The Russian Story Book 21

The Russian Story Book 21

"Ah, ho! Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck," cried the pestilent leader

of the Golden Horde. "How could you hope, you old dog, to prevail

against my mighty host?" Then to his guards he said, "Unfetter his

swift feet and unbind his strong white hands." This was done at once,

and then Tsar Kalin said in a voice of honey:

 

"Now sit down at my table, Ilya of Murom. Eat of my food and drink

of my mead, put on an embroidered robe, and marry my daughter. Serve

Prince Vladimir no longer but be vassal to me."

 

Then Ilya's eyes flashed fire like the fire of Falcon the Hunter,

whose father he was. "If I had by me my good sword," he said, "thou

dog, Kalin the Tsar, it should woo thy neck. I will do none of these

things, for my duty is to fight for the Christian temples which

my darts have protected even against my own son Falcon the Hunter,

for Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraxia and the city of Kiev."

 

Then Ilya raised his eyes and listened and a voice sounded in his

ears, "Lift up thy hands, Ilya." He raised them heavenward and into

his heroic arms came the strength of twenty heroes; and in that

strength he fell upon Tsar Kalin and laid his lifeless body upon

the floor of the fair pavilion. Snatching up the monarch's sword he

ran from the pavilion to turn it against his host, and company after

company fell before him until his sword edge turned and the weapon

was useless. Then he flung it aside in impatience, and picking up

a Tatar by the ankles he used him as a club with which he cleared a

path through the host of astonished warriors. "It is a stout club,

this of mine," he cried grimly as he dealt blows to right and left;

"and it has a hard end to it with which to crack infidel pates."

 

At last he won his way to the edge of the host, where he flung his

human club from him with a last great effort, and seizing the horn

which hung at his side he sounded a mighty blast; for the heroic

efforts he had made had dimmed the clearness of his eyes, so that he

could not distinguish either the white day or the black night. From

far away Cloudfall heard the sound of that familiar horn and in two

heroic leaps was once more at his master's side. In a trice Ilya had

mounted him and then he rode away to a lofty mountain upon the summit

of which he stood and, raising his hand to his brow, gazed far away

to the eastward. There he saw again the white pavilion of the heroes

and the horses feeding on the fine wheat which was strewn for them. "I

will send them a swift messenger," said Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck.

 

As he fitted a fiery dart to his stout bow, Ilya conjured it saying,

"Fly, little dart, to yonder pavilion. Tear through the roof and pierce

the white breast of my brother-in-arms, Samson, that glorious hero

of Holy Russia, and make a small scratch--not a wound which you would

bestow upon one of the Golden Horde,--for the hero Samson sleepeth and

taketh his ease while I stand here alone and have need of his help."

 

The shaft made a stream of blue light through the air, and reaching

the pavilion tore a flaming path through the roof, but too quickly

for the linen to catch fire, and made a small scratch upon the white

breast of Samson, rousing him from his heavy sleep. He opened his eyes,

gazed upwards, and saw the rent in the roof of the pavilion. Then he

was aware of a slight discomfort on his breast, looked down, saw the

scratch, and leapt lightly to his nimble feet.

 

"Ho, there," he cried aloud, "ye mighty heroes of Holy Russia, saddle

your good steeds without delay and mount with speed. A message of

distress has come from my brother-in-arms, and had it not been for

the cross upon my breast it would have honoured me with a wound fit

only for one of the Golden Horde."

 

Roused at last the heroes took their chargers from the scattered wheat,

saddled them and rode them towards Kiev town; and Ilya noting this

from his point of vantage came down from the mountain to join his

twelve brethren, and in a long line of strength and swiftness the

thirteen heroes rode against the Golden Horde.

 

For the space of five hours they mowed down young and old, and they

left at the end of that heroic period not so many as one single soul to

continue the accursed race. Flushed with victory and self-confidence,

they came together in one place, and all except Ilya began to boast

and to say, "If there were steps raised up to Heaven we would climb

them and wage war against the sacred hosts."

 

As these impious words were spoken there happened a wonder of

wonders. For the Tatars rose up from the field of the slain, and where

there had been one man there were now three, and they all stood up

strong and well upon their feet; and if Ilya had not accounted for

Tsar Kalin their advance upon Kiev town would have been sudden and

overwhelming; but they turned hither and thither like the sands of

the desert, having no leader.

