In a certain village, there lived a peasant with twelve sons and twelve daughters. One of his sons, Ilya Muromets, had been without the use of his legs from birth. His father carried him into the forest and left him in a small, isolated hut, where Ilya prayed to God for twelve long years.
One summer day, an old wanderer came to the hut. He greeted Ilya and said: “Ilya Muromets, have you anything to drink?”
Ilya replied: “I have some beer that my father brought, but I have no legs. Would you fetch it yourself?”
The old man said: “As good people walk, so stand up and walk!”
And Ilya rose. He took a birch-bark vessel, went for the beer, and brought it back. The old man drank a little and said: “Ilya Muromets, drink what remains from this vessel!”
Ilya drank. He felt a boundless strength surging through him.
“I feel immense power within me,” Ilya confessed. “If there were a pillar from earth to heaven with a ring in it, I would seize that ring and turn the whole world upside down.”
The old man said: “Bring me more beer.”
Ilya brought another vessel. The old man drank again and offered Ilya the dregs. Ilya drank and said: “Now I feel only a third of my former strength—much less remains!”
“Enough!” said the old man. “For dealing with ordinary folk, this will be sufficient.” He bade Ilya farewell, and vanished.
Ilya gathered his few belongings and set out on foot for home. When he arrived, his mother wept for joy. His father and brothers were working in the fields. Ilya asked his mother to bake pancakes and flatbreads, and he carried them to the fields.
His brothers recognized him: “It is our brother Ilya Muromets!” they cried.
He called out: “Father and brothers, come and eat! Hot pancakes await!”
They left their axes and gathered around him. After they had eaten, Ilya said: “Lie down and rest, Father and brothers. I will go and cut some timber.”
One brother offered his axe; another offered his. Ilya said: “Sleep, brothers. I will take whichever axe I choose.”
Ilya Muromets strode into the forest. He tore up trees by their roots, as easily as one might pull weeds, and flung them into the Neva River, hoping to dam its flow. But the river broke through elsewhere. When he had cleared the entire forest, he returned to the camp: “Enough sleep, Father!”
When the family awoke, they marveled at what he had done. They harnessed the horses and returned home.
Then Ilya said: “Father, let me go into the wide world—to see people and show myself!”
He went to a gathering place where strong men tested their strength. He called out: “Is there any wrestler here?”
One man stepped forward: “Let us wrestle!”
Ilya laid down one condition: “Brother, let us agree that no one will complain, whatever happens.”
They clasped hands. Ilya lifted the man, shook him, and threw him to the ground so hard that his insides burst forth. He lay dead.
Ilya shook his head: “Weak people,” he said. “Not worth the effort.”
A merchant neighbor, hearing of Ilya’s strength, hired him as a shopkeeper for forty gold pieces a month, with the agreement that Ilya’s family could eat at his table. Ilya’s skill at trade was astonishing—he sold everything in a single week. “I have traded for thirty years,” the merchant marveled, “and never earned as much as you have in one week!”
But Ilya tired of commerce. “Better to travel the wide world,” he decided.
He went to the market to find a heroic horse, but every horse he touched collapsed beneath his hand. At last, a priest told him of a spirited colt—a horse that could bear his strength. Ilya sent his father to buy it for two hundred rubles. He tamed the colt, cared for it day and night, and after two months, it leaped from its stall, strong and swift. Ilya bought a heroic saddle and bridle, and prepared for his journey.
He set out for the capital. The direct road passed through the lair of the Nightingale the Robber—a fearsome creature who sat in twelve oak trees. The Nightingale did not allow anyone—horse or foot—to pass within twelve versts. He would whistle, and horses would drop dead, and men would perish.
Ilya took the direct road. When the Nightingale whistled, Ilya’s horse stumbled and fell to its knees. Ilya struck the horse with his mace: “What is this, you bag of grass? Do you surrender to the enemy? I am but a bag of straw, and I do not yield!”
The horse leaped up and ran on. The Nightingale whistled again, with all his might. The horse stumbled again. Again Ilya struck it: “Do you fear the enemy? I do not!”
The horse raced to the oaks. Ilya drew his bow, loosed a keen arrow, and knocked the Nightingale from his perch. He bound the monster to his stirrup and rode on.
He passed by the Nightingale’s daughters, who cried: “Father is bringing us a gift!”
But the Nightingale answered: “They are carrying your father himself in chains. Prepare a trap—hang a hundred-pood plank above the gate to crush him!”
Ilya overheard and said: “I have no time for such visits. I must reach the capital.”
He rode to a monastery, left his horse in the courtyard, and entered the church. After the service, the warriors saw the horse and were outraged. One challenged Ilya, who struck him with his mace and shattered him to pieces. Another said: “You are my equal in strength—we should be brothers!”
They met in the field, charged each other, and locked maces—neither could overpower the other. They swore brotherhood.
At the king’s feast, Ilya boasted: “I rode the straight road and knocked the Nightingale the Robber from his oaks.”
No one believed him. The king commanded that the Nightingale be brought. The monster was dragged in, and the king asked: “Can you make him whistle?”
Ilya warned: “He will kill many of your people.” The king ordered him to whistle softly. Ilya covered the king and queen with his arms and commanded the Nightingale to whistle quietly. But the monster whistled with all his might, and many of the common folk dropped dead. In anger, Ilya smashed the Nightingale upon the ground, destroying him utterly.
Ilya continued his journey and encountered Egor Zlatogor, a hero who tossed mountains from hand to hand. When Ilya struck Egor’s horse, it leaped; Egor could not see who had struck it. After the second strike, Egor saw Ilya and said: “You are playing tricks, Ilya Muromets!” He put Ilya and his horse into his pocket. But Egor’s horse stumbled, and Egor said: “What is wrong, my steed?” The horse replied: “You have a hero no less than yourself in your pocket!”
Egor released Ilya, and they rode together. They met an old woman with a heavy basket. She asked for their help to lift it. Neither Ilya nor Egor could move it. The old woman took it up herself and said: “You call yourselves heroes? Go on your way!”
They came to Egor’s home. Egor warned Ilya: “When you greet my blind father, do not give him your hand—give him your mace, or he will crush it.” Ilya obeyed. The old man squeezed the mace until sap flowed from both ends. “You have strength, Ilya Muromets,” he said. “Not equal to my son’s, but strength nonetheless.”
They rode on and found a coffin in the wilderness. It was the legendary coffin of Egor Zlatogor. Ilya lay in it, and it was too long and wide. Egor lay in it, and it fit him perfectly. Ilya closed the lid but could not open it again. Egor said: “Strike the coffin with your mace!” Ilya struck—iron bands appeared. He struck again—another band. A third strike—a third band.
“Your fate is sealed, Egor Zlatogor,” said Ilya.
Egor said: “Pierce a hole above my throat. I will give you my strength.” Ilya pierced the coffin. White spittle flowed—Ilya drank, and felt immense power. Then yellow spittle flowed—he did not drink.
“Enough,” he said.
Egor commanded him to strike an oak. Ilya struck, and the oak shattered into kindling. Then Egor said: “Take my mace and my strength. Farewell, brother.” Ilya rode away—and