Grandpa

Grandpa- by M.Lyn Bennett

“Tell me another bedtime story,” Anna begged.

“Another? I’ve already told you two,” Petra chuckled.

“Please, Papa, just one more and I’ll go to sleep.”

“Ok, ok,” Petra agreed tucking the covers up under her chin, “one more story and then it is off to bed with you.”

“Promise,” Anna said lying back onto her pillows.

“I will tell you a story my Papa used to tell me about a funny little man who used to live in his house when he was a boy.”

“Who was the funny little man?”

“As you know,” he began, “Grandpapa came from Russia and in Russia there are many magical creatures unlike any others in the world.”

“What kind of creatures Papa?”

“Well,” he answered thinking back to the tales his father had told him, “there are the wicked and deadly Rusalka.”

Anna, ever curious, asked, “What is a Rusalka?”

“They are the spirits of young women who have drown. They are evil creatures who lure men to their watery deaths,” Petra explained carefully, “but theirs is not a proper bedtime story for a young lady.”

“Oh.”

“There are also the impish Leshy. Forest spirits who lure unsuspecting travelers into the woods and get them hopelessly lost so they never find their way home.”

“Why Papa?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know why, my sweet,” Petra confessed.

“They sound mean,” Anna stated with a frown.

“They can be,” admitted Petra, “but theirs is not the tale I wish to tell you tonight either. Tonight I will tell you about the house spirit that once saved your Grandpapa’s life. Tonight’s bedtime story is about the Domovoi.”

Anna had heard all manner of story from princesses who lost their shoes at dances or kissed frogs to find princes but she’d never heard about the spirits of her grandfather’s native land.

“In Grandpapa’s home in Russia, before he and Grandmama moved here, there lived a hairy little man called a Domovoi. Your grandfather swore every home in the old country has a Domovoi of their own but it is up to the household whether they live in harmony or agony with the spirit.”

“What do you mean?”

“You see, Anna,” Petra explained, “Domovoi are protective house spirits but they must be respected or they become unhappy. An unhappy Domovoi leads to an unhappy household.

Anna’s eyes were beginning to droop but Petra went on for fear she’d wake back up if he stopped.

Petra had heard the story so many times it was etched into his memory but he’d never attempted to retell the tale to anyone else. He doubted anyone else would believe him but Anna was young and still believed in the fantastical so he settled in to tell his father’s story.

Petra’s father, Yuri, was once a sickly child, thin and sallow skinned with a prominent brow and a curious nature. His father had passed away leaving his mother to care for he and his three older brothers. Yuri was often kept inside with his mother while his brothers worked the field.

While Yuri and his mother toiled away in the kitchen or hanging out the wash she told him stories about the magical creatures in their world always warning him to be cautious and polite when dealing with them.

She had impressed upon him the importance of respecting the many subversive species around them and above all others to be kind to the Domovoi.

“What does the Domovoi look like,” he’d asked her.

“He is small, like a child, with a hairy body and long arms.”

Yuri was wide eyed. He hadn’t liked the idea of a furry old creature skulking around his home.

“Oh, my son,” his mother said patting his head gently, “you mustn’t worry yourself. A Domovoi is a good sprit as long as he is appreciated and respected.”

“Does he have a name?”

“We call him ‘Grandpa’,” his mother answered.

“Why have I never seen Grandpa?”

Yuri’s mother looked at him with her kind eyes and her smile disappeared from her face.

“You don’t want to see Grandpa, my boy. To see him means danger.”

Yuri’s curiosity was peaked. Despite his mother’s warning he wished to see a Domovoi.

“Where does he live, Mama?”

“He lives in the darkness under the stove, Yuri. When it is dark he comes out from his warm hiding place to make sure everything is safe and sometimes, if he is very pleased, he will help us with the chores we did not have time to do.”

“So, how do we keep him happy?”

“We must keep our home tidy. Grandpa does not like a messy home,” she began. “And we must not use foul language, especially at the supper table. Most importantly, though, is that Domovoi love snacks.”

“What kind of snacks, Mama?”

“He likes porridge with sweet cream, salted bread, and cakes. He appreciates all food given to him out of love.”

Yuri’s family did not have much but every night his mother portioned out a small bowl from their supper for Grandpa before meticulously putting away any bits of leftover food and making sure the cutlery was put away and the crumbs wiped up.

Yuri became intrigued by the story of their Domovoi.

Every night he would save half of his meager portion of bread or on special occasions when his mother made honey cake he would wrap a slice of the treat in a piece of linen cloth and leave it before the stove for Grandpa.

He would stay up late into the night waiting, sometimes sitting quietly in front of the stove or sometimes hiding behind a chair, for a peek at the house spirit but night after night he went to bed without having seen Grandpa.

When Yuri was 10 his mother met a new man.

At first Boris treated Yuri’s mother and siblings very well even taking the time to teach Yuri how to do magic card tricks. He wooed them all for months.

Yuri was actually pleased when his mother announced Boris would be their new papa.

