This story—so old it seems to have grown through time like the root of a mighty oak—was once told to me by Granny Galya, our neighbor. She’d come over to borrow a little salt, neighborly and kind. I happened to be cooking at that very moment, baking cabbage pies whose rich, homely aroma filled the whole house, making the heart feel instantly light and calm. I invited Granny Galya to join me, to have some fresh tea from the samovar that had just begun to sing its unhurried song. She didn’t refuse; with visible pleasure she settled herself on the edge of the little couch and sighed in relief, as if shrugging off the heavy burden of the day.
Savoring a warm pie fresh from the oven and washing it down with fragrant hot tea, she looked at me with wise, slightly tired eyes and said, “I’m going to tell you a story. Believe it or not, but it all happened to my family, before my very eyes. Remember it well.” Making herself comfortable, she began her unhurried tale, while outside the window the dusk slowly thickened, tinting the sky lilac.
“You see,” she began, “when I was just seventeen—the very season when hopes are in bloom—a relative of our village blacksmith came to stay, his aunt by the name of Alevtina. Her appearance was quite memorable, one might even say stern. Plain, with a noticeable hump and a long, sharp nose—why, the very image of the baba-yaga from the old tales. The village children, catching sight of her, would shy away, and the adults would whisper behind her back. They even gave her a nickname out of earshot—‘the old crone.’ But appearances, you know, can be deceiving. Behind that severe exterior was a soul of rare kindness and compassion. She helped many without fuss—treated people for all sorts of ailments, tended the livestock, knew her herbs, and could speak a kind word that soothed pain.
“The real spiteful one, though, the one whose temper was darker than the blackest storm cloud, lived at the far end of the village in a crooked, tumbledown house. Her name was Akulina. And, by the way, her heart smoldered with ill will for that very same blacksmith, but he wouldn’t give her so much as a glance—he could sense the unpleasant aura that trailed behind her. Akulina was forever up to some mischief: a neighbor’s hen would mysteriously drop dead, milk in an earthenware jug would sour before its time, and as for gossip and rumors, she spread them with a generous hand. Everyone in the village knew it and avoided dealing with her, giving her house a wide berth so as not to bring trouble down on themselves.
“Well, after Alevtina moved in with the blacksmith, his business took off as never before. Orders poured in one after another, money appeared, and he, buoyed by success, finally decided to fulfill his cherished dream—marriage. His heart had long belonged to my younger sister, Varvara, a modest girl with cheeks like roses and hair fair as flax. So he sent matchmakers to her. They decided on a modest wedding, no unnecessary pomp, so that all their savings could go toward building a new, spacious cottage for the young couple.
“Right in the thick of the wedding preparations, Akulina herself unexpectedly came to our house. She knocked at the gate hesitantly, came into the yard, and asked our mother to lend her a little salt—just for a couple of days, she said. Mother was very surprised: why cross the whole village when there were neighbors all around? But she didn’t refuse—her heart was generous and bore no grudges. She poured a good handful into a small bundle and handed it over.
“No sooner had Akulina turned toward the gate than she ran into Alevtina, who was returning from the meadow. Without a word of greeting, Alevtina walked past the uninvited guest. Akulina, once beyond the gate, suddenly whirled around, spat forcefully in Alevtina’s wake, muttered something very quickly—almost inaudibly—and then took to her heels, as if frightened by her own brazenness. Mother and I watched this scene in utter amazement, unable to make sense of it. Alevtina, however, did not lose her composure. Without hesitation she bent down, scooped a small handful of dusty earth from the ground, tossed it after the fleeing Akulina, and then traced a broad, unhurried sign of the cross in the air.
“Coming up to us, she asked in a calm but serious voice:
‘Why did that woman come here?’
‘To borrow salt—she promised to return it the day after tomorrow,’ Mother replied, still under the spell of what we’d just seen.
‘You were very unwise to lend her salt,’ Alevtina shook her head. ‘No good will come of it. She means to do harm to our young ones—black envy is eating her alive from the inside. But don’t worry. I’ll take care of it now.’
“She asked us not to interfere, whispered some old incantation in a quiet but firm voice, then took a small, sturdy knife from her pocket and stuck it tip-first into the corner of the wooden threshold of our cottage.
‘The main thing,’ she strictly instructed, ‘is that you do not touch this knife under any circumstances. Let it stand guard. And when that woman brings the salt back, she will not be able to step into the house; she’ll feel an insurmountable barrier. She’ll hand the salt over the threshold—you take it, but do not, under any conditions, bring it into the house. Carry it to the outhouse, far from the dwelling, and empty it there.’
“‘Alevtina Petrovna, what exactly happened between you and her at the gate?’ I couldn’t help asking.
