My search engine for The Saturday Evening Post helps find real rarities. Meet the tale “Baba Yaga and the Merchant” by Catherine Irene Kurtz, an American author. November 1974.
Koschey the Deathless is there!
So, what’s the tale about. In the deep forests of Russia lives the powerful Baba Yaga with her cat. One day, she decides to send the cat out to watch over the passersby on the road, asking it not to eat until it meets the third passerby. There, the cat meets an old merchant (precisely the third one), who shares that his daughter Marushka is very ill. Wishing to help, the cat offers to bring him to Baba Yaga, who knows how to cure illnesses. She agrees to help in exchange for the contents of the merchant’s bag. However, it turns out that the real value from his bag is a fabric featuring a fire eagle, which the merchant had earlier given to the cat in exchange for food. This fabric holds magical power, and Baba Yaga wishes to keep it to herself to protect the world from the villain Koschey the Deathless, into whose hands this fabric would certainly end up.
Does anyone know/have heard such a plot in Russian?
Below I attach a translation into Russian for those who find it somehow convenient. I just translated it using an automatic translator and quickly edited it, almost without changing anything. The original English version is in the comments
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Deep in the forest of the third district beyond the fourth province of Old Russia (apparently, Catherine Kurtz translated it as “Beyond threescore lands…”) stands a small wooden hut on hen’s legs in the middle of a clearing — the home of the powerful and irritable witch Baba Yaga and her cat.
For three days, the old witch sat at the table, immersed in her Book of Magical Secrets.
Every morning, without taking her eyes off the book, she would shout, “Cat! Bring bread and cheese.”
And every evening, again without looking away, she called, “Cat! Bring the lamp. Quickly!”
The cat had often experienced Baba Yaga’s anger. Not wishing to irritate her, he hurried to carry out her orders.
Most of the time, the cat lay around, pondering what was bothering his mistress. Or he dreamed of tastier food than his boring daily menu of bread and cheese.
Early in the day, on the third day, when the cat had just begun to doze, Baba Yaga suddenly woke him up.
“Cat!” she shouted, slamming her book. “Wake up! There is work to do. Go into the forest. Follow the path until you reach the third crossroads. Hide under the crooked fir and watch the passersby closely! Go, run!”
Baba Yaga opened a chest with a dragon head lock and put away her book of secrets.
The cat slid off the bench and stretched.
“But, Baba Yaga,” he said, “you didn’t tell me how long I should watch and what to look out for. And when should I return home?”
“Don’t worry about that,” the witch replied. “I will send you a sign. Now go! And don’t you dare fall asleep while watching.
Your three days of sleep should be enough for you, you lazy creature.”
“Hunger, as well as laziness, can be a reason for sleep,” the cat responded.
“What? Ungrateful creature! You would eat me along with the house! Am I not feeding you well?” Baba Yaga yelled.
“Well, fine. I have my own problems. Here, take this.”
With these words, Baba Yaga opened her cupboard, which was now filled with meat pies, pastries, and treats of the finest quality.
The cat’s mouth watered, and his eyes bulged. He never understood why when he opened the cupboard, there were only dry cheese and black bread, but when Baba Yaga did it, the shelves of the cupboard were filled with splendid food.
She gave him a meat pie and took one for herself.
“Take this with you,” she commanded, “but do not start eating until you see the third passerby.”
She turned to the house: “Hut, hut, bend your knees”
The hut obeyed, and the cat followed Baba Yaga outside.
She whistled piercingly. Immediately, her mortar and pestle landed in the clearing. She climbed inside and, taking off, shouted: “Don’t fall asleep and don’t come back until I send you a sign.”
The cat moved along the path. The smell of the pie was overpowering. Only the fear of the old witch kept him from swallowing it whole. He knew he must follow her instructions and wait until the third passerby came, or he might face trouble.
He reached the third crossroads and hid under the spruce. Whistling! Peering out from behind the branches, he saw a woodcutter, who was carrying a half day’s labor on his back.
“Well,” the cat said to himself, “if two more travelers come as quickly, I won’t be hungry for too long.”
