The Twelve Months

Once upon a time, in a little village, there lived a girl named Marushka. She lived with her stepmother and her stepmother’s daughter, Holena. Holena sat by the window all day long, combing her hair, while Marushka fetched water, swept the house, milked the goat and spun wool.

No matter how hard Marushka tried, her stepmother always grumbled:

“Too slow! Too sloppy! All wrong!”

But the neighbours would say, “What a sweet, kind girl she is!” And those words made Holena huff and puff.

One January day, when the snow was whirling and the wind was howling outside, Holena stretched out on the bench and said:

“I want violets. Sweet-smelling little blue ones.”

“But where could I ever find them?” asked Marushka in surprise. “The snow outside is up to my knees.”

“Go up into the mountains and look,” said her stepmother with a wave of her hand. “And don’t come back without violets!”

Slam! The door shut behind Marushka.

On and on she walked. The snow crunched under her feet: crunch, crunch. The wind nipped at her cheeks, and her fingers went numb with cold. Then all at once she saw a little light twinkling up on a mountain. Marushka headed toward it, climbed all the way to the top, and stood very still.

A great fire was blazing there. Around it lay twelve stones, and on the stones sat twelve men. Some were grey as winter. Some were young and merry as spring. Some were sun-browned as summer. And the rest had red beards, like autumn. Highest of all sat the oldest one, with a white beard down to his belt and a staff in his hand. These were the twelve months.

Marushka bowed:

“Good people, may I warm myself by your fire?”

“Warm yourself, child,” the old man nodded. “But why are you wandering the mountains at such a time?”

“I’m looking for violets.”

“Violets? In the snow?” The old man raised his eyebrows.

“My stepmother told me to. I can’t go home without them,” Marushka said quietly.

Old January rose and handed his staff to a young lad in a green coat:

“Brother March, take my seat.”

March sat down on the highest stone and waved the staff over the fire. Whoosh! The flames leapt up high. The snow began to melt: drip, drop. Little streams began to babble, and buds swelled on the bushes. And beneath the bushes, what a wonder, violets burst into bloom, as if someone had spread out a blue shawl.

“Pick them quickly, Marushka,” March smiled.

Marushka gathered a whole armful, thanked everyone and ran home.

Her stepmother opened the door, and her jaw dropped. The whole house smelled of spring. Holena snatched the flowers, sniffed them, and didn’t even say “thank you.”

A day went by. Holena stretched again:

“I want strawberries. Red, sweet ones.”

“Sister dear, strawberries don’t grow in winter,” Marushka pleaded.

“Then go and look!” thundered her stepmother. “And don’t come back without strawberries!”

Once again Marushka trudged through the snow, and once again she saw the little light on the mountain. The months were sitting on their stones, just as they had the day before.

“Good people, may I warm myself by your fire?”

“Warm yourself, child. And what are you looking for this time?”

“Strawberries,” sighed Marushka.

January handed his staff to a sun-browned lad with an ear of wheat tucked behind his ear:

“Brother June, take my seat.”

June waved the staff, and the fire flared up so hot that warm air rushed over everyone’s faces. The snow vanished in a blink, the grass turned green, and the bees began to buzz: bzzzz. And the grass was red, red, red with berries!

Marushka filled her apron to the brim, said thank you and ran home.

Her stepmother and Holena gobbled up the strawberries, smacking their lips, and didn’t leave Marushka a single berry.

On the third day Holena said:

“I want apples. Rosy, juicy ones.”

“And don’t come back without apples!” added her stepmother.

This time Marushka didn’t argue. She wrapped herself in her shawl and went up into the mountains. The little light was already waiting for her.

“Good people, may I warm myself by your fire?”

“Warm yourself, child. What is it now?”

“Apples,” whispered Marushka.

January handed his staff to a red-bearded man in a rust-coloured coat:

“Brother September, take my seat.”

September waved the staff. The snow melted away, and the forest was dressed in yellow and red leaves. And in the middle of the clearing an apple tree grew up, with apples hanging from it like little lanterns.

“Shake it, Marushka!” said September.

Marushka shook a branch. Thump! One apple fell. Thump! Then a second.

“That’s enough,” said September. “Take them and go home.”

Marushka thanked him, bowed and ran off.

“Why only two?” her stepmother snapped. “I bet you ate the rest on the way!”

“No, they wouldn’t give me any more,” Marushka answered.

Holena bit into an apple. Crunch! She had never tasted anything so sweet in all her life.

“I’ll go myself,” she declared. “I’ll shake down a whole sackful!”

She put on her warm sheepskin coat, grabbed a sack and set off for the mountains. When she reached the fire, she pushed her way right up to the flames and didn’t even say hello.

“What do you want here?” asked January.

“None of your business, Grandpa,” snorted Holena.

January frowned and waved his staff above his head. All at once the sky went dark. Whoooo! A blizzard came roaring in. The fire vanished, and so did the months. Holena spun round and round: where was the mountain, where was the path, where was the village?

Her stepmother waited for her daughter until evening. Then she thought, “There must be so many apples up there that she can’t tear herself away. I’ll go and shake some down for myself!” She threw on her sheepskin coat, grabbed another sack and set off for the mountains too. But the blizzard swept her up as well.

Marushka didn’t go to bed that night. She lit the stove, set a candle in the window so it could be seen from far away, and kept peeking outside.

And all the while the blizzard howled. A night went by, and then a day. The candle burned down, and Marushka set out a new one. But no one ever knocked at the door.

Neither the stepmother nor Holena ever came home. They were lost in that blizzard, and no one ever saw them again.

Marushka was left alone in the little cottage. She still fetched water, swept the house, milked the goat and spun wool, just as before. Only now no one grumbled, “Too slow! Too sloppy! All wrong!”

The years went by. Marushka grew up, and a kind, hard-working farmer from the same village asked for her hand. They lived together happily, always the best of friends.

And the months went on walking round their circle, each in his own season. March brought her violets, June brought strawberries, and September brought apples. And Marushka always had enough.