Early, early in the morning, Ilya set out from Murom, hoping to reach the capital city of Kiev by dinner time. His swift horse galloped just below the walking clouds and just above the standing forest. Soon, the bogatyr approached the city of Chernigov.
But beneath Chernigov’s walls stood an innumerable enemy force. There was no passage for foot nor horse. The enemy hordes pressed against the fortress walls, plotting to capture and destroy Chernigov. Ilya rode up to the countless host and began to cut down the invaders like scything grass. He struck with his sword, his spear, and his heavy mace—and his heroic horse trampled the foes. Swiftly, he slew and trampled that great enemy host.
The gates of the fortress opened. The people of Chernigov came out, bowed low to the bogatyr, and invited him to be their voivode.
“Thank you for the honor, good men of Chernigov,” Ilya replied, “but it does not suit me to sit as voivode in Chernigov. I am in haste to reach the capital Kiev. Show me the straight road!”
“Our deliverer, glorious Russian bogatyr,” they answered, “the straight road to Kiev is overgrown and mossy. People now travel the roundabout way. Near the Black Mud, by the Smorodina River, the Nightingale the Robber, son of Odikhmant, has made his lair. He sits in twelve oak trees. The villain whistles like a nightingale, roars like a beast, and hisses like a serpent—and from his whistling, roaring, and hissing, the grass withers, the blue flowers fall, the dark forests bow to the earth, and people drop dead! Do not take that road, glorious bogatyr!”
But Ilya did not heed the Chernigovites. He rode the straight road. He approached the Smorodina River and the Black Mud.
The Nightingale the Robber spotted him and began to whistle like a nightingale, roar like a beast, and hiss like a serpent. The grass withered, the flowers fell, the trees bent to the earth—and Ilya’s horse began to stumble.
The bogatyr grew angry and raised his silk whip against his horse:
“What is this, you wolf’s meal, you bag of grass? Have you never heard the whistling of a nightingale, the hissing of a serpent, or the roaring of a beast?”
He seized his powerful, breaking bow and shot at the Nightingale the Robber, wounding his right eye and his right hand. The villain crashed to the ground. The bogatyr tied the robber to his stirrup and rode across the open field past the Nightingale’s lair.
The Nightingale’s sons and daughters saw their father being dragged at the stirrup, seized swords and spears, and ran to rescue him. But Ilya scattered and flung them aside, and without delay, continued on his way.
He rode into the capital Kiev, into the Prince’s wide courtyard. The glorious Prince Vladimir—the Red Sun—with his subordinate princes, honored boyars, and mighty bogatyrs, had just sat down to the dinner table.
Ilya stopped his horse in the middle of the courtyard and entered the dining hall. He made the sign of the cross as was written, bowed to all four corners as was learned, and to the great Prince himself, lower still.
Prince Vladimir began to question him:
“Where do you hail from, good young man? What is your name? What is your father’s name?”
“I am from the city of Murom, from the suburban village of Karacharovo—Ilya Muromets.”
“And when did you leave Murom?”
“Early this morning,” Ilya answered. “I hoped to reach Kiev in time for mass, but I was delayed on the road. I traveled the straight road, past Chernigov, past the Smorodina River and the Black Mud.”
The Prince’s brow furrowed; he looked displeased:
“You country bumpkin, are you mocking us to our faces? Beneath Chernigov stands an innumerable enemy host, with no passage for foot or horse. And the straight road from Chernigov to Kiev has long been overgrown and mossy. By the Smorodina River and the Black Mud, the Nightingale the Robber sits in twelve oak trees, and he lets no one pass—not even a falcon in flight!”
Ilya Muromets answered:
“The enemy host beneath Chernigov lies slain and conquered. And the Nightingale the Robber is wounded and tied to my stirrup in your courtyard.”
Prince Vladimir leaped from the table, threw a sable coat over one shoulder, pulled a fox-fur cap over one ear, and ran out onto the red porch. He saw the Nightingale the Robber tied to the stirrup.
“Whistle, Nightingale, like a nightingale! Roar, you dog, like a beast! Hiss, robber, like a serpent!”
“It was not you, Prince, who captured and conquered me,” the Nightingale replied. “Ilya Muromets conquered me. I will obey no one but him.”
“Command him, Ilya Muromets,” said Prince Vladimir, “to whistle, roar, and hiss!”
Ilya commanded:
“Whistle at half your nightingale’s whistle, roar at half your beast’s roar, hiss at half your serpent’s hiss!”
“From my bloody wound,” said the Nightingale, “my mouth is parched. Command them to bring me a goblet of green wine—not a small goblet, but a pail and a half—and then I will entertain Prince Vladimir.”
They brought the Nightingale a goblet of wine. The villain took it in one hand and drained it in a single breath. Then he whistled with his full nightingale’s whistle, roared with his full beast’s roar, and hissed with his full serpent’s hiss. The cupolas of the towers twisted, the window frames crumbled, and all the people in the courtyard dropped dead. Prince Vladimir himself covered himself with his sable coat and crawled on all fours.
Ilya Muromets grew angry. He mounted his good horse, rode the Nightingale the Robber out into the open field:
“Enough, villain, of destroying people!”—and with one stroke, he cut off the Nightingale’s wild head.
Thus long did the Nightingale the Robber live—and no longer. And on that, the tale comes to an end.