 

Now as the heroes saw them rise, man after man, three in place of

one, they rubbed their eyes in wonder, and the impious words which

they had spoken dazzled their sense and confused their wits, so that

they turned their arms against each other and fought with the fury of

sundered friends. But Ilya took no part in that unnatural fight. Sadly

and dazedly he watched until the twelve lay dead upon the plain. Then

he slowly turned his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall and rode towards a

mountain cave which no man has ever seen or shall see till the end

of Holy Russia; and sitting in that cavern with his sword across his

knees he slowly turned to stone. Cloudfall also became a lifeless

statue, and there the two heroic friends sit on, waiting, waiting,

waiting for the touch of life which will come when Holy Russia is in

direst need and calls aloud in distress for the courage and skill,

the patience and the fiery valour of Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHIRLWIND THE WHISTLER,

OR

THE KINGDOMS OF COPPER, SILVER, AND GOLD

 

 

In a certain kingdom in a certain land known to all of us lived the

Great White Tsar and his wife Golden Tress, who was so beautiful

that twice each day she caused the sun to blush a rosy red, once in

the morning as he rose across the steppe, and once in the evening

as he bade farewell to the white world; but for the rest of the day

he asserted his kingship even over Golden Tress, and looked at her

boldly and whenever he wished.

 

Now the Great White Tsar and his Tsaritza, Golden Tress, had three

sons, Peter, Vasily, and Ivan, and one great enemy, Whirlwind the

Whistler, whom he feared greatly, because this impetuous foe had

vowed with a shriek and a howl to come at sunset and whirl away Golden

Tress from the palace of the Little Father.

 

One evening Golden Tress went out with a company of maidens and nurses

to walk in the gardens of the palace, and Whirlwind saw his chance. He

rushed down upon the palace garden, blinding the eyes of all so that

they could not see what tricks he was playing; and when the maidens and

nurses opened their eyes they saw nothing at all and heard nothing at

all except a far-off call of distress and a shriek of spiteful fury;

for Whirlwind the Whistler had carried away Golden Tress to his den

among the fastnesses of the mountains, while the trees bowed in fear

before him as he took his way across the open steppe.

 

The Great White Tsar was now in deep distress, and knew not what to

do. Years went by and still he knew not what to do, but one day it

occurred to him to ask the help of his sons, who were now grown into

fine young men. "My dear boys," he said, "which of you will go and

seek Golden Tress?" "We will go, and at once, father," said the two

elder brothers, and without delay they set out upon their quest.

 

When they had been gone for some time the youngest son, Ivan, said to

his father, "Let me go also, my father, to seek Golden Tress." "No,"

said the Tsar, "for you are all I have in the white world." "Do let me

go also," said Ivan, "for I long to wander over the white world and

seek my mother." The father did his best to persuade his boy to stay

with him, for he was now very lonely, but when he saw that Ivan could

no longer rest at home he yielded to his entreaties, saying to him,

"Well, there is no help for it; go, and may the God of Holy Russia

be good to you."

 

Ivan without delay saddled his good steed, entered the audience chamber

of his father, bowed to North, South, East, and West, and particularly

to the Great White Tsar, mounted his horse and rode on and ever onward

across the steppe, whether it was long or short. By and by he came

to a forest in the heart of which stood a lordly castle protected

from the keen winds by a ring of encircling pines. Ivan rode into the

broad courtyard, where he met an old man and greeted him kindly with

the words, "Many years and years of health to you." "Who are you,

goodly youth?" asked the old man, and Ivan said quietly and proudly,

"I am Ivan Tsarevich, son of the Great White Tsar and his Tsaritza,

Golden Tress." "Oh, my very, very own nephew," said the old man;

"and whither is God leading you?"

 

"I am in search of my mother, Golden Tress," said Ivan. "Can you tell

me, uncle, where she may be found?"

 

"No, nephew, I cannot," returned the old man, "and that to my sorrow

and discomfiture. But what I am able to do I will do willingly. Here

is a ball. Throw it before you as you ride. It will roll onward and

lead you to a range of steep rugged mountains. In the side of this

range of mountains you will find a cave which you must enter, and

having entered you will find within a pair of iron claws."

 

"Take these iron claws," the old man went on, "and place them upon

your hands and your feet. This will enable you to climb up the steep

face of the mountain, and having done so, perhaps you will find there

your mother, Golden Tress."

 

This was good advice so far as Ivan was able to judge, so he took

the ball in his hand, thanked his uncle courteously, and, starting

his horse on the path which led through the pine forest, threw the

ball before him. Onward and ever onward it rolled, but it seemed

something more than a mere ball, for occasionally it came to a parting

of the ways and then appeared to pause for a moment and consider. Then

onward and ever onward it rolled, while Ivan rode behind it until he

came out at last upon an open plain where a great horde was encamped;

and in the midst of the horde stood a fair pavilion of white linen

embroidered with gold. The ball made a path through the ranks of the

men-at-arms, who stood nimbly aside to let it pass, until it rested,

but impatiently rested, by the opening of the pavilion, near which two stout chargers were feeding on wheat of the finest which was scattered thickly for their sustenance and comfort.