Introduction
I am a descendant of a Don Cossack stanitsa, a place where the wind once carried not only the shouts of men but also the restless howls of entities that refused the dominion of holy authority. One family evening, an old legend resurfaced, and I felt compelled to write it down before it faded into the night.
The Sorcerer in the Family
My grandmother, when she was still a child, lived with a grandfather who was the foremost sorcerer of the village.
He was already close to a hundred years old, yet his power kept the neighbors trembling in fear.
Grandmother remembers how, at night, he would step into the courtyard where wooden huts covered with black sheep skins stood.
“He forced the demons to wash those skins until they shone like bone, and while they labored they never gave him a moment’s peace.”
The demons, while scrubbing the pelts, hissed loudly; the first crow of a rooster signaled their sudden disappearance, as if they dissolved into the morning air.
Demons in the Hearth
The family conflict began when the grandchildren decided to “roll grandpa into a barrel.” Leaning on a crutch, the old sorcerer trudged to the manor of Fedotka, the son of my grandmother, to defend his place in the house. Fedotka, already past his “fifth decade,” had built an annex with a separate entrance and moved the sorcerer there “for permanent residence.”
One night, while my grandmother was spinning yarn by the stove, the pantry doors swung open and a little girl in a nightgown fluttered into the room. Grandmother chased her away with curses, and the girl vanished, closing the door behind her.
But that was only the beginning. From the hearth rose a music so vivid it seemed an orchestra was playing at midnight. The sounds were so alive that they appeared to emanate from the very flames themselves.
Dances and Salvation
A week later a fierce quarrel erupted between grandmother and her daughter. Exhausted by the “goat‑like” remarks, grandmother fled to another house that also housed a stove.
That evening I was supposed to go to a dance, but my mother forbade it, warning that demons had taken up residence in the stove and were “brewing” music. I went to see grandmother, but she waved me away:
“Go to us, or your mother won’t let you dance.”
I defied her and attended the dance anyway. When I returned, the house lay in a heavy silence; the demons in the stove had ceased their nocturnal concert.
Conclusion
The witch‑grandfather died peacefully, asking for nothing and cursing no one. His knowledge of magic and weather prediction passed through the generations, yet a strict prohibition barred the use of these powers “for harm”—the penalty could reach the twelfth generation.
This legend reminds us that unseen authority is both terrifying and potent, and the temptation to wield secret knowledge can bring only misfortune. Yet, if we keep that darkness in check, happiness may finally find its way to us and our loved ones.
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