The Russian Story Book 7

The Russian Story Book 7

"Whom shall we send against Falcon the Hunter?" asked Ilya, who did

not intend to go himself until the others had failed. "It is of little

use sending Vaska Longskirt, for he will get entangled in the tails

of his coat. Nikitich must go, and if he finds that Falcon the Hunter

is a Russian he shall swear eternal brotherhood with him on behalf

of all of us. But if he finds he is an infidel he shall challenge

him to mortal combat."

 

Then Nikitich sprang to his nimble feet, saddled and mounted his

good steed, and rode forth to the place where a great river met the

dark-grey sea. As he looked along the straight road he saw a rider

before him who sat upon his horse with the assurance of youth and

victory. His black steed was full of mettle and fresh from the untamed

steppe. At each leap he covered a furlong, and the marks which the

hoofs of his horse made upon the bosom of moist Mother Earth were as

large as a ram or a full-grown sheep. Flames flashed from the mouth of

the steed, lighting up the heavy clouds which hung over the dark-grey

sea, sparks of blue fire showered from his nostrils, and from his

erected ears smoke curled in tiny wreaths which quivered and then

vanished in mid-air. The helmet on the head of the hero glowed like

fire, and blue rays of light darted from ornaments on his doublet,

from his pointed spurs and his stirrups of bright steel. At his left

stirrup ran a swift grey-hound, and a fire-eating dragon was chained

to the right which sang and whistled with a strange music as the horse

and its rider passed on towards the dark-grey sea. From shoulder to

shoulder hopped the clear-eyed bird from which Falcon the Hunter took

his name, and as it passed it plucked at the long yellow locks of the

rider, which streamed upon his shoulders like tongues of living flame.

 

The knight sat easily upon the back of his strange steed, and as he

rode he amused himself by hurling his bright steel mace towards the

lowering clouds which hung threatening over the dark-grey sea. It

flashed across the cloudy barrier, making a bright reflection in

the heaving water, and then returned obedient to the hand of Falcon

the Hunter without touching either sea or land in its flight. As he

played, Falcon the Hunter spoke to his wonderful mace: "Lightly as

I now whirl this mace aloft, even so lightly will I twirl Ilya of

Murom the Old Cossáck."

 

Then Nikitich called out, "Ho, there, Falcon the Hunter! Have you no

fear of our barrier?"

 

Falcon replied over his shoulder, "'Tis not for youths even of

supernatural wisdom to pursue me in the open plain. It is high time

that you were hiding from me in the deep depths of a feather-bed."

 

When Falcon the Hunter spoke, the waters of the sea were troubled,

flecks of foam appeared upon the deep, and the shallows were choked

with sand. The charger of Nikitich trembled sorely and fell down

upon its knees, while its rider sank upon the bosom of moist Mother

Earth, where he lay as if in a trance for the space of three full

hours. When he awoke, the sun was shining brightly, the waves upon

the ocean danced in glee, and the tumbled rack of grey clouds on the

horizon was all dispersed and scattered. But Falcon the Hunter was

no longer to be seen, for with all his terrors he was afraid of the

jolly sun with his broad and welcoming smile.

 

Nikitich now mounted his charger and rode off at once to report to

Ilya the Old Cossáck. The old man listened quietly and then said with

a sigh, "I grow old, and yet there is none coming after me to take

my place." Then he saddled his good charger Cloudfall and sprang upon

his back without making any use of the stirrups. On the saddle-strap

hung his war club, mighty in weight; on his left hip rested his sharp

sword and in his hand he held his silken whip; but for this encounter

he placed most reliance upon the fiery darts in the quiver upon his

broad back and in the strength of his mighty bow. Thus armed he rode

forth into the darkness of the mountains, where he found Falcon the

Hunter leaping from summit to summit and rousing the cavernous echoes

with his fear-compelling voice. But neither the flashing flames nor

the rolling angry accents struck terror to the heart of Ilya, for with

a quick movement he shifted his quiver, which was open at both ends,

so that the points of the darts pointed heavenwards, and from these

points streamed a blue radiance which enveloped the form of the hero

like a protecting halo.

 

Above the noise of the voice of Falcon the Hunter was heard the voice

of the heroic Ilya. "Ho there!" he cried, "Thief, dog, braggart! Why

have you passed our barrier without doing reverence to me or asking

my leave?" When the Hunter heard this challenge he turned and rode

at Ilya, and for a moment, though only for a moment, the heart of

the hero died within him. But with a tightening of the strap of

that wonderful quiver, so that even in the fight his fiery darts

should point heavenwards, he rushed into the fray. First they fought

with their maces until these snapped short at the hilt, but neither

fighter was wounded in the least. Then their swords flashed fire until

both were splintered, but still neither fighter was wounded in the

least. Next they fought with their spears until both were shattered,

and even yet neither fighter was wounded in the least. Last of all

they lighted down upon the ground and fought hand to hand.