Minutes passed, and although the cat watched each of the four paths intently, not a soul appeared. The aroma became too strong for the poor hungry cat, and he could barely keep himself from eating the pie. He decisively tucked it under a bush and covered it with a few leaves. Having done this, he returned to his watch, just in time to see a gypsy walking along the road, leading a bear cub.
As they were right in front of him, the bear cub stopped to sniff the air. “Let’s go, Melchik,” the man said, “or by the time we get to the camp, the others will be gone. We need to hurry.”
They passed by.
The cat impatiently awaited the third traveler.
Now the sun was directly overhead and it was very hot. He stretched out in a more comfortable position.
This was too comfortable, because soon he was soundly asleep and dreaming that he was flying through the sky on a giant meat pie.
As he flew, he ate, tasting the crunchy crust, tender carrots, and sweet little onions.
He was about to bite into an especially juicy piece of meat when strange noises woke him up.
Just a few steps away from him was an old merchant, stumbling along the road.
His clothes were tattered, and he was humming a sad tune to himself.
“Surely, there was no sadder man in all of Russia…”
“Finally, the third!” the cat exclaimed to himself.
He quickly opened the pie and bit off a big piece.
He had already taken a second delicious bite when the merchant stopped right in front of the spruce.
The man stopped singing, shifted his backpack, and sniffed.
“I must be too old to walk so long under the sun. I could swear I smell meat and good food—here, in the middle of nowhere,” he murmured.
“I’ve been eating only dried berries for three days—and there were very few of them. Well, alright…”
He took a few more steps, but tripped over a stone and fell.
He lay there, weakly crying for help.
The cat rushed to the stranger, removed the heavy backpack from his back, and helped him to his feet.
“Thank you, thank you so much, my friend,” the old man smiled through tears.
“I’m so weak from hunger, I could have lain there until wolves—big wolves with pearly white teeth—came to tear me to pieces and devour me!”
Then he added: “These old bones would have made a poor meal even for the smallest wolf.”
The cat thought he was going to cry again.
“Your backpack is very heavy,” he said.
“Very heavy.”
“Yes,” the merchant replied sadly.
“It remains full, and my pockets empty. I thought I might sell something along this road.
But I have seen no one!
Well, no one but one gypsy with a single bear cub.”
“I saw him too,” said the cat.
“He passed here recently, leading the bear cub on a leash.”
“A very beautiful leash—and the best leash in all of Russia, or the world,” the merchant said.
“I sold it to him, well,” he added, “it wasn’t a real sale.
He said he had no money, but he offered me this in exchange.”
As the cat watched, the merchant pulled out…
From his pocket, the old man took out a round piece of fabric. It was woven from the finest wool. The background had a deep black color of a pure, moonless night, and right in the center was a fiery red eagle. The bird’s waving wings were adorned with orange patterns
“This is beautiful fabric,” said the cat. “I have never seen such colors and patterns. It is indeed very beautiful.”
The merchant nodded. “But it won’t buy me dinner, even if I make it to the inn. I should have forced the gypsy to give me his earring. It was made of gold and worth something. But if I hadn’t given him the leash,” he sighed, “the poor boy couldn’t have taken the bear cub back to the camp. How I laughed, watching the bear cub dance and tumble! So now I have neither a fine leather leash nor a penny to my name. I am an old fool—and very hungry.”
The merchant stood and took two shaky steps before the cat said, “Wait, old man, I’ll share my food with you.”
The cat helped the merchant back to his spot and pulled out his pie. The old man’s eyes lit up. He hugged the cat in joy and exclaimed, “This is too, too much from such a new friend!” “Yes, that’s why part of this is for me,” the cat replied hopefully.
The merchant continued to thank him and eat—very quickly. “Will he never stop?” the cat thought to himself. “Soon there will be nothing left.”
Then he asked, “Why are you walking this road? I’ve never seen you here before.”
The merchant looked up at the sky. “Ah! It’s a long, sad story. It’s my daughter. My youngest and most beautiful daughter—the most beautiful in all of Russia. She is very ill, and no one knows how to cure her. She doesn’t speak a word and doesn’t move, but sits all day, staring at the wall. She is becoming thinner and weaker with each day. Every evening my poor wife, my five sons, and I think that in the morning we might not find her alive.”
