Byliny, Tales of Old Vistina

[Faolan Doyle]

THE TALE OF ZANISKA AND MOROZKA
From the chronicles of Brother Teodor



Many years ago in the lands beyond the Dvina there lived a noble boyar and his wife who were much saddened by their lack of children. The good wife urged her husband to cast her off and seek a wife who could give him a son, but he would not, for he loved his wife dearly. One day there came to their land the great bogatir Brencis, hunting with his companions. He stopped at the house of the boyar and asked for water. The couple feasted him and his band royally, glad to offer comfort to such a hero. When Brencis asked what he might do to thank them for their kindness, the good people sighed and said that there was nothing - for they lacked nothing in this life but a child to make them happy, and only God could give them that. Brencis smiled, for he had the gift of prophesy, and said: ‘Good people, be cheerful, for within a year I shall return and you will show me your son.’ Then he rode away. The boyar and his wife were much amazed, and more so when in nine months the wife brought forth a baby boy. But though his face was fair and his skin white as milk, the child was sickly and his limbs twisted, and they so feared that he would die that they gave him the last rites upon his naming day. And the name they gave him was Zaniska.

On that same night there came back to their house the bogatir Brencis, riding with his war band. He asked to be shown the child and they said, ‘Alas, mighty lord, you were right that we would have a son, but he will not live to ride to battle, for he is sickly and like to die this very night.’ Brencis said nothing, but took the baby in his lap and gave it suck at his nipple. At once his limbs grew straight as arrows, and he grew so strong that when he reached and tugged the hair of his wet-nurse, she fell on the floor. And all were amazed. But Brencis gave the child to the nurse and said, ‘I shall return in seven years to see how the young hero fares.’

Now Zaniska grew faster than any other child, and was as tall and handsome a boy as ever walked. His hair was gold, his cheeks cherries, his eyes blue sapphires. He outran all the other boys, and was as bold as a wolf in winter, fearing no thing. His parents were proud of their boy indeed. On the seventh anniversary of his naming Brencis the Mighty returned with all his band, and the boy raced them and their horses all the way to his parents’ house. Then Brencis laughed and lifted the boy to him, giving him suck again and saying, ‘’This shall be a mightier bogatir than I. In seven years shall I come again, and you shall join my band.’ The mother wept and said, ‘Shall I then lose my child?’ But the father was proud, and hushed her, saying, ‘You shall, as every mother must, for then he will be a man.’

Seven more years Zaniska the Bold bloomed like the rose in the lands beyond the Dvina, and no evildoer dared raise his head in that place, for the fearless youth would ride upon them with his flashing sword and cut them down. In his fourteenth year he was tall as a birch tree, broad as an ox, and beautiful as the day. Then Brencis came with his war band and the mother wept bitterly, for she must part with her son. But Zaniska sang as he came to the bogatir to receive the milk of heroes once more, and his father brought to him a noble steed, the finest horse ever bred in their house, that he might not be shamed in that company. His mother set upon him fine armour, and buckled on his sword belt, and he knelt for his parents’ blessing before departing.

Now the company of Brencis rode east, to give battle to their foes wherever they might dwell, and Zaniska rode with them. Great were his feats of strength and courage, and many the heads he bore at his saddlebow before the band returned to the land by the Neva where Brencis had his domain. And there they found a band of warriors from the north, putting all to the fire and sword. And with them ran great wolves as big as bears, and men with the heads of animals, and there was evil sorcery. But Brencis and his men were not afraid, and they gave battle to the monstrous foe with good heart, and were victorious. But in the battle Zaniska was mortally wounded, for there were four of the enemy set upon him at once, and they were beasts of dreadful might. Then Brencis lifted the brave hero on the battlefield and kissed him, saying, ‘Death shall not take you yet; Zaniska shall be of my knight companions, dear as mine own sons.’ And they took the wounded hero to a cave beneath the sea, and laid him on a table of stone. There he lay for three days and three nights, still as one dead, and no-one save Brencis himself was permitted to approach. Then on the third night Zaniska sat up on the table and asked for food, and Brencis gave him to drink, and led him forth.