 

All day they fought, till stormy even, till black midnight, till

the grey dawn, and so they did the second day, and likewise the

third. Then Ilya waved his right hand, and his left foot slipped

from under him. Down he fell like a stack of hay, but as he fell

he was able to move his quiver so that the fiery darts with their

streaming blue fire pointed directly heavenwards. As he lay there

Falcon the Hunter planted himself upon his breast and struck at him

with a flashing dagger of steel. But the blow fell upon the upturned

points of those wonderful darts and spent itself on the broad bosom

of moist Mother Earth.

 

"See!" cried Ilya with a grim laugh. "It was foretold of me that I

should not die in battle. Oh, brave good youth, tell me from what

horde you come and who were your parents."

 

"It is time," growled Falcon the Hunter, "that you should shave your

head and go to a monastery." At this taunt the heart of Ilya grew

hot and his blood, still youthful, boiled within him. With a mighty

blow of his fist he struck Falcon on his black breast, hurling him

skywards, though not so high as the heavy clouds which lowered above

the heroic fight. When the Hunter fell once more, Ilya sprang to his

nimble feet and sat in his turn upon the breast of his enemy.

 

"Tell me now, good youth," he said, "the name of thy land, thy horde,

and thy father."

 

"When I sat upon thy breast," growled Falcon the Hunter, "I did not

enquire of thee thy land, thy horde, and thy parentage, for these

things concern not me, the enemy of all mankind. And if I sat upon it

again I would pierce your bosom, pluck out your heart and examine it in

mere curiosity, and then scatter the fragments of your white body over

the plain, to be torn by the grey wolf and picked by the black crows."

 

Then Ilya asked his enemy no more questions but drew forth his shining

dagger of steel; and at the sight of this gleaming weapon the heart

of Falcon the Hunter sank within his breast and he gave the answer

required of him:

 

"I come from far across the sea, from the palace of grey stone where

the sun has no power to enter, and my mother was the warrior-queen

Zlatigorka. The name of my father I do not know. When I left the palace

of grey stone my mother, who now is gentle, told me to meet Ilya of

Murom the Old Cossáck if I could, and having met him to dismount from

my horse and do reverence to him, touching my forehead upon the bosom

of moist Mother Earth."

 

Then the fierce eyes of Ilya grew soft with compassion, and his mind

went back to the far-off day when he crossed the deep-blue sea in the

strength of his manhood to see the palace of grey stone and to talk

with the warrior-queen who ruled there; for he had vowed that he would

win the love of that brave Princess and take her as his bride. Now,

being a hero, and the maiden a right worthy mate for him, he could

not hope, nor would he care, to win the Princess except he had first

proved that he was stronger than she; and for a long time the two had

striven day after day until at times their hearts were sick of the

eternal conflict, yet neither could bring it to an end. Then at last

the warrior-queen had weakened and had yielded, and had found more

joy in yielding than in conquest; and Ilya had given her his golden

ring set with a ruby red as a flaming heart, while she had given him

a wondrous cross of gold to wear upon his heroic breast; and the two

had lived in the palace of grey stone until a son was born to them and

the fighting queen had forgotten her weapons and her warrior strength

in her motherhood. Then Ilya had been called away on one of his many

quests, and the boy had grown up without his heroic guidance--to become

a scourge to his gentle mother and to all mankind. And as he thought

on these matters, the heart of Ilya was saddened beyond measure,

and stooping over Falcon the Hunter he took him by his white hands,

kissed his lips and called him his son, weeping greatly as he looked

upon him. Then raising his hands he blessed him and said:

 

"Ride, my son, to the margin of the waters, and then cross the grey

sea until you come to the palace of grey stone and to your lady mother

who lives only in her memories. Greet her lovingly from me, and say

that Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck keeps her ever in his golden heart."

 

Then Falcon the Hunter rose to his feet and prepared to do his father's

bidding. But when he came to the porch of the palace of grey stone

these were the words he uttered:

 

"Ho, there, bold and evil woman! Come forth! Was it indeed the son

of a peasant whom you gave me for a father?"

 

Then his mother came out upon the porch, and though her face was grey

with double grief and she stooped as if she needed the strong arm of

a brave man about her shoulders, the undutiful son struck at her with

his flashing sword and she fell dead upon the pavement.

 

Even this piteous sight did not touch the cold and fiery heart of

Falcon the Hunter, who shouted out so that the walls of the palace

of grey stone rang again, "I go now to give the old peasant, Ilya of

Murom, to speedy death." Thereupon he crossed the grey sea over which

the angry clouds were lowering, mounted his charger, and rode quickly

towards the fair white linen pavilion of Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck.

 

Lifting the curtain of the tent, he found his father sleeping and

hurled a burning shaft at him; but it struck the wondrous cross of

gleaming gold which Ilya wore upon his heroic breast and glanced

harmlessly aside, though the mighty blow roused the hero from his

slumber. He leapt from his couch, seized his undutiful son by his

yellow curls, and laid him lifeless upon the plain. So Ilya of Murom

the Old Cossáck freed the people of Holy Russia from their fear of Falcon the Hunter, the enemy of all mankind.