“Tell us, Gamayun, O prophetic bird, of Yarila, son of Rod, and of Kashchey the Deathless, son of Viy.”
“Nothing shall I conceal of all that I know…”
Enter the timeless Slavic legend of Yarila, the fiery sun-god and son of Rod, who dares to challenge Kashchey the Deathless, the immortal offspring of Viy and the Damp Earth. When Kashchey’s envy ignites a rivalry over the sacred art of sowing rye, the two gods clash in a shape-shifting chase across rivers, forests, and open fields—Hare against Wolf, wit against brute force. But the true test comes when the mighty Veles and the fearsome Buria-Yaga intervene, defeating Kashchey and binding him in iron chains within a deep cavern. This myth pulses with themes of divine jealousy, agricultural magic, and the triumph of life-giving Yarila over the sterile, death-bringing Kashchey. From plows of damask steel to rivers of boiling bones, every image burns with ancient Slavic symbolism. Perfect for enthusiasts of world mythology, epic poetry, and tales of gods and monsters. Immerse yourself in a battle where the fate of the harvest—and the light of the Red Sun—hangs in the balance.
The Red Sun had set—sunk behind the lofty mountains, vanished beyond the dense forests, drowned beneath the splashing seas. Then did the threatening clouds gather, the birds scatter across the heavens, the beasts flee through the woodlands, and the fish disperse through the deep. And in that hour, Mother Damp Earth gave birth to a god both mighty and treacherous—Kashchey the Deathless, offspring of Viy.
In a chariot yoked to fiery dragons, Kashchey flew across the land. He gazed upon the birds—and they fell silent in the forests. He swept over the grass—and it withered and died. He looked upon the cattle—and they dropped where they stood. He turned his eye to the trees—and they cracked and rotted. He soared above the blue sea, above the steep mountains, and descended into the open field. And there Kashchey beheld a plowman.
The plowman toiled in the field, urging his horse onward. His plow creaked and groaned, its share scraping against the stones. He wrenched out stumps and roots, and tumbled the boulders into the furrows. His mare was of a dun color, her tail sweeping the very earth, her mane curling like coils of silk. The plowman’s harness was of woven silk, his plow of maple wood, its shares of damask steel, its coulter of gleaming silver, and its handles wrought of red gold.
The plowman’s curls swayed like waves, scattering like threaded pearls. His eyes were bright as a falcon’s, his brows dark as sable. His boots were of green morocco, with sharp toes and heels so fine that a sparrow might fly beneath the sole, and an egg roll past the tip. His hat was of downy felt, his caftan of black velvet.
And Kashchey spoke to the plowman:
“Rod’s blessing upon you, good plowman, as you till the furrows!”
The plowman answered him:
“May heavenly Rod aid us both! But tell me, mighty god, by what name are you called? And where does your path lead across this open field?”
Kashchey replied with these words:
“I am the son of Earth and of Viy who dwells below. Men name me variously: some call me Kashchey the Deathless, others Kashchey the Trembler. I ride by my mother’s command to collect tribute and toll from the lands. But you, O plowman—come, ride with me as my companion!”
Then the plowman loosened the harness from his plow, unyoked his mare from the implement. He left the maple plow behind, mounted his horse, and they rode together across the open field.
The plowman spoke again:
“O Kashchey, son of Viy! I have left my plow in the furrow. I must pull it from the damp earth and shake the soil from its share, then cast it behind the willow bush.”
Kashchey rode to that plow in the open field. He tried to lift it with one hand—but the plow would not stir, nor budge from the Damp Earth. He grasped it with both hands—yet still could not wrench it free. He twisted it by the shafts, but could not raise it from the soil. Then the plowman rode up. He took his plow with one hand and flung it behind the willow bush.
They rode on across the open field. The plowman cracked his whip—and his mare danced beneath him. She moved at a trot, and Kashchey could scarcely keep pace. When the plowman approached the green meadows, the grasses rose tall and lush. When he drew near the orchards, the trees burst into blossom, and the songbirds raised their voices in chorus.
Then Kashchey spoke to the plowman:
“Tell me, good plowman—by what name are you known?”
The plowman answered:
“O Kashchey, son of Viy! When I sow the rye and gather the harvest, when I stack the sheaves and bring them home, when I thresh the grain and beat it stoutly—then I brew a potent ale. I summon my guests with all haste—they come and feast and drink, and as I set the ale upon the table, they raise their voices in praise:
‘Hail to you, Yarila, son of heavenly Rod! Hail to your health, O Yarila!'”
Then Kashchey grew envious of the plowman and spoke these words:
“I too would sow rye in the open field, and gather it, and thresh it, and make malt, and brew foaming ale! But there is no room for us both upon the Damp Earth! Help me, O Mother Earth! Aid me, O Viy! You were Yarila, son of Rod—now become a beast of the forest—become a grey hare!”
Yarila transformed into a Hare, and Kashchey into a Wolf. The Wolf gave chase, leaping after the Hare. The Hare bounded over the hills, and the Wolf barely kept pace. They raced to the river Smorodina, to the bridge of viburnum wood. The grey Hare leaped across the river, while the Wolf pursued him over the bridge. Along the banks of the Smorodina lay heaps of human bones, and the river’s waves boiled and seethed, churning and roaring. Suddenly the waters surged, and eagles screamed from the oaks—for there rode forth to meet Kashchey the fierce Veles with Buria-Yaga at his side.
“Enough, Kashchey, enough of chasing Hares across the open field! Let us meet in battle on the plain! Let us test each other’s strength—and may heavenly Rod aid whom He will!”
It was no mountains that collided upon the field—it was Veles and Kashchey clashing in combat. They fought for three days and nights—on horseback and on foot. At last Kashchey’s leg gave way, and he fell to the Damp Earth. Then Buria-Yaga seized him, bound him in iron chains, dragged him into the deep caverns, and nailed the Deathless One to the wall. She barred the entrance with bolts and secured it with locks.
“You wished to sow rye in the open field, to gather and thresh it, to make malt and brew foaming ale—but that is the work of fierce Yarila alone! Never again shall you see the white light, nor the Red Sun!”
Then Viy’s daughter transformed Yarilushka once more, from a Hare back into a mighty god:
“Where the grey Hare was—let Yarila rise! Let the green oak stand before me, and Yarila stand behind me!”
And at her word, it was so.
Thus ends the tale of Yarila and Kashchey, as sung by the prophetic bird Gamayun.