In the ancient days of old, beneath the city of Murom, in the village of Karacharovo, there lived a peasant named Ivan Timofeevich and his wife Efrosinya Yakovlevna. They had one son, Ilya. His father and mother loved him dearly, but they wept whenever they looked upon him: for thirty years Ilya had lain upon the stove, unable to move hand or foot. He was tall as a hero, bright of mind, and keen of eye—but his legs would not carry him; they lay like dead logs beneath him.
Lying on the stove, Ilya heard his mother weep, his father sigh, and the Russian people complain: enemies attacked Rus’, trampling the fields, killing men, and orphaning children. Bandits prowled the roads, giving no one safe passage. The Serpent Gorynych swooped down and carried maidens to his lair.
Bitterly, Ilya heard all this and lamented his fate:
“Ah, my unwalking legs! Ah, my unholding hands! If I were whole, I would not let our native Rus’ be wronged by enemies and bandits!”
Days passed, months rolled by…
One day, his father and mother went to the forest to clear stumps and roots, preparing the field for plowing. Ilya lay alone on the stove, gazing out the window. Suddenly, he saw three beggar-pilgrims approaching his hut. They stood at the gate, knocked with an iron ring, and said:
“Rise, Ilya, open the little gate.”
“You jest cruelly, pilgrims,” Ilya said. “I have sat here for thirty years—I cannot rise.”
“Try to lift yourself, Ilyushka.”
Ilya strained—and leaped from the stove. He stood on the floor, scarcely believing his own fortune.
“Now walk, Ilya.”
Ilya took one step, then another—his legs held him firmly, and carried him lightly. He was overjoyed, unable to speak.
The pilgrims said: “Fetch some cold water, Ilyusha.”
Ilya brought a bucket of cold water. The pilgrims poured some into a ladle.
“Drink, Ilya. In this ladle is the water of all the rivers and all the lakes of Mother Russia.”
Ilya drank and felt heroic strength surging through him.
“How much strength do you feel?” the pilgrims asked.
“So much, pilgrims, that if I had a spade, I would plow the whole earth.”
“Drink the rest, Ilya. In these dregs is the dew of all the meadows, the tall forests, and the grain fields. Drink.”
Ilya drained the ladle.
“And now how much strength do you feel?”
“Ah, wandering pilgrims, I have so much strength that if there were a ring in the sky, I would seize it and turn the whole earth upside down!”
“Too much strength,” the pilgrims said. “It must be lessened, or the earth will not bear you. Fetch more water.”
Ilya went for water—and truly, the earth would not bear him. His feet sank in the soil as if in a bog. He grabbed an oak—it tore up by the roots. The well chain snapped like a thread. He stepped softly, but the floorboards cracked beneath him. He whispered, but the doors flew off their hinges.
He brought more water. The pilgrims poured another ladle.
“Drink, Ilya.”
He drank.
“How much strength now?”
“Half of what I had.”
“That will be enough for you, young man. You shall be a great bogatyr, Ilya. Fight and battle with the enemies of your native land, with bandits and monsters. Protect widows, orphans, and little children. But never, Ilya, challenge Svyatogor—the earth bears him through sheer force. Do not quarrel with Mikula Selyaninovich—Mother Earth loves him. And do not go against Volga Vseslavevich—he takes not by strength alone, but by cunning. Farewell, Ilya.”
Ilya bowed to the pilgrims, and they walked beyond the village. Ilya took an axe and went to the clearing where his father and mother worked. He saw that they had cleared only a small patch of stumps and roots, and had fallen asleep from exhaustion—old people, heavy work.
Ilya began to clear the forest—chips flew everywhere. He felled ancient oaks with a single stroke; he tore young trees up by their roots. In three hours, he cleared more than the whole village could manage in three days. He piled the trees into the deep river, drove his axe into a stump, seized his spade and rake, and tilled the wide field until it was smooth and ready for sowing.
His father and mother woke, marveled, rejoiced, and blessed the memory of the holy pilgrims. Ilya went to find himself a horse. Beyond the village, he saw a peasant leading a rusty, shaggy, mangy colt. The colt was worth next to nothing—but the peasant demanded fifty rubles and a half. Ilya bought him, brought him home, and stabled him. He fed him white wheat, gave him spring water, groomed him, and laid fresh straw.
After three months, Ilya led Burushka out to the meadows at dawn. The colt rolled in the morning dew and became a heroic steed. Ilya led him to the high fence. The horse pranced and danced, shaking his mane. He leaped back and forth over the fence ten times without touching a hoof. Ilya laid his heroic hand upon Burushka—the horse did not stir.
“A good horse,” said Ilya. “He will be a faithful comrade.”
Ilya sought a sword to fit his hand. Whenever he gripped a hilt, it crumbled. He gave the swords to the women for kindling. He went to the forge and forged three arrows, each weighing a full pood. He made a powerful bow, a long spear, and a steel mace.
He armed himself and went to his parents:
“Give me your blessing, Father and Mother, to go to the capital Kiev, to Prince Vladimir. I will serve Holy Rus’ with faith and truth, and guard the Russian land from enemies.”
Old Ivan Timofeevich spoke:
“I bless you for good deeds—but not for evil. Defend our Russian land not for gold, not for profit, but for honor and heroic glory. Shed no blood without cause, do not make mothers weep, and never forget that you are of the black, peasant stock.”
Ilya bowed to his parents to the damp earth, went to saddle his shaggy Burushka. He laid felt pads, then saddle blankets, then a Cherkassian saddle with twelve silk girths and a thirteenth of iron—not for beauty, but for strength.
He wished to test his strength. He rode to the Oka River, pressed his shoulder against a high cliff on the bank, and toppled it into the river. The cliff blocked the channel, and the river flowed a new course.
He took a crust of rye bread, dipped it in the Oka, and spoke:
“Thank you, Mother Oka River, for giving me water and bread.”
At parting, he took a small handful of native soil, mounted his horse, and cracked his whip. The people saw him leap onto his horse—but they did not see where he rode. Only a pillar of dust rose across the field.