Now Brencis was summoned to battle by the great Emperor of the Eastern Romanes, for the Emperor’s city was under attack by wicked sorcerers, and Brencis was vassal to the ruler. But he would not leave his lands undefended, for fear the northmen should return and lay waste to all. Therefore he called his band to him and divided it, leaving the youngest men behind to guard the homeland. And over these he set Zaniska as captain. Then Zaniska was full of sorrow, for he thought that Brencis did not think him warrior enough to go with him. But Brencis the Mighty comforted him, saying, ‘You are the finest of all my warriors, else I should not leave all I hold dearest in your hands. Keep my domain for me till I return.’ And Zaniska swore that he would hold that land until his dying breath. But Brencis was slain in the eastern lands by foul sorcery, and did not return.

Zaniska, knowing nothing of his lord’s fate, ruled the land that was Brencis’ wisely over many, many years, and soon the fortress Brencis built became a rich town. And people came to live there, for it was good. But Zaniska took no wife and fathered no sons, for they might ask the rule of the land from him in time, and it was not his to give. When the followers of Christ came, led by the blessed Saint Varvara of the Birches, the bogatir Zaniska gave them land to build a community, and leave to build a church within the town, and offered them all courtesy. For he was a man of noble spirit and good heart. To thank him for this kindness the holy saint gave him a warning she had received in a vision from God. In the south there was a band of evil outlaws, vagabonds and demon-worshippers, practisers of every kind of foulness, led by one they called Morozka - the Frost Demon. This name he earned by the coldness of his black heart. Morozka could summon vile monsters from the very pits of hell, and tear men’s very souls apart with his arts. His boots were made of the flayed skins of infants, and his cloak from their mothers’ hair. Now God gave the holy Varvara warning that this creature and his band, lured by word of Vistina’s riches, were coming to sack and burn the town.

Now Zaniska was not afraid of this monster and his men, for he was bold and cunning. With the forewarning given by the blessed maiden, he laid traps and pits for the wicked ones, and when Morozka and his band came creeping through the forests, many and many of them fell to sharpened stakes and pits of fire. Then Zaniska and his men rode forth to slay the evildoers with sword and axe. But Morozka was wily, and had not fallen into the traps. With his lover, a succubus from hell who danced naked in the blood of babies, he used magics to deceive Zaniska’s warriors, and lured them into their own traps. More he drove mad with his vile arts, until the bogatir stood alone in the forests. The wicked ones hemmed him in on every side. Then Zaniska called out a challenge to the foul Morozka. ‘If you are not a coward, then stand and fight me!’ But the sinner laughed, saying, ‘Why should I, when I can call a dragon forth to slay you?’ And the earth parted, and there came forth the head of a great serpent of ancient malice. But Zaniska stood his ground, calling, ‘Then you are afraid of me! I am not afraid of you. I will wager you, sorcerer, that my will is stronger than your magic.’ Then Morozka and his lover grew intrigued, and came closer, saying, ‘What wager?’ ‘Come.’ said Zaniska, laying down his great sword. ‘I will face you with no weapon, and no armour. Eye to eye and will to will we stand, till one of us bows the knee to the other, or flees. Whichever loses shall submit as vassal to the victor, and obey them.’ Now Morozka grew wary and would have refused, but his demon lover urged him on, saying, ‘Come! It is only a fool of a warrior, and you are a mighty warlock. Defeat him, and we shall make him a servant of Hell.’ Therefore the evil one assented.

Then the two adversaries faced each other in a ring of trees: Zaniska the fair, pure-hearted and brave, with the blessed Varvara at his back to see fair contest; and Morozka the dark, cunning and ruthless, with his wicked concubine for his witness. Then strove they in a mighty contest of wills, heart against heart, spirit contending with spirit. And bold Zaniska learned the meaning of fear then, for Morozka reached into the hero’s heart and drew out that which he loved, and made it black and filthy to him, so that he was like to go mad. But the blessed Varvara prayed God to strengthen Zaniska, and so He did, and his mighty will bore down upon the wicked one till he lay grovelling upon the earth, and he submitted. Then the demoness would have killed both Zaniska and her lover in her spite, ordering the outlaws to shoot them with arrows. But the holy Varvara sprang forward and raised her arms, commanding the evil thing to be gone. The light of God shone from her and the evil ones fled in terror, leaving their leader at Zaniska’s feet. Zaniska would have slain him, but Varvara pleaded for mercy, for the warlock had never heard the word of God before, and was as a child before the power of Christ. Therefore Zaniska took him for a vassal, and gave him to Varvara, who gave him a new name: and she named him for Gavril, that is the angel which is God’s messenger. And from thence forward the wicked Morozka became a good and pious man. And when God called the holy Varvara to him, Gavril took her place at Zaniska’s side, even unto the day of their ending.

