if the woman’s skin is dark or just dirty, but he sees that her grey dreadlocks are so long and thick that they’re pulling tight on the scalp-skin above her forehead. Her eyes are black inside their wrinkled slits of skin, but he doesn’t know if she’s looking at him with particular disgust, or if she always looks this way. “Is it what?” she asks, and her thickly accented voice makes him think, all at once, of Dracula, and potatoes, and of those dolls that fit inside slightly bigger replicas of themselves. The boy feels the urge to swallow but his mouth is too dry for it. “Is it the one …?” “Yes, moron boy. You hit its mother. And you hit it, too. Which is why it is all messed up inside.” “But you. You can fix it. Like the others, right? You can fix this one.” “No,” the woman says. “No. This one here? This one is fucked.” For all the time it takes the woman to descend the porch steps, unswaddle the creature from its wrappings and lay its pink body on the curving sandstone block, the boy doesn’t believe she intends to do what he fears. The creature is as ugly as an unfeathered bird. On every part of the small, gangly body there’s too much stuff showing through the skin: worm-like veins and jaundiced patches of yellow and liver-colored shadows that seem to be pulsing in a way that has nothing to do with the animal itself. “Bye, bye, my beauty,” the woman says to the wallaby. “I want you to have better luck next time. Go well.” The boy discounts these words and is still waiting for the happy ending, even when the woman reaches down to the side of the sandstone block and picks up a heavy grey cylinder of stone. The word for the thing is hiding in his mind, somewhere just beyond his thoughts. But as she raises the stone thing up over the wallaby joey’s small head, the word blurts itself out. Pestle. The wallaby, exposed to the cold of the morning, jerks its long feet and works its mouth to release a series of barely audible, grinding cries. He thinks of a leatherjacket fish grating its teeth in the bottom of his grandfather’s dinghy, flapping the bright toothbrushes of its fins in panic. Mortal, the boy’s mind suggests to itself. No, mortar. His mother has a set of these things in the kitchen, on the bench near the kettle. She uses them for pounding black peppercorns and mashing cloves of garlic. You don’t use them for – “No … Jesus!” But it’s already done, and the pestle’s back on the grass. There’s not a lot of blood, and the bits of skull he can see aren’t much of a different color to the brains. The woman has had to bend over to do it, but now she has straightened up again and her hands in are in the small of her back as she fixes him with her black eyes. “That is what happens,” she tells him, “when boys are stupid.” Works Cited Bellette Tony. “Museum, Funhouse, Prison: Peter Conrad’s Tasmania.” Island 38 ( 1989 ): 3 – 6 . WorldCat Croome Rodney. “Churning the Mud.” Griffith Review 39 ( 2013 ): 30 – 39 . 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Text , 2011 . ix – xv . Google Preview WorldCat COPAC © The Author(s) 2019. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the Association for the Study of Literature and Environment. All rights reserved. For permissions, please email: journals.permissions@oup.com This article is published and distributed under the terms of the Oxford University Press, Standard Journals Publication Model (https://academic.oup.com/journals/pages/open_access/funder_policies/chorus/standard_publication_model)
TI - Ambiguous (by) Nature: Writing Baba Yaga and the Tasmanian Devil
JO - ISLE: Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature and Environment
DO - 10.1093/isle/isz068
DA - 2019-10-01
UR - https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/oxford-university-press/ambiguous-by-nature-writing-baba-yaga-and-the-tasmanian-devil-0KjGUGXrSE
SP - 768
EP - 779
VL - 26
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DP - DeepDyve
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