The two of them wed in a quiet ceremony on the farm but the fairytale came to an abrupt end almost as soon as the wedding was over.

Boris drank heavily. He cursed and raged about the home. He became a monster to his wife and her beloved children.

Boris insisted Yuri work in the field beside his brothers, while he stayed inside with his new wife to make sure she was doing as she was supposed to, despite his mother’s protests that her youngest boy was far to sickly to be out doing hard labor.

He refused to take a job or clean up after himself yet he insisted, as the man of the house, his portion of the meals should be larger than any of the other family members.

Yuri’s mother was a dutiful wife. She halved her own food in order to give Boris his larger portion while still taking out enough for Grandpa.

Yuri did his part as well.

He continued to leave his own small offerings for the Domovoi and to watch for any glimpse of the hairy little spirit.

Boris began insisting Yuri do more chores than his older siblings.

“The boy is weak,” he’d overheard Boris telling his mother one night. “The work is good for him.”

Yuri would work in the field all day, no matter how ill he felt, and then come home to shine Boris’ shoes or clean around Boris’ chair in the evenings. If one of his chores was accidentally left undone Yuri would be punished and then sent to bed with only hard crust for supper and yet even this he shared with Grandpa.

On one particularly tough night Yuri had been ill and forgotten to shine Boris’ buckles before falling in bed to sleep.

When he awoke he was overwhelmed with fear of what Boris would do to punish him but to his surprise his stepfather only complimented him on the polishing.

Yuri was confused at first but his mother’s words from so long ago came back to him. “And sometimes, if he is very pleased, he will help up with the chores we did not have time to do.”

That night Yuri left most of his paltry meal before the stove for Grandpa.

In the winter of his 10th year Yuri fell very ill. He was not able to work the fields or do Boris’ chores for he was not able to get out of bed.

Boris became very cross with him and began yelling for Yuri to get his lazy bones up and do work but, try as he might, Yuri was just too ill.

Boris and his wife were at the dining table after supper when Yuri overheard them talking.

“We must take him to a doctor,” his mother pleaded.

“We have no money for a doctor,” Boris barked, “the boy is just being a loaf.”

Yuri’s mother had cried until Boris relented.

“Very well, Olga,” he’d said, “in the morning we will take him to see someone.”

“Thank you, Boris,” his mother sobbed.

Yuri fell off to sleep that night only to have troubled dreams.

He awoke to a strange noise, a thump and a grunt, but he was quickly distracted from the noise by the appearance of a small hunched figure at the foot of his bed.

The figure was covered in dense hair, had a long grey beard nearly down to his knobby knees, and long arms resting to his side.

At first he was certain he was dreaming but when the figure moved Yuri knew this was no dream. He had finally seen Grandpa.

The Domovoi looked sad huddled at the foot of his bed but it reached out one of his long arms and patted Yuri’s leg gently before sliding off the bed and padding off into the darkness.

When he awoke again it was daylight and his mother was wailing.

He felt a little stronger so he ran to his mother.

“Boris is dead,” she cried.

Sure enough when Yuri reached his mother he could see Boris lying on the floor in the kitchen with one of his mother’s cooking knives protruding from his chest where he appeared to have fallen onto it.

His mother had warned Boris, she had warned them all, of the dangers of leaving out the cutlery at night and of not respecting the Domovoi by being slovenly but Boris had scoffed at her warnings and now he was dead.

Yuri didn’t have the heart to tell his mother he’d seen Grandpa nor would he tell her what his suspicions were.

Boris had never had any intention of taking Yuri to see a doctor. Yuri had become a financial burden that needed to be ended so late that night Boris had taken up a knife from the sink where he’d left it and snuck in the darkness towards Yuri’s room but he never made it.

Grandpa had seen to it.

Of course there was no way Yuri could prove his suspicions but until his last days he believed in his heart he’d been saved from certain death by a Domovoi.

Anna’s soft snoring drifted to Petra’s ears. She looked like an angel sleeping there in her bed.

Petra got up, careful not to wake her, and crept from her room.

It was late but he could not lay down to sleep just yet.

As was his nightly routine Petra checked the doors and windows to make sure they were secure, put away the dishes in the drainer, wiped up the stray crumbs from the counter, and placed a small piece of honey bread wrapped in a white linen cloth in front of the stove.

In the morning when he awoke before everyone else he knew he would find the linen cloth folded up beside the sink with no trace of the honey bread to be found.

“Thank you, Grandpa,” he whispered into the darkness, “for keeping my family safe.”

I love all things mythical and am fascinated by fairytales, lore, and mythology. As a child my mom, an avid reader, told us stories from all over the world and I feel that is one of the reasons I love storytelling so much.

Bedtime stories teach us there is a world, or more appropriately worlds, far beyond our own. They tell us magic can be real, true love does exist, and our dragons can be conquered.

I like this particular tale because I like to hear that sometimes being kind and believing in things we cannot always see may just save us all some day.