Ilya of Murom the Peasant Hero, and Hero Svyatogor

In the hamlet of Karachárof, by Múrom town, dwelt Ilyá, the old Cossack. Thirty years he sat upon the oven, having neither arms nor legs, because of his grandfather's sin.

And when thirty years were past, in summer, at the time of haying, his father and mother went forth to clear the forest-girdled meadows, and left Ilyá alone in the cottage. Then there came to him three wayfarers — Christ and two of his apostles, in the guise of poor brethren, strolling psalm-singers, and besought him that he would give them to drink.

"Alas! ye wayfarers, aged men, dear friends!" said Ilyá; "full gladly would I give you to drink: but I cannot rise, and there is none in the cottage with me."

And the men made answer; "Arise, and wash thyself; so shalt thou walk and fetch us drink."

Then he arose and walked; and having filled a cup with kvas, brought it to the aged men.

They received it, drank, and gave it again to Ilyá saying:

"Drink now after us, Ilyá, son of Ivan." When he had drunk, the old men said: "How is thy strength now, Ilyá?"

Ilyá answered: "I thank you humbly, ye aged men. I feel a very great strength within me, so that I could even move the earth."

Then the men looked each upon the other, and said: "Give us to drink yet again." And Ilyá did so. And when they had drunk, they gave the cup to him the second time, and. inquired: "How is it with thee now, Ilyá?"

"The strength I feel is very great," said Ilyá, "yet but as half the former strength."

"Thus let it be," spoke the men: "for if we give thee more, mother earth will not bear thee up." And they said: "Go forth now, Ilyá."

So Ilyá set his cup upon the table, and went forth into the street with all ease; and the aged men said:

"God hath blessed thee, Ilyá with this strength of His. Therefore, defend thou the Christian faith, fight against all infidel hosts, bold warriors and daring heroes, for it is written that death shall not come to thee in battle. Stronger than thee there is none in the white world, save only Volgá, (and he will take thee not by might but by craft), and Svyatogór, and, stronger yet, beloved of damp mother earth, Mikúla Selyaninovich, the Villager's Son. Against these three contend thou not. Live not at home, — labor not; but go thou to royal Kief town." And therewith the men vanished.

Then Ilyá went forth to his father, in the clearing, and found him with his wife and laborers reposing from their toll. He grasped their axes and began to hew; and what his father with the laborers could not have done in three days, that Ilyá achieved in the space of one hour. Having thus felled a whole field of timber, he drove the axes deep into a stump, whence no man could draw them.

When his father with wife and laborers woke, and beheld the axes, they marvelled, saying: "Who hath done this?" Then came Ilyá from the forest, and drew the axes from the stump; and his father gave thanks to God that his son should be so famous a workman.

But Ilyá strode far over the open plain; and as he went, he beheld a peasant leading a shaggy brown foal, the first he had seen. What the peasant demanded for the foal, that Ilyá paid. — For the space of three months, he tied the foal in the stall, feeding it with the finest white Turkish wheat, and watering it from the pure spring. After these months were past, he bound the foal for three nights in the garden, anointing it with three dews. When that was done, he led the foal to the lofty paling, and the good brown began to leap from side to side, and was able to sustain Ilyá's vast weight; for he had become a heroic steed. — All this Ilyá did according to the commands of the aged psalm-singers who had healed him.

Then Ilyá saddled his good steed Cloudfall, prostrated himself, and received the farewell blessing of father and mother, and rode forth far over the open plain.

As he rode, he came to a pavilion of white linen, pitched under a damp oak; and therein was a heroic bed, not small, for the length of the bed was ten fathoms, and the breadth six fathoms.- So he bound his good steed to the damp oak, stretched himself upon that heroic bed and fell asleep. And his heroic slumber was very deep; three days and nights he slept. On the third day, good Cloudfall heard a mighty clamor toward the North. — Damp mother earth rocked, the dark forests staggered, the rivers overflowed their steep banks. Then the good steed beat upon the earth with his hoof, but could not wake Ilyá, and he shouted with human voice:

"Ho there, Ilyá of Múrom! Thou sleepest there and takest thine ease, and knowest not the ill fortune that hangeth over thee. Hero Svyatogór cometh to this his pavilion. Loose me now, in the open plain, and climb thou upon the damp oak."

Then sprang Ilyá to his nimble feet, loosed his horse and climbed into the damp oak.

And lo! a hero approached; taller than the standing woods was he, and his head rested upon the flying clouds. Upon his shoulder he bare a casket of crystal, which, when he was come to the oak, he set upon the ground and opened with a golden key. Out of it stepped his heroic wife; in all the white world, no such beauty was ever seen or heard of; lofty was her stature and dainty her walk; her eyes were as those of the clear falcon, her brows of blackest sable, and her white body was beyond compare.

When she was come forth from the crystal casket, she placed a table, laid a fair cloth thereon and set sugar viands; and from the casket, she also drew forth mead for drink. So they feasted and made merry. And when Svyatogór had well eaten, he went into the pavilion and fell asleep.

