From a distant, lofty nest, a young falcon flew forth to test his strength and stretch his wings.
From the distant city of Galich, from his native home, young Mikhailo rode out to win glory and to serve the Prince of Kiev. His father and mother had equipped him well for the journey—the young man would not be outdone in Kiev. His armor was of pure silver, his chainmail of red gold, his helmet worth three thousand… His lance burned like a candle, his sharp saber gleamed like the sun. Over his shoulders hung a bow worth three thousand—for its bands were of damask steel, its horns of copper, and its string of Shemakhan silk. His horse, Mikhailo’s steed, was like a fierce beast—priceless beyond measure. For he did not ford rivers; he leaped from bank to bank.
Mikhailo rode across the steppe, singing songs—joyful to gallop on his horse, to breathe the Russian air, to hold his course for Kiev! He would serve the Russian land with faith and truth!
He arrived in Kiev, galloped into the Prince’s courtyard, dismounted, and entered the hall. He bowed to all four corners, and to the Prince and Princess especially.
Prince Vladimir asked:
“Where do you come from, young man, and what is your name?”
“I come from Galich, and my name is Mikhailo Kazarinov. I wish to serve you with faith and truth, and to defend our native Rus’ from her enemies.”
At that time, Prince Vladimir had no stewards, no cupbearers. He rose from the table himself, filled a goblet with sweet mead, and offered it to Mikhailo.
“Well, bogatyr, begin your service with a small task: ride to the blue sea, shoot me some geese and swans and quail for my table. Delight the Princess—bring her some gray ducks.”
Mikhailo needed no second command. He went out, mounted his horse, and galloped to the blue sea.
Fortune favored Mikhailo: countless birds crowded the shore. He shot geese and swans and migrating gray ducks, tied his rich catch to his horse, and rode back toward Kiev.
He rode across the steppe, singing songs, until he reached a tall oak. A raven perched in the oak, cawing, not letting Mikhailo sing.
Mikhailo grew angry, glanced at the oak—and nearly fell from his horse: a black raven sat on the oak, preening its black feathers. Its beak and claws were of copper, its eyes blazed like fire.
“All the years I have ridden across wide Rus’, I have never seen such a wonder!”
He seized his bow and drew the string—but the raven spoke in a human voice:
“Do not shoot me, Mikhailo Kazarinov. You will not eat my flesh, you will not drink my blood, you will win no glory from my death. I am no bogatyr’s prize. Ride to the high hill and look out over the steppe—perhaps you will find a quarry worthy of your strength, perhaps you will find heroic glory.”
Mikhailo heeded the raven, lowered his bow, and spurred his horse. He rode to a high hill and gazed west—all was quiet; the heroic outposts stood, their bogatyrs keeping watch. He gazed north—all was well: Kiev stood, its golden cupolas blazing. He gazed east—nothing but endless steppe. He gazed south—and his heart stopped: a Russian outpost lay slaughtered, and three Tatar tents stood on Russian soil.
Mikhailo rode toward the tents, drew nearer, and hid behind them to listen.
Three old Tatars sat on a bench of precious walrus ivory. Before them stood a Russian maiden. Her clothes were torn, her braids unbound, her head bowed, her hands bound. She wept and lamented:
“Woe is my poor head! Bitter grief, my fair braid! Yesterday my mother combed you; today evil enemies have tangled you… Yesterday rings adorned my hands; today a hemp rope binds them! Yesterday I was a free Russian swan; today I am a Tatar captive! Where are you, my beloved brothers? Who will rescue me from this captivity?!”
An old Tatar comforted her mockingly:
“Why do you weep so bitterly, shedding tears? I am not leading you to death, but to market. I will not sell you cheaply—I will give you to my beloved son. You will live in gold and silks!”
“I do not want the enemy’s silks and gold! Better to walk barefoot on my native soil!”
The Tatars began to mock her, tugging at her braids. Mikhailo’s heroic heart could bear no more. He spurred his horse, fell upon them like a falcon upon ravens. One Tatar he pierced with his spear, another he trampled with his horse, and a third he dashed against the damp earth!
He leaped from his horse, lifted the maiden in his arms, carried her into the tent, tore the rope from her hands, brushed the fair hair from her face—and nearly fell: before him stood his own sister, Marfa Petrovna!
“How did you, dear sister, fall into the hands of three Tatars, three raiders?! Where were Father and Mother, your elder brothers, your servants and warriors?”
Marfa Petrovna wept bitterly:
“I went into the green garden alone yesterday. Three Tatars suddenly fell upon me—I had no time even to cry out.”
Mikhailo Kazarinov bowed to the tall oak:
“Thank you, black raven! I did not kill you, and you have helped me!”
He gathered from the tents three saddlebags of red gold and fine pearls, took the precious walrus-ivory bench, wrapped his sister in crimson brocade, seated her on his good horse, led two Tatar horses by the reins, and rode to Kiev, to Prince Vladimir.
He arrived at the Prince’s court, tied four horses, dropped the gold in the entryway, and entered the hall with his sister.
“Greetings, Prince Vladimir! I have done all you commanded—shot game for your table. I have slain three enemy raiders, brought three good horses, and brought three bags of gold. And for the Princess, I have brought a gray duck—my own sister, Marfa Petrovna!”
The Prince bowed to him:
“Thank you, Mikhailushka! I bow to you for the game, the horses, and the gold. And I bow to the ground for the maiden—for you will not let enemies wrong the Russian people, and you pay dearly for a maiden’s tears!”