“The old woman smiled, and a spark of wisdom flickered in her eyes:
‘That, my dear, you could call an exchange of courtesies. Only courtesies of a rather special kind.’
“Exactly two days passed. We had almost forgotten the strange visit when Mother, glancing out the window, said uneasily:
‘Akulina is coming. She’s carrying a bundle. My heart tells me she’s bringing not salt, but some misfortune.’
“Mother went out onto the porch to wait. Akulina came right up to the door, twisted her mouth into a crooked grin, and drawled,
‘So, all ready for the wedding, are we? We’ll be making merry soon, won’t we?’
“But the moment she tried to cross the threshold, she was literally thrown backward, as if an invisible force had shoved her in the chest. For a moment she was taken aback; her eyes widened in surprise and fear. Then, without a word, she thrust the bundle into Mother’s hands, turned on her heel, and nearly ran off, glancing back over her shoulder. Mother found the strength not to hesitate. Just as Alevtina had ordered, without bringing the bundle into the house, she carried it straight to the far corner of the vegetable plot. My sister and I followed; our curiosity was unbearable.
“And here is what we saw: when Mother untied the bundle and poured the white salt onto the ground, it didn’t simply spill out in a white little path. No. The salt instantly, before our very eyes, turned black—coal black—and, as if heavy, sank down into the earth, vanished, leaving behind only a dark, damp stain. We stood rooted to the spot, unable to utter a word.
“‘Well, thank God,’ Mother breathed, crossing herself. ‘It’s all gone. All the evil she brought us has gone into the ground. Thank you, Alevtina Petrovna—she saved our young ones’ wedding and happiness. It must have eaten Akulina alive with envy that the blacksmith hadn’t chosen her for a wife, so she decided to do us harm. Though perhaps she wasn’t fit to be married at all—more likely, out of sheer malice and black jealousy she resolved on such a nasty trick.’
“That very evening, after the sun had slipped behind the forest, Mother and I went to see Alevtina to thank her from the bottom of our hearts for her help, her wisdom, and her protection. She listened, nodded, and then said in a quiet but very distinct voice:
‘Remember, my dears, a few simple things. If you keep to them, you’ll be able to protect your home and your family from any misfortune.’
“She went over to the stove, straightened the kerchief on her head, and began to list them, counting on her fingers:
‘First, you must keep the broom not just anywhere, but in the kitchen or just behind the door, with the handle pointing down. It’s an old method. And to strengthen it, take a simple green thread, hold it in your hands, and speak these simple words over it: “Whoever comes to me with evil will carry that evil back with them,” then tie that thread to the broom’s handle. Let it hang there.
‘Second, be sure to hammer a new, sturdy nail into the doorjamb. Here is what you should say as you drive it in—listen carefully: “Nail, I take you so that you will serve me and my family. While you sleep in my doorjamb, you guard and watch over all my kin. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” This nail goes very well with a horseshoe. The horseshoe must be metal, and better if it is old, already used. Nail it above the door, but with the prongs pointing down, so that the blessing does not flow out of the house but, on the contrary, remains within it.
‘Third—and this is the simplest—ordinary table salt is a fine charm against any evil, and it requires no complicated rites. If you feel uneasy, just sprinkle a thin line across your threshold, and an ill-wisher will not be able to harm your home; their evil intentions will dissipate like smoke.’
“After a pause, Granny Galya looked at me with her keen eyes and added:
‘So you, dear, remember these tips as well. All sorts of things happen in life.’
“Sitting on the couch and turning over what I’d heard, I couldn’t help asking:
‘So then, Granny Galya—does that mean you shouldn’t lend anything at all? Not salt, not flour, not sugar?’
“She laughed with her soft, throaty laugh:
‘Oh no, why ever not? You can and should lend if the person is good, with a kind heart. It depends on to whom and when. You have to listen with your heart. But that’s a different story altogether, a very long one. All right then, give me the salt—I’ll be going; there’s work waiting.’ She looked at my thoughtful face and chuckled softly again. ‘Don’t be afraid—I’m not some witch. I just remembered that old story; it happened to fit the conversation.’
“And so, rising from the couch, she crossed herself three times before the icon in the red corner, took the little packet of salt from the table, thanked me again for the treats and the warm welcome, and left, closing the door softly behind her.
“I remained sitting at the table in the room still filled with the scent of fresh baking and tea, and I looked out the window for a long, long time at the darkening sky. My head was full of thoughts about simple village magic, about good and evil, about how delicate the world can be and how important it is to feel it. And though my reason insisted it was all mere superstition, deep in my soul there lingered a quiet, unshakable doubt: what if… what if it was all true? That’s how we people are—prone to fancies—and in each of us lives a small part of that distant, primeval faith that is passed down from generation to generation along with stories like this one.”