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the house on gorokhovaya street, and the domoviye komityet :: mazurka, reelroad.
She had sipped 3,070 bowls of soup in the kitchen with black tile. She had eaten 2,325 entire fish at the cherrywood table with three knots in its center. She had dreamt 5,475 dreams in her little bed with its red blanket. She lived inside the house- she belonged to it.
the girl in the window and the tsar at the door: tsiganochka, 101 strings kiev
He held open the door of a long black car- a sleek, curving thing, the kind Marya had only glimpsed rumbling by, always followed by the grumbling of her neighbors regarding the evils of the merchant class. The car growled and snorted, a baleful red peeping through the vents. Marya dropped gratefully into the car, relieved to have done it, to finally be inside the magic instead of looking at it through a window. To never hear again that something black was coming for her- it was here, and it was handsome, and it wanted her.
the hunt for the firebird: the leschii and the vintovnik :: run boy run (instrumental), woodkid
Through the bramble-thicket two horses exploded, their riders flattened against their backs. The black one raced ahead, a young woman shrieking with laughter in her green enamel saddle, her dark hair streaming, braided wildly with garnets and rough sea amber, her hunting cloak a red sail.
the isle of buyan and the tsardom of life:: Ты заря, reelroad.
Marya hardly noticed anymore that the houses and halls had been patched together from the skins of many exotic and familiar beasts, their roofs thatched with long, waving hair, their eaves lined with golden braids. Fountains spurted hot, scarlet blood into glass pools, trickling pleasantly in the late afternoon light. A rich stream floated from their basins, and the occasional raven alighted to sip.
the tests of baba yaga, and who is to rule:: dance of the young girls, tettix
Marya wrapped one arm around the pestle, her thighs squeezing the trunk of it, and dug in her pocket. Hauling out a dried duck leg, she rolled it against the bowl of the mortar, to give the beast the scent of fatty, rich fowl, and then flung it down Skorohodnaya as hard as she could. The mortar leapt, ravenous, and hopped after it, up into the air and down again, leaving a trail of wide, deep stampings in the snow behind it, like an endless ellipses. Between her legs, the pestle rattled and shuddered.
the tsar of life and the tsar of death :: the four of us are dying, nine inch nails
“Don’t take it personally. Never for anyone else does our brother take out his scalpel. Only he lives forever. Everyone else, one way or another, is for me. Can only be for me. And Life, that old tyrant, he knows my land is fertile now. So many white flowers. So many dead since ’17. So many more of us than you. Soon there will be nowhere you can walk where my folk do not flow over and around you, do not drink of your sweat, do not swallow your heat.”
the war is always going badly :: dance of the earth, tettix
And they tore the streets of Buyan piece from piece. The territory of Death advanced one inch every day; the territory of Life retreated. But the next day the territory of life would advance, and Death retreat. While Viy’s ranks filled up with human dead from the French front and the German lowlands, he would not lie still. To walk down Skorohodnaya Road was a heedless hurtling through patches of dark and light.
a pain where my death once lay :: legions, zoe keating
“You should go with him. When he asks you. You should go and have his babies, and kiss their wounds, and teach them to read.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I don’t mean it. I don’t mean it. Stay with me forever, forever, until you die, and then, still, I will keep your bones and clutch them to my breast.”
“Koschei, it’s me. your Masha. Your Marousha. What do I want with wounded babies?”
return to the house on gorokhovaya street, the man in the basement :: autumn song, tchaikovsky
The main thing was the tiredness, which swaddled her and stayed. The main thing was the ruin of her house, like film laid on top of other film, so that she could look at a wall and see not only Svetlana Tikhovovna and her mother arguing over laundry in front of it, and Zemlehyed pawing at it, and the skin of a Buyan wall, so far from her.
the siege of leningrad, and the death of zvonok :: all gone (no escape), gustavo santaolalla.
I looked out the window where she had looked for months, stitched back to back. And there in the dark glowed silver wounds where another Leningrad bled through, another Neva, another Dzherzhinskaya Street, all splashed with silver. And there walked a woman with swan feathers in her hair, vanishing around a corner; and there walked a short, fat creature with dead leaves on his head; and there walked a woman like a gun.
the village of yaichka, and the husband of marya morevna :: sunflowers, paul cantelon
Marya Morevna’s husband, Koschei Bessmertny, is so handsome that he could lend a cup of his beauty to every man in the village and still charm the bark from his dogs.Wheat falls into loaves at his feet, but also at the feet of his friends, and all of Yaichka is friends with Koschei Bessmertny. When he bends to pull beets from the earth, he sings a little song with four lines of five words each, and the last word of the song is wife.
the death of koschei the deathless :: black sun, hans zimmer and lorne balfe
“I always die at the end,” he whispers, and he is afraid now, his hands shaking. “It is always like this. It is never easy.” But Koschei the Deathless steps into his daughter’s embrace and holds her, gently, tenderly, proudly, for a moment, smoothing her wet hair with his hand before kissing her forehead as perfectly as any father has done.
this is russia and it is 1952 :: returning, gustavo santoalalla
“The redistribution of worlds has made everything equal- magic and cantinas and Yelenas and basements and bread and silver, silver light. Equally dead, equally bound. You will live as you live anywhere. With difficulty, and grief.”