Anderson Sophie - The House with Chicken Legs

ABOUT THIS BOOK

Marinka dreams of a normal life, where her house stays in one place long enough for her to make friends. But her house has chicken legs and moves on without warning.

For Marinkas grandmother is Baba Yaga, who guides spirits between this world and the next. Marinka longs to change her destiny and sets out to break free from her grandmothers footsteps, but her house has other ideas

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The House with Chicken Legs has been on a long and wonderful journey, guided by a constellation of literary stars. A universe of gratitude goes out to:

Yaga Gemma Cooper, my agent, who lifted Marinka off the back of an easterly breeze, spooned wisdom into her pages, and sent her (and me) out into the world with a far more hopeful future.

Yaga Rebecca Hill at Usborne and Yaga Mallory Kass at Scholastic, my editors, who welcomed Marinka with open arms, and nurtured her story with passion and insight until it sang more strongly than I ever could have imagined.

The orchestra of kind and talented publishing Yaga who gave Marinka the strength to swim the black ocean and climb the glassy mountains. My thanks to each and every one of you, with an extra strum on the balalaika for Becky Walker, Sarah Stewart, Sarah Cronin, Anna Howorth, Stevie Hopwood and Hannah Reardon Steward at Usborne; freelance publicist Fritha Lindqvist; Melissa Schirmer and Maeve Norton at Scholastic; and Giordano Aterini at Rizzoli Ragazzi, whose beautiful letter made me cry (in a good way).

The glittering artists who brought The House with Chicken Legs to life in ways more magnificent than I dreamed possible: Katharine Millichope, who designed the perfect cover; Melissa Castrilln, whose gorgeous illustrations adorn the cover; Elisa Paganelli, who enchanted the internal pages with exquisite fairy-tale illustrations; and Red Nose Studios, who rendered The House with Chicken Legs from magic and clay for the US cover.

For taking care of my soul while my mind wandered in a house with chicken legs, my infinite love and appreciation belongs to:

My husband Nick and our children Nicky, Alec and Sammy. You make my universe glow and burst with wonder.

The galaxy of family I have on both sides of The Gate: my parents Karen and John, my brothers Ralph and Ross; my grandparents, especially Gerda, whose stories inspired this story; and the family I have been gifted through Nick, with a special toast to Sheila and Frank, for their boundless love and kindness.

My friends: Lorraine, whose laugh lights up the sky; Gillian, who anchors me from the other side of the world; Matthew, who brings me music; and Nadia, who has held my hand from the very first word. And thanks to Ken for the pen, Michelle for the enchanted spinning wheel, and Kiran Millwood Hargrave for the truly magical quote.

A nebula of gratefulness blows to the bibliophiles who help put books into readers hands: the librarians, teachers, booksellers, reviewers and book bloggers (with an extra gust of thanks to Jo Clarke, Fiona Noble, Vincent Ripley, Scott Evans and Ashley Booth).

And above all, thanks to the readers who spend their precious time with these words and whose imaginations make stories come alive. When a book finds a reader the possibilities are as endless as the stars.

USBORNE.COM/FICTION

My house has chicken legs. Two or three times a year, without warning, it stands up in the middle of the night and walks away from where weve been living. It might walk a hundred miles or it might walk a thousand, but where it lands is always the same. A lonely, bleak place at the edge of civilization.

It nestles in dark forbidden woods, rattles on windswept icy tundra, and hides in crumbling ruins at the far edge of cities. At this moment its perched on a rocky ledge high in some barren mountains. Weve been here two weeks and I still havent seen anyone living. Dead people, Ive seen plenty of those of course. They come to visit Baba and she guides them through The Gate. But the real, live, living people, they all stay in the town and villages far below us.

Maybe if it was summer a few of them would wander up here, to picnic and look at the view. They might smile and say hello. Someone my own age might visit maybe a whole group of children. They might stop near the stream and splash in the water to cool off. Perhaps they would invite me to join them.

Hows the fence coming? Baba calls through the open window, pulling me from my daydream.

Nearly done. I wedge another thigh bone into the low stone wall. Usually I sink the bones straight into the earth, but up here the ground is too rocky, so I built a knee-high stone wall all the way around the house, pushed the bones into it and balanced the skulls on top. But it keeps collapsing in the night. I dont know if its the wind, or wild animals, or clumsy dead people, but every day weve been here Ive had to rebuild a part of the fence.

Baba says the fence is important to keep out the living and guide in the dead, but thats not why I fix it. I like to work with the bones because my parents would have touched them once, long ago, when they built fences and guided the dead. Sometimes I think I feel the warmth of their hands lingering on the cold bones, and I imagine what it might have been like to hold my parents for real. This makes my heart lift and ache all at the same time.

The house creaks loudly and leans over until the front window is right above me. Baba pokes her head out and smiles. Lunch is ready. Ive made a feast of shchi and black bagels. Enough for Jack too.

My stomach rumbles as the smell of cabbage soup and freshly baked bread hits my nose. Just the gate hinge, then Im done. I lift up a foot bone, wire it back into place, and look around for Jack.

Hes picking at a weathered piece of rock underneath a dried-up heather bush, probably hoping to find a woodlouse or a beetle. Jack! I call and he tilts his head up. One of his silver eyes flashes as it catches the light. He bounds towards me in an ungainly cross between flying and jumping, lands on my shoulder, and tries to push something into my ear.

Get off! My hand darts up to cover my ear. Jacks always stashing food to save for later. I dont know why he thinks my ears are a good hiding place. He forces the thing into my fingers instead; something small, dry and crispy. I pull my hand down to look. Its a crumpled, broken spider. Thanks, Jack. I drop the carcass into my pocket. I know he means well, sharing his food, but Ive had enough of dead things. Come on. I shake my head and sigh. Babas made a feast. For two people and a jackdaw.

I turn and look at the town far below us. All those houses, snuggled close together, keeping each other company in this cold and lonely place. I wish my house was a normal house, down there, with the living. I wish my family was a normal family, too. But my house has chicken legs, and my grandmother is a Yaga and a Guardian of The Gate between this world and the next. So my wishes are as hollow as the skulls of the fence.