The old man handed the pie back to the cat. “My poor, poor Marushka,” he sobbed.
The cat looked at the pie with appetite, and then back at the merchant. “Listen, listen,” the cat said. “We’ll find someone who can help your daughter. But first, eat. Eat first, then talk.”
His mouth watered, but he handed the plate with the pie to the merchant. “Come on, come on! Eat, eat.”
“Thank you, my friend,” said the merchant, wiping away tears. When he had eaten every piece, every crumb of the pie, he returned the plate to the cat. “I wish I had something valuable to repay you for your kindness.”
“I don’t need anything,” said the cat, looking at the empty plate.
“You must take something,” the merchant insisted. “My goods! Take them all.”
The cat refused. “Ah, I was a fool! I should have demanded gold from the gypsy!” said the merchant.
“Then this will be yours. And may it serve you in good health,” said the old man, handing the fabric to the cat and bowing deeply. He added grimly, “If only I could pay someone so easily to restore Marushka’s health.”
Fearing even more tears, the cat said, “Pshaw. Baba Yaga will easily cure her. I live with her not far from here, and I will take you to her.”
The cat wondered how the fabric could serve a cat, but he folded it, placed it on the pie plate, and helped the old man to his feet.
As they walked, the confident merchant hummed a cheerful, funny song, but the cat was worried. What would happen to him? Baba Yaga had ordered him not to leave his post until she sent him a sign. Moreover, she didn’t like it when strangers appeared near her hut.
When they arrived at the clearing, the cat instructed the old man to wait while he checked if Baba Yaga had returned. When he entered the Hut, he saw the witch dozing by the fire. She jumped to her feet.
“Well!” she shouted. “It’s time for you to return! I smell a stranger. For your own good, it had better be that merchant!”
“Y-yes,” stammered the stunned cat. “His daughter is very ill…”
“Never mind. I’m not that foolish. By this time, she’s already recovered and is picking wild strawberries. But bring the old man before he disappears, and don’t say anything to him.”
The cat brought the merchant, who soon stood before the witch and explained his mission.
“Well, merchant,” said Baba Yaga, “curing such a strange illness is hard work. What will you pay me? I don’t work for free.”
“I don’t have a penny,” he replied. “Not one. Not half.”
“What about your bag?” the witch craftily asked. “Surely you have something for me.”
“All of it,” the merchant replied eagerly. “You must take it all.”
“What do I care, the most powerful witch in Russia, for a bag of trinkets? But, perhaps, I might take something if something interests me.”
The merchant opened his bag and first pulled out beautifully embroidered ribbons.
“Bah! said Baba Yaga. “Since when do witches need ribbons? Something else!” she shouted.
Next, the merchant showed little tinkling bells. The witch covered her ears. Ivory? She snorted. A beautifully carved wooden flute did not interest her, nor a box of matches, or pots, or pans. The merchant slowly pulled out a pair of bones, candles made of beeswax, a small pillow of goose down, and a book of poems in a leather binding. None of it suited her.
“More!” the witch shouted. “You must have more than this!”
“No,” said the merchant. “You can see that my bag is empty.”
Baba Yaga was furious. “Empty your pockets. Hide nothing, I warn you!”
The frightened old man emptied his pockets. They contained only a small knife and a shiny chestnut. The angry witch lunged at the cat.
“Foolish cat!” she howled. “Why did you bring me this good-for-nothing merchant? All of Russia will suffer if my enemy, Koschey the Deathless… ” She looked down and saw the fabric.
“Eeee!” she screamed, grabbing the fabric and jumping up and down. “Your daughter is already healthy. And this is what I want from you.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you! Most wondrous witch! Finally, my Marushka is healthy!” the merchant cried. Then he stopped. “But I cannot give you the fabric. I have already given it to your cat.”
“Oh,” said Baba Yaga. “Your what? Your cat?”
“Your ‘foolish’ cat!” noted the cat.
“Of course, I never meant to say that,” Baba Yaga replied. “Dear cat, I need this fabric. If Koschey the
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