And this was the manner of their departing from the world. Zaniska had waited in vain for the return of Brencis for more years than men may count, and was grown very tired and sorrowful. And he said to Gavril, who was his close counsellor, ‘Behold, I am very weary, and would rest. Let us go hence and lay us down to sleep for a while.’ And Gavril said no word, but bowed his head. Then Zaniska led Gavril to the cave beneath the sea, and there they two lay down upon the table of stone, and slept: and never more were they seen upon the earth. . . …

[Faolan Doyle]

THE TALE OF PRINCE DENIS

From the chronicles of Brother Teodor

It was a cruel year; the autumn was rainy, and the crops rotted in the field, and the water in all the rivers was very high, and carried away the houses and bridges all along them. And it stayed warm until the very solstice of winter: but then it grew cold, and the ice was thick and hard. And there was no food in the towns and villages. The people ate lime leaves and birch bark, buttercups, moss, and even wood pulp, which they ground with the empty husks and ate. And the corpses of those who died of starvation lay in the roads, the marketplace and even in the cloisters of the churches, for there was no-one left capable of carrying them away to burn (for the ground was too hard to bury them). Parents gave their children to merchants to sell in other lands, even killing their own children to spare them this dreadful death. And many fled to other lands, preferring even enslavement by the Tatar or the Bulgar to the slow death of famine. And hearing of the troubles of the Rus, the wicked Chud came down upon them with great malice, bearing away the people who were too weak to fight. And they looted the houses of the living and the dead, and burned what remained.

Then Prince Svyatoslav Vladimirovich, great and wise ruler of Novgorod, having had word of this terrible blight, called to him the Voivode Denis Petrovich Kurbsky, who was a noble and valiant commander: saying, ‘Go to the westernmost lands of our princedom with your troops, and save our people from the cruelty of the Chud. And take also food, that the sufferings of our loyal folk shall be relieved.’ Gladly then did the noble Voivode gather his men, and order carts filled with food, and with good heart rode forth to give battle to the wicked foe.

When Denis Petrovich and his warriors came to the lands beyond the Neva, terrible was the sight they saw. Bodies lay unburied in the fields and on the roads, crows pecking at their withered flesh, and no living thing to meet them, for all had either been taken, slain, or had fled. There were few places where any building still stood to offer shelter, nor any sign of man save ash and ruin. And the Voivode’s men spoke to him, saying ‘There is no-one alive and even the Chud had fled this land of death; let us return to Novgorod.’ But Denis Petrovich was wise and stout-hearted, and refused, saying ‘Let half of you remain to guard the carts and keep watch for the Chud. The rest shall go into the forests with me, and seek out those who live, for surely that is where they hide.’ And his men were afraid, for the forests were deep and dark, and haunted by both wolves and other things of darker name. But when they saw their own commander ride boldly among the trees, they were ashamed, and followed him.

So dark was it among the trees that the Voivode had torches lit, having no fear of firing the woods, for the rime was so thick on the branches that they would not burn. And the wise bogatir ordered his men to sing aloud, both hymns and the peasant songs of the Rus, that they should be less afraid, and that any survivors in hiding should hear their voices and know them for friends. But the woods swallowed up their voices, and they fell silent, and no-one came. But far away they heard the singing of the wolves. Then in fear some of the Novgorodians slipped away, back to their comrades on the road, preferring to face punishment for desertion rather than the black and hungry forest. But Denis Petrovich would not be deterred, and went on, though now the trees were so dense that he might not ride, but must lead his horse. Then his most loyal servant, his own slave Timofey, went on his knees to the brave Voivode and begged him to turn back, saying ‘Batyusha, this is a place of evil, and if any of the Rus came this way, they are surely dead. Let us go back to the road, for the devil lives in these words.’

