The Russian Story Book 3

The Russian Story Book 3

"I have been in Holy Russia, my father," was the reply. "And what

saw you in Holy Russia?" asked the old man. "Nothing but melting snow

and moist land," said Svyatogor, "too moist indeed for the feet of my

steed. But stay, I did meet with some one of note, and I have brought

him with me."

 

The old man quickly raised his head, but the movement was merely one

of habit, for his eyes were sightless. Sadly he dropped his chin once

more upon his breast, and said, "Bring to me the hero of Holy Russia

that I may greet him."

 

In the meantime Ilya had found a piece of iron, and having also found

a furnace near the gate-way, he quickly made the iron red-hot. Then he

grasped the glowing metal in his hand and went forward to greet the

blind father of his friend. The old man held out his hand, but Ilya

did not clasp it. He placed in its palm the red-hot iron which the old

man grasped as if it had been the hand of a friend returned after a

long journey. As he felt its burning glow he said, "Thy hands are the

hands of a hero, O Ilya, son of strength. Now you are indeed worthy

to become the younger brother of Svyatogor. Come within the palace

of white stone and rest until the call comes, which comes to all true

men of deeds, to sally forth upon yet another journey of adventure."

 

So Ilya and his elder brother went into the palace of white stone

and rested as long as they could, which was not really long, for one

morning the sun shone and each found the other at the gate looking

with longing eyes upon the world.

 

Now as he looked outward, Ilya saw to his surprise and pleasure

that a horse was feeding near the outer wall of the palace of white

stone. He looked more closely and found to his great delight that

it was none other than his own good steed Cloudfall. Quickly he ran

to the horse and gaily he greeted it, and before long he was mounted

upon its back and racing to and fro over the moist grass before the

palace of white stone. As he reached the gate for the third time,

he found Svyatogor mounted also, and ready to set out with him in

search of adventure. Then they rode out along the ridge of the Holy

Mountains, and before long they came to a great casket with a lid

lying by its side, and upon the lid was written the inscription,

"This casket shall fit him for whom it has been hewn from the rock."

 

The inscription was a plain invitation to one of adventurous spirit,

and in a moment Ilya had leapt from his horse and lay at full length

within the casket. But it was too long and too wide for him, and

he rose saying, "It is not for me that this casket was hewn from

the rock."

 

"The casket was meant for me," said Svyatogor, quietly stepping into

it and lying down. His words were true enough, for his heroic body

fitted it as if he had been measured for it. "Take the cover, Ilya,"

he said, "and lay it over me." But his younger brother had no desire

to perform an entombment of this kind and he said:

 

"I will not lift the cover, elder brother, and shut you up in such

a manner. Surely you would amuse yourself with what is to me a jest

of the poorest kind, if you would prepare for your burial in this way!"

 

Svyatogor spoke not a word, but reaching forth his hands lifted the

lid and covered the casket with it. Then he tried to raise it again,

but found that it was easier to get into such a casket than to get

out of it. He strove with all his mighty strength to lift the lid,

but even this was of no avail, and he cried out through an aperture

which still remained between the cover and the side of the casket,

"Alas, my brother! It is clear that Fate, who is stronger than heroes,

has entangled me at last. I cannot raise the lid. Try to lift it and

live to say that you have rescued the prince of heroes."

 

Ilya thereupon put forth all his strength but, strong as he was, he

could not raise the lid. "Take my great battle-sword," said Svyatogor,

"and strike a blow across the cover." Ilya grasped the sword, which

his brother had unbuckled, before he lay down, but was not able to

raise it from the earth, so great was its weight. "I cannot lift it,"

he said in disgust and despair, "to say nothing of wielding it." "Bend

down to this rift," replied his elder brother, "that I may breathe

upon you with my heroic breath." Ilya obeyed the command, and when

Svyatogor had breathed warmly upon him, he felt new strength rise

within him, so that he was three times the man he had been.

 

He was now able to raise the sword and struck the lid of the casket

a mighty blow, so that all the Holy Mountains re-echoed with the

sound. Sparks of flame leapt from the lid of the casket, and an iron

ridge was formed upon the stone in the path of that tremendous stroke,

so as to strengthen the cover rather than weaken it.

 

"I stifle, younger brother," cried the imprisoned hero. "Try the effect

of another blow upon the lid of the fatal casket." Then Ilya smote the

cover lengthwise, and the sound of the blow re-echoed more loudly among

the Holy Mountains; but the only effect was to raise another ridge

of iron upon the lid. Again the imprisoned hero spoke imploringly.

 

"I die, little brother. Bend down again so that I may breathe once

more upon you, and this time give you all my heroic strength."

 

Then Ilya spoke, and as the words came from his lips he felt as if

a voice within him framed them in despite of his own desires.

 

"My strength is enough, elder brother; if I had more, then moist

Mother Earth would not be able to bear me."

