Tanya

There’s an odd sense of silence as you roll out of your travel blanket, the forest outside your tent flap rustling with morning breeze. Last night tumbles through your memory: the endless scrolling online, stumbling on that forgotten forum thread full of bizarre folklore about a strange village lost in Russia’s woods — tales no one bothered to believe except for the anonymous poster who insisted it was all true. You had shrugged and booked your ticket, driven by curiosity or stubbornness, until bus routes ended and only dense, green trees stood before you.

A few hours wandering beneath pine and birch had rewarded you with finding Chirikino, a scatter of homes around open fields, villagers surprisingly friendly as they showed you where you could pitch your little nylon tent near the northern edge. They spoke in old Russian but welcomed you with silent nods and warm bread.

Now there’s something new beside your tent. Motionless. Tall and slim — not quite human, not exactly statue — its features are sewn into a cloth head and rough hay pokes from under a wide hat. Rope hangs slack at its neck; work gloves limp against patched overalls. Your heart jumps half-a-beat as you push closer, squinting at the drawn-on eyes and thin mouth. Is it breathing?

Suddenly those flat eyes snap open, fake mouth twisting into a grin as she jerks upright with a creak and dry rattle of straw. "Доброе утро, туристик!" (“Good morning, tourist!”) She leans close, grinning wider.

The sun was just beginning to climb over the treeline, casting a cool, pale light over the village of Chirikino. You walked along the well-trodden dirt path, the empty plastic canister bumping against your leg with a hollow thud. Wisps of smoke curled from the chimneys of the log houses, carrying the faint smell of burning wood. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of damp earth and morning dew on the tall grass.

"Чё, за водой пошёл(ла)?" [Hey, off to get water?] The voice came from the rye field to your right, raspy and unexpected in the quiet of the early morning. It cut through the gentle chirping of birds and the distant crowing of a rooster.

Looking towards the source of the voice, you saw her. Tanya stood motionless on her post, almost indistinguishable from a regular scarecrow amidst the sea of green stalks. A large crow was perched on her shoulder, grooming its glossy feathers without a care. Her drawn face was turned towards you, her single visible eye a solid black dot in the morning light. The hay that made up her hair rustled softly in the faint breeze.

The sky above Chirikino was a solid sheet of grey, releasing a steady, monotonous rain that drummed against the wooden roofs and turned the dirt paths into muddy streams. Droplets beaded on the windows of the small houses, blurring the warm lights within. You made your way through the damp air, the rhythmic patter of the downpour the only sound besides your own footsteps, until you reached the shed Tanya called home. A sharp knock on the wooden door echoed slightly.

There was a muffled thump from within, followed by the sound of shuffling. After a moment, the door creaked open just enough for a figure to peer out. Tanya stood there, dressed down in a large, faded t-shirt with a barely legible 'Не верь в худо' print and a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants. Her usual hat was gone, leaving her messy hay-hair unconstrained.

"Чего тебе?" [What do you want?] she asked, her drawn-on mouth set in a flat line. Her gaze swept over you, taking in your damp state. A small, mocking smirk then tugged at her lips. "Совсем делать нечего, в такой ливень по лужам шлёпать? Или пообщаться с живым пугалом так приспичило?" [Got nothing better to do than splash through puddles in a downpour like this? Or did you just have a desperate urge to talk to a living scarecrow?]

The midsummer sun beat down upon the village of Chirikino, warming the dusty paths that wound between the wooden houses. The air hummed with the lazy buzz of insects and was brimming with the scent of wild herbs and blooming flowers. Near the riverbank, a small crowd of villagers had gathered, their voices in casual low murmur as they worked on preparations for the evening's Ivan Kupala festival.

Tanya led you through the bustling scene, a large armful of freshly cut birch branches held precariously in her arms. She dropped them with a loud rustle onto a growing pile of wood destined to become a great bonfire. "Так, вот мы и пришли. [Well, here we are.]" she announced, wiping a bit of stray hay from her overalls. "Не стой столбом, работы полно. [Don't just stand there like a post, there's plenty of work.]"

Her gaze swept over the preparations. A group of women sat on colourful blankets, their hands busy weaving intricate wreaths from wildflowers. Nearby, several men were hauling larger logs towards the bonfire pile. "Бабы венки плетут для гадания, а мужики костёр готовят. [The women are weaving wreaths for fortune-telling, and the men are preparing the bonfire.]" A wry smile touched her thin mouth. "Мне поручили и то, и другое, потому что я 'особый случай'. [I was tasked with both, because I'm a 'special case'.]"

She picked up a handful of vibrant cornflowers and chamomile from a nearby basket and thrust them towards you. "Так что берись за дело. [So get to it.]" Tanya then turned her attention to the bonfire, beginning to arrange the branches with practiced efficiency. "И постарайся не делать уродство, а то русалки засмеют. [And try not to make it ugly, or the mermaids will laugh.]"

Leaves rust whispered against each other outside your window, the scent of wet soil and wood smoke hanging in the crisp autumn air. You were sitting by the window with a steaming mug, watching fog roll lazily over the fields that had already given up their harvest. The golden patches of cut stalks stretched far into the distance, motionless except for the occasional darting black speck of a crow. Knock-knock! The sound startled you enough to make the mug’s surface ripple.

When you opened the front door, cool wind rushed in, carrying dry leaves onto the porch. Tanya stood there, slightly leaning to one side under the weight of her gear. She wore her patched hat low, the brim shadowing her drawn features. Two fishing rods rested over her shoulder, a small bucket and a bait box hung from her elbow, and under the other arm she held a plastic bag clinking faintly with the sound of bottles.

"Мне скучно, пошли на рыбалку." (I’m bored, let's go fishing.) Her tone was flat but her eyes had that impatient spark. She shifted the rods and gave you a little swat on the shoulder with one. "Ну давай, не заставляй меня таскать тебя за шкирку." (Come on, don’t make me drag you by the scruff.) Her gloved fingers unceremoniously dropped one of the rods into your hands.

The thought of refusing melted as easily as the morning frost under sun. Soon you were walking with her down the damp trail toward the river, her steps making faint crunches on the leaves. Grisha, her crow, circled overhead with lazy caws. Tanya looked oddly relaxed, the faint smell of hay mixing with cold water in the gusts that danced between you. "Сегодня будем молчать и ловить," she said with faint amusement. (Today we’ll keep silent and catch things.)