A Russian Folktale -- retold by Patty Kyrlach
In Russia,
at Christmastime, the little boys and girls don’t wait for fat-bellied, twinkle-eyed St.
Nick. Instead they hope to catch a glimpse of a rather cranky, wrinkled old
woman. Her name?
Babouscka.
 |
Russian Peasant Woman
by L. Bakst |
Throughout
the winter months, she tip-toes into the bedrooms of children and leaves behind little
gifts—a piece of candy or a wooden toy or a shiny ball. She loves to
find babies sleeping in their cribs. She will bend down, look closely at their
tiny curled fingers, listen to their soft little sighs, and sometimes on the baby's pillow, she will
drop a single tear.
Some
people say she is searching, always searching. But what is Babouscka looking
for?
Many long
years ago, Babouscka lived at a crossroads, in one of the loneliest places on
earth. In summer, when the fields were full of flowers, she would venture
outside and stare this way and that, down the roads facing north, south, east, and
west—wondering where they might lead. In winter, she sat by the fire, while the
wind howled liked hungry wolves, and the icy branches of trees chattered like
shivering teeth.
On such a
winter’s night, Babouscka was sweeping her house. Sweeping, sweeping—for she
had no husband and she had no children. All she had was her little house, and she
liked to keep it tidy—sweeping, sweeping with her broom.
Suddenly she
heard the sound of a trumpet. Then voices of men and beasts. She must have
thought she was losing her mind, for this was a clamor like a traveling circus.
She ran to
the window and pulled back the curtain, and then she was certain she was losing her mind. For there before
her small house was an entourage of foreign dignitaries--riding camels! She saw
the men dismount.
They
knocked loud and long on Babouscka’s door before she summoned the courage to
answer.
Then she
watched in amazement as one…two…no, three great kings entered her humble home.
In the firelight, they glittered with jewels and silk, and a delicious scent of
spices and incense filled her house.
The kings said they were following a bright star, searching for a child. Since they were strangers
in this land, they asked Babouscka to come with them and help them find the
right path.
Through the window Babouscka saw the gleam of the star, beckoning her to a great adventure. But she could still hear the cold wind howling in the
deep black of night.
“I’m
sorry,” she said, “but the wind is cold and the night is dark. And besides, I need to
finish sweeping my little house. Why don’t you stay here by my warm fire
tonight?”
But the
travelers were anxious to be on their way.
The next
morning, Babouscka awoke with an ache in her heart.
Why, oh
why, had she stayed in her house at the crossroads, when she might have
journeyed with kings? They had spoken of a child, born to be a king of all
kings. They were going to worship him and to lay their gifts and their crowns
at his feet.
If only she could see this child! If only she too could bring him
a gift.
With a thud, Babouscka
shut the door of her little house behind her and set out to find the child for
herself. And she is searching still.
In every
child’s room, in every infant’s cradle, she looks for the Holy Child. She searches
each child’s face with hope, but always turns away, disappointed once again.
Whenever
the wind wolves howl, whenever icy branches chatter like teeth, look carefully
and you may catch a glimpse of Babouscka quietly leaving your bedroom. Or you may find one of the gifts she
leaves behind, for the sake of the Child she seeks.
Dearest
Christ Child, may we not be so busy sweeping (or shopping, wrapping, entertaining)
that we neglect to seek for you--for if we seek you, we will surely find you. Indeed,
you came to seek for us.
Stark Raving
Mythopath pieced this story of Babouscka from several different
versions.