Then Denis Petrovich was angered, and struck the slave. ‘Go, then!’ he cried out in his rage. ‘All of you, back to the carts like the womanly curs you are. Take the carts on to the port at Vistina, and I shall come to you there with those I find.’ And no persuasion from Timofey or his other followers could turn him from his course. Indeed, they thought that they would never see him again in this world. Therefore Timofey, though fear tormented him sorely, would not go back himself, but stayed with his master, and would not be persuaded. The rest left the brave Voivode and his slave, hurrying back through the forest till they saw the sunlight beyond.

Now Vistina indeed still stood, for though many of the people had died, there were those living there who were both courageous and clever, and they had travelled across the ice with sleds, reaching the lands of the Norse and trading for food, though high was the price. So that the Chud had found the town both fortified and defended, and had been forced to lay it siege. Then the Novgorodians came down upon the heathens with great force, slaying most of them, and driving the rest into the forest in disarray. And the people of Vistina came out weeping with joy to welcome their saviours, the more so when they saw the carts of food. And there was great rejoicing and celebration in the town. But the feasting was blighted by terrible sounds from the woods that night - the howling of wolves, and shrieking and screaming as of men in dire torment. And the people, both the townsfolk and the Novgorodian soldiery, lay down to sleep in the church of Saint Vasil, fearing greatly.

But in the morning all was quiet, and the sun came to warm them as he had not for many months; and the ice began slowly to thaw, so that all rejoiced for the coming of spring. Then were the Novgorodians amazed, for from the forest came Voivode Denis Petrovich, alive and well, leading his horse. And upon the horse was set a beautiful young maiden, whose black hair hung down below her waist all unbraided. She wore the fine clothing of a noble lady, and many beautiful jewels about her neck. Behind them came many folks, peasants and serfs, townsfolk and villagers, all ragged and weary but whole and alive. And they all spoke with awe and love of the Voivode. For they said they had all been scattered and lost in the woods, and afraid for their lives, the more so when the fleeing Chud came into their hiding place. Then the mighty bogatir had come riding among the trees with sword drawn, and behind him a host of riders in strange armour, their silvered swords flashing in the moonlight. Behind them came archers, also armoured, so that their faces might not be seen. And these warriors slew many of the Chud and bore the rest away, and did not return. And whence the screaming came, or what it might mean, they knew not, or else would not speak. But Denis Petrovich returned with the lovely maiden, who sang a song of joy and hope, so that they all heard and came to her, and the Voivode and his companion led them home.

All were made welcome in Vistina, and the Novgorodians greeted their commander in great shame. But he only smiled and forgave them, for they had wiped the stain from themselves, he said, when they broke the siege and sent the barbarians flying. For himself, he had met with a company of travellers from a far land, going on crusade; and when they heard of the blight of the Chud on this realm, they gladly gave their aid. And among them had been the fair lady Ysolde, a princess of their folk. On seeing her, he had lost his heart, and seeing that his love was requited, they had been wed that night by the custom of her folk. Of Timofey he said naught save that the slave had given his life bravely for his master’s sake.

When the Prince Svyatoslav heard the tale, he was pleased to grant Vistina the rights and privileges of a city as reward for the courage and wisdom of its people; and for his dauntless heroism and determination, he gave to Denis Petrovich the title Prince, and the rule of Vistina as his vassal. And all were well pleased. The Princess Ysolde gave her husband two strong sons, Kyrill and Pavel, and was well loved by the people for her beauty and wisdom. But alas, in her third childbed she died, and the child also. Prince Denis continues to rule Vistina, defending it bravely from all comers, and greatly has it prospered. But in truthfulness I must record also this: that there are those who say the Princess Ysolde was not of human blood, but was a rusalka or some such, for she never set foot in any church while she lived. It was claimed she was of the Catholic faith, and practised her rites in private; of that I cannot say, though I never heard of any priest attending her. It is true that her sons were not baptised by any priest of Vistina, but by one Father Euxinus, supposed to have come from Novgorod at the Prince’s request. It is also said that the Prince made a bargain that night to purchase the aid of unclean powers, that not only might he defeat the Chud and retrieve the lost Rus, but even that the curse of winter might be lifted, and fertility returned to the land. This I deny, for only the true God has such power. But this is said, that the price he paid was not only the lives of the Chud prisoners, but of his loyal slave Timofey. There are even those who whisper that his third child did not die, but that the Princess returned to her own folk with it, for it looked too much like her kin to pass among men. I do not say any of this is true, only that it is said. But true it is that the Princess was not given burial in Vistina, for the Prince returned her to her own folk, it is said…

[Faolan Doyle]

OF THE WANDERING JEW AND OTHERS

from the campfire tales of Lazar Ferenczy.