 

"You have done well, younger brother," said the voice of Svyatogor,

"in that you have disobeyed my last command. Had I breathed upon

you again, it would have been with the breath of death. And now,

farewell! Take my great battle-sword, which you have fairly won,

but tether my good steed to my iron-bound tomb. None but Svyatogor

may ride that horse."

 

Then Svyatogor spoke no more, and stooping to the crevice Ilya was

no longer able to hear the whisper of his breathing. So he bound

the good steed to the casket, girt the great battle-sword about his

waist, and rode forth upon Cloudfall into the open plain. But as he

turned away, he saw the tears of the imprisoned Svyatogor flowing in

a crystal stream through the crevice in the iron-bound casket on the

lonely hills.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ILYA AND NIGHTINGALE THE ROBBER

 

 

This is the story of the first of the nightingales, those sweet singers

of the evening, each of whom, as the old books tell with certainty,

sprang from a poppy seed. And the sower of the first seeds of the

blood-red poppy was Ilya the Old Cossáck, who rode the shaggy bay

steed Cloudfall.

 

As for Cloudfall, the shaggy bay steed, it is well that you should

try to picture him to yourselves. He had a mane of very great length,

and a tail ten times as long as his mane, while the shaggy hair of his

rough coat was of three colours or tints. He wore a bridle of leather

plaited so as to be of enormous strength, twelve saddle-cloths and

twelve felts (so cold it was in Holy Russia), and over these coverings

a strong leather saddle bound with metal. He had twelve girths made of

finest silk, not for display and youthful vanity, but for strength and

easiness of movement. His stirrups were of engraved steel brought from

Damascus, where the good sword blades are marked with strange devices;

the buckles were of bronze which moist Mother Earth is not able to

rust, and which no amount of hard wear can in the least affect. Such

was Cloudfall the shaggy bay steed of Ilya the Old Cossáck.

 

One Easter morning Ilya took his way to church to greet his risen

Master; and as he stood before the altar in the warm glow which lighted

up the sanctuary, he vowed a mighty vow, "I will sing at High Mass

on this very Easter Day in the royal town of Kiev, and I will go to

Kiev by the straight way."

 

For a few moments Ilya stood in deep silence before the altar, as if

pausing to gather strength. Then he vowed a second vow, and it was

to this effect--as he took the straight way to the royal town of Kiev

he would not stain his hand, nor yet the blade of his good keen sword

with the blood of the accursed Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia. A

second time he stood in deep silence, as if pausing to gather still

more strength. Then he vowed a third vow with his hand upon his mace

of steel, and it was to the effect that though he would go by the

straight way he would not make use of his fiery darts.

 

After a third space of silence Ilya left the church and came into

the courtyard, where his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall was awaiting him

to take the heroic journey to the city of Prince Vladimir, the Royal

Sun of Kiev. A few wondering peasants saw Ilya as he strode across

the courtyard, but as soon as he was mounted upon Cloudfall they saw

him no more, so swift was the movement of the shaggy bay steed. Their

eyes tried to follow his flight--for it was no gallop--but they seemed

to see only a smoke-wreath upon the open plain, or a swift movement

like that of a swirl of snow across the wind-swept steppe.

 

Over the grass skimmed Cloudfall, and over the lakes and rivers,

while his long tail streamed behind him like that of a comet in the

midnight sky; high above the lofty forests he soared, even above

the oaks which had stood there since the days before history dawned,

yet he kept lower than the drifting clouds; from mountain summit to

mountain summit he sprang, and in leaping along the low hill-ranges he

missed many of the tops in his flight; and wherever his hoofs fell,

springs of water gushed forth from the rock, but when he alighted on

the open plain smoke rose beneath his hoofs, wavered for a moment,

and then ascended in a steady column towards the clouds. It was a ride

or a flight to be remembered for all time, and Ilya himself was not

forgetful of this. For he stopped his shaggy bay steed near a forest,

felled two mighty trees with his mace, and erected a rough cross on

which he carved with his keen sword the following inscription: "Ilya

the Old Cossáck rides to Royal Kiev on his first heroic quest." Then

he went again upon his wonderful way.

 

Now when he drew near to the city of Chernigof, he saw before him a

great host of Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia, marshalled under

three princes, each of whom commanded forty thousand men. From their

crowd of warlike steeds there arose a cloud of steam so dense that it

hid the sun by day and the moon by night. When Ilya saw this great

host before him he remembered his vows, leapt quickly to the earth,

and knelt at the right foot of Cloudfall.

 

"Lend me your aid, my shaggy bay steed," he said, and the intelligent

animal bowed his head in reply, after which he raised it and sniffed

the air with quivering nostril. For a moment Ilya left his side to

wrench from moist Mother Earth a ring-barked oak which he bound to

the left stirrup of his shaggy bay steed. Then he tore up another

tree by the roots, and mounting Cloudfall began to brandish it in his

right hand. "Any man can vow a vow," he said grimly, "even before the

high altar, but not every man can keep his vow when he has made it;

and my vow was to shed no blood with my keen sword nor yet to use my fiery darts."