But his fair heroic wife roamed about the open plain, and so walking, espied Ilyá upon the damp oak.

"Come down now, thou good and stately youth," she cried: "descend from that damp oak, else will I waken Hero Svyatogór and make great complaint of thy discourtesy to me."

Ilyá could not contend against the woman, and so slipped down from the oak as she had commanded.

And after a space, that fair heroic woman took Ilyá and put him in her husband's deep pocket, and roused the hero from his heavy sleep. Then Svyatogór put his wife in the crystal casket again, locked it with his golden key, mounted his good steed, and rode his way to the Holy Mountains.

After a little, his good steed began to stumble, and the hero to beat him upon his stout flanks with a silken whip. Then said the horse in human speech:

"Hitherto I have borne the hero and his heroic wife; but now I bear the heroic woman and two heroes. Is it a marvel that I stumble?"

Thereupon Hero Svyatogór drew Ilyá from his deep pocket, and began to question him: — who he was and how he came in the pocket. And Ilyá told him all the truth. When he heard it, Svyatogór slew his faithless heroic wife; but with Ilyá he exchanged crosses, and called him his younger brother.

And as they talked together, Ilyá said: "Full gladly would I see Svyatogór that great hero; but he rideth not now upon damp mother earth, nor appeareth among our company of heroes."

"I am he," quoth Svyatogór. "Gladly would I ride among you, but damp mother earth would not bear me up. And furthermore, I may not ride in Holy Russia, but only on the lofty hills, and steep precipices. Let us now ride among the crags, and come thou to the Holy Mountains with me."

Thus they rode long together, diverting themselves; and Svyatogór taught Ilyá all heroic customs and traditions.

On the way, Svyatogór said to Ilyá: "When we shall come to my dwelling, and I shall lead thee to my father, heat a bit of iron, but give him not thy hand."

So when they were come to the Holy Mountains, to the palace of white stone, Svyatogór's aged father cried:

"Ai, my dear child! Hast thou been far afield?"

"I have been in Holy Russia, father."

"What hast thou seen and heard there?"

"Nothing have I seen or heard in Holy Russia, but I have brought with me thence a hero." The old man was blind, and so said:

"Bring hither the Russian hero, that I may greet him."

In the mean while, Ilyá had heated the bit of iron, and when he came to give the old man his hand in greeting, he gave him in place of it, the iron. And when the old man grasped it in his mighty hands, he said: "Stout are thy hands, Ilyá! A most mighty warrior art thou!"

Thereafter, as Svyatogór and his younger brother Ilyá journeyed among the Holy Mountains, they found a great coffin in the way; and upon the coffin was this writing: "This coffin shall fit him who is destined to lie in it."

Then Ilyá essayed to lie in it, but for him it was both too long and too wide. But when Svyatogór lay in it, it fitted him. Then the hero spoke these words:

"The coffin was destined for me; take the lid now, Ilyá, and cover me." Ilyá made answer: "I will not take the lid, elder brother, neither will I cover thee. Lo! this is no small jest that thou makest, preparing to entomb thyself."

Then the hero himself took the lid, and covered his coffin with it. But when he would have raised it again, he could not, though he strove and strained mightily; and he spoke to Ilyá: "Al, younger brother! 'Tis plain my fate hath sought me out. I cannot raise the lid; do thou try now to lift it."

Then Ilyá strove, but could not. Said Hero Svyatogór: "Take my great battle sword, and smite athwart the lid." But Ilyá's strength was not enough to lift the sword, and Svyatogór called him:

"Bend down to the rift in the coffin, that I may breathe upon thee with my heroic breath." When Ilyá had done this, he felt strength within him, thrice as much as before, lifted the great battle sword, and smote athwart the lid. Sparks flashed from that blow, but where the great brand struck, an iron ridge sprang forth. Again spoke Svyatogór:

"I stifle, younger brother! essay yet one more blow upon the lid, with my huge sword." Then Ilyá smote along the lid — and a ridge of iron sprang forth. Yet again spoke Svyatogór:

"I die, oh, younger brother! Bend down now to the crevice. Yet once again will I breathe upon thee, and give thee all my vast strength."

But Ilyá made answer: "My strength sufficeth me, elder brother; had I more, the earth could not bear me."

"Thou hast done well, younger brother," said Svyatogór, "in that thou hast not obeyed my last behest. I should have breathed upon thee the breath of death, and thou wouldst have lain dead beside me. But now, farewell. Possess thou my great battle sword, but bind my good heroic steed to my coffin; none save Svyatogór may possess that horse."

Then a dying breath fluttered though the crevice. Ilyá took leave of Hero Svyatogór, bound the good heroic steed to the coffin, girt the great battle sword about his waist, and rode forth into the open plain.

And Svyatogór's burning tears flow through the coffin evermore.