Everybody knows how Our Lord was baited by the Jew Ahasuerus on his way to Golgotha, and how He cursed the Jew to walk the earth, immortal, never resting, 'until I come again'. But did you know that Ahasuerus was not the only one Christ made immortal? Let me tell you about it.

When He walked in the Holy Land and worked his miracles, Our Lord raised two people from the dead. One was a Roman centurion's daughter, and the other was the brother of Martha and Mary, the rich ladies who paid for the Last Supper. Now, after Christ was crucified and rose again from the tomb, He came back to Earth and called others to follow Him, spreading His word across the lands so that everyone could hear the truth and have their chance at salvation. We all know how Peter followed, and Paul, and many more beside; followed, and testified, and died as holy martyrs and rose up to join Him in Heaven. Now among those Jesus called were the ones he had raised from the dead. And he said to the girl, 'Will you carry my word to your people the Romans? They will make you suffer, and die, but you will be resurrected with me in Heaven.' And the child gladly agreed, and she preached Christ among the Romans, and they martyred her, and she is the blessed Saint Varvara in Heaven, and sits with His Holy Mother. But when He asked the young man, the youth was afraid. And he said, 'Lord, I thank you for your gift of life, but I have been once in the arms of Death, and I am in no hurry to return there. Ask me again when I have lived a long time, and ave nothing undone to regret, and I will come.' Then Christ shook His head in sorrow. And because the young man had rejected Him, He laid the curse upon him that had been placed upon Ahasuerus - that he should always walk the Earth, never aging, never changing, never looking on the light of the sun until he was released. But because he had acted from fear, and not malice, his curse was lightened this way; once every hundred years he was permitted to sleep for a hundred years, as if one truly dead, and so the long centuries might pass more swiftly. And he would not remember who he was, nor why he walked, but only that he must spread the word of Jesus wherever he went, until the day he was freed from his curse by the reaching out of the hand that drew him from the tomb, and by the blessed voice saying to him once more - 'Lazarus, come forth!'

[Faolan Doyle]

THE TALE OF SAINT LAVRENTY AND THE WITCH

from the campfire tales of Lazar Ferenczy

Everyone knows of the blessed Saint Lavrenty Pavlovich, warrior of Christ and patron of taverns and drinkers. But once he was a man, who lived in the town of Vistina and served as priest in the church of St Kyrill. Yet even then his piety was so great that he could work miracles, healing the sick and bringing back sinners from damnation. Now, the lords of Hell soon realised that Father Lavrenty was a worker of wonders and beloved of heaven, and that he was carrying many souls to God that would otherwise have been reaped by them. And they decided they must bring him down; either he must be drawn into sin, or killed. So Satan called on a certain witch who lived just beyond the walls of Vistina, and said to her, ‘Smirch or slay me this Lavrenty, and you shall be favoured above all others and given all you desire. But if you fail, you shall die, and be tormented worse than any other soul in hell.’ And he gave her five nights to accomplish her task.

By her wicked arts the witch then gave herself the appearance of a pretty young girl, raven-haired and bright-eyed, all dressed in green and white as fresh as springtime. Then she went in to the city to seek out Father Lavrenty. And in her pocket she carried a love philtre, meaning to give it to the holy man and seduce him, to his disgrace. In the marketplace she found him, buying bread. ‘Blessed Father,‘ she said, ‘Come and give me instruction in the gospels, for I am a foolish girl and always sinning.‘ But Father Lavrenty was not fooled. He saw the light of wickedness in her eye, and shook his head. ’Ask someone else,’ said he, ’for I am a sinner too. God forgive me, and no fit teacher for the likes of you.’ And the witch stamped her little foot and went away, but not very far, for she had not given up - not she!

And now she used her magic again, and made herself seem to be a handsome young man with golden hair, dressed in red and yellow as bright as summer. This time she took a little flask of poisoned wine, that would make the drinker run mad with thirst for blood. And with this she would make the good priest a murderer. Down by the river she found Father Lavrenty, mending his fishing nets. ’Holy father,’ said the witch, ’Come and drink with me, this rare wine from the east, to thank God for all his blessings.’ But the good father was not fooled. He saw the light of malice in the stranger’s eye, and shook his head. ’Ask someone else,’ said he, ’for I thank God by praying, not drinking.’ And the young man stamped his booted foot and went away, but not very far..

Now the witch made herself appear as a buxom, motherly lady, grey-headed and gentle; her gown was brown and gold, rich as autumn. And in her sleeve she hid a magical comb, that made the one it was used on so happily lazy that they would never stir hand or foot again, but only sit in smiling idleness until they died; she would make the tireless soldier of God into a witless sloven. Behind his house she found him, cutting wood. ‘Dear Father,’ said she, ‘How tired and unkempt you look! Rest a while and let me comb out the tangles from your hair and beard, and make you fit to appear in the house of God.’ But the holy saint was not fooled. He saw the light of cunning in the lady’s eye, and shook his head. ‘Ask someone else,’ said he, ‘for it is no shame to me to appear before God with the signs of honest work upon me.’ And the dame stamped her slippered foot and went away, but not very far..

Now at last the witch was growing angry, for the good father had evaded all her wiles. And she made herself to seem an old man, white-haired and venerable, clad in furs of grey and black, stark as winter. In her purse she carried golden coins which were so enchanted that any who handled them would be overcome by lust and greed for wealth; the pious priest would serve Mammon, not God. In the orchards she found him, tending to his bees. ‘Blessed Father,’ said she, ‘I am old and close to death, and I have not lived a good life. Take this purse, and intercede for me with God.’ But the wise cleric was not fooled. He saw the light of treachery in the boyar’s eye, and shook his head. ‘Ask someone else,’ said he, ‘for I speak with God for love, not for money.’ And the old man stamped his trembling foot and went away, but not very far..


And now the witch was truly afraid, for four nights had passed of the five she had been granted, and not a scrap of luck had she had with Father Lavrenty. In her desperation she took on the shape of a priest herself, one known to the good father. And this time she carried no talisman, for she meant to kill Father Lavrenty outright. In the Red Dog Tavern she found him, blessing the ale for the Easter celebrations. So holy were his prayers that she could not cross the threshold. So, opening the shutters, she put her head in at the window, calling to him in his friend’s voice. But when she put her head into the room, the prayers of the good Lavrenty worked against her evil magic, revealing her nature - the face of the priest’s friend was seen to stare from a black, satanic fog that writhed like snakes about the window. The people cried out in fear, but the holy saint calmed them, raising his prayers to God to drive away the evil. The witch could not abide the holy words, and pulled back her head from the window. But she did not go far, for she knew that if she failed this night Satan would come to claim her.

So she waited, hiding in the shadows, and when Father Lavrenty left the tavern, she followed him to his own church. And though the very air of the holy place was fire in her lungs, she went in to him where he knelt before the altar and called from the doorway, ‘Lavrenty, why do you flee from me? It is I, your friend Piotr! Come and drink with me.’ But the blessed saint was not fooled. Kneeling before the holy icons he shook his head. ’You are not my friend, you are a devil, and I will not drink with you. Get back to hell with you where you belong!’ Then the witch was mad with fear and rage. She flew at the good priest, tearing at him with teeth as sharp as knives and nails cruel as claws. But Father Lavrenty was strengthened by God, and he was not afraid. Snatching up the great candlestick before the icon of Saint Mikhail, he struck at the wicked sorceress, calling on the Lord to guide his hand. And where the saint’s blows fell, the witch was burned to the bone, and those bones were broken. Again and again the brave priest beat the evil creature, till at last she feared him more than she feared Satan himself. Crying out in pain and terror, she fled into the night, back to her own lair, hiding beneath her bedcovers and entreating Satan most pitifully to spare her. But she had failed her dark master, and pity had he none. All in flames he appeared before her and seized her, dragging her down to hell to endure its worst tortures for all eternity, and leaving all she possessed in ashes. And that was the end of her..

[Faolan Doyle]

THE TALE OF YELENA THE FAIR AND GREGOR THE FEARLESS

From the campfire tales of Lazar Ferenczy

So there lived in the town of Vistina a beautiful maiden, known to all as Yelena the Fair. Everybody loved her, not just because she was lovely, but also for her goodness. She was always in church, or else off taking baskets of food and medicines to the sick folk in the villages along the river. She was kind, and clever, and the man who married her would be the envy of the town. But Yelena did not marry. It wasn’t for want of suitors - an endless stream of them came traipsing to her father’s door. Young and handsome, old and wealthy, nobles, knights and scholars, Yelena the Fair turned all of them down, saying only that she was too young to wed yet. In fact, her loving parents despaired of marrying her off; they were terrified she would run off to become a nun, she was so pious.

Now there came to Vistina a nobleman, a rich boyar called Gregor. This bogatir was a foreigner from a distant land, but some said his mother had been a Rus girl taken in war. He was of age to marry, and was looking for a bride both beautiful and pure. Hearing rumours of a suitable lass in Vistina, he had come to court her. Yelena’s parents were overjoyed, for he was as handsome as an angel, tall and strong, of ancient family - and as rich as a king, to boot. But alas for their hopes! That very day that he came to their house, as Yelena had been taking linens to poor folk by the river, she had been seen by the chieftain of a tribe of goblins who were robbing and raiding in those parts. This evil spirit was smitten with the beauty of the girl on the spot. ‘Go!‘ said he to his wicked minions. ’I will make this lovely creature my bride. Kill her servants and bring her to me.’ The ugly monsters slaughtered Yelena’s poor maids and grooms, and dragged the terrified girl before their squat, yellow-skinned king. When he told her of his intentions, the maiden fainted away, and was carried off - who knew where?

When Yelena did not come home by nightfall, her mother and father grew anxious and sent servants to look for her. But no trace could they find; the goblins were cunning and had hidden their tracks. Then the bogatir Gregor took his sword in his right hand and said, ‘I will find where Yelena has gone.’ And he called his servants, and asked them, ’Which of you can help me find this maiden?’ All shook their heads except one Olaf, a very strange fellow. Some said he was a Norseman who had run wild with bears until the boyar had caught him and tamed him. Others said he was not a man at all, but himself a white bear that Gregor had tamed. Truly he was big as a bear, and covered with white hair, and never spoke, but only grunted like a bear, but the boyar Gregor could understand him. This Olaf gave his oath to his master that he could track the girl, to the ends of the earth.

So Gregor took him to the river road and the last place Yelena had been seen, and the Norseman went on all fours like a beast, running about and sniffing the ground. The goblins were cunning, but he found them all right, and up he jumps to lead the way. Off towards the great Neva he ran, following the goblin scent, and Gregor riding behind with his little pageboy. Through the woods and fields he ran, ran all night, till by the river he stops. ‘This is where they came,’ says Olaf, ‘but I can follow the scent no more - all I smell is fire and smoke and blood.’ And indeed, they could see ahead a great fire blazing in the darkness. So Gregor drew his sword and forward rode he, Olaf loping by his side with a great axe in his hand.

When they came to the water they could see buildings all afire, and boats burning in the water, and poor folk lying dead about the place. And the goblins came running at them from the darkness. Wicked little monsters they were, with sharp claws and teeth. Their scaly skins were hard as armour, and they went armed with spears and swords made of the sharpened bones of their victims. Bows they had, too, made of men’s rib-bones strung with their own sinews, firing thorn arrows tipped with deadly poison. And they were as many as flies on a corpse. But the bold bogatir was not afraid; he called on the good Lord to strengthen his arm, and rode he straight among them. And God put his hand over the noble warrior. The arrows they shot at him did not pierce him, nor their swords and spears cut him. But his sharp sword cut them down like the wheat in autumn, shearing their foul necks clean through till he was black with their tainted blood. And alongside him the great bear Olaf, roaring and snarling, swinging his mighty axe and cleaving their twisted bodies in half with every stroke. Nothing could stop the heroes from reaching the river and the goblin ship. But alas! As they came in sight of the Neva, they saw the black ship was already sailing out in the middle of the water, too far out to reach. Gregor saw the goblin chieftain standing on the deck with the fair maiden fainting at his feet, chains about her poor wrists, and his heart was torn in two with love for the beautiful Yelena and hatred for the creature that had taken her. Then the brave bogatir swore an oath upon his sword, that he would rescue the fair Yelena and slay the foul beast that held her captive, no matter how far or long he must travel, or else die in the attempt. And many an adventure befell him on that quest, as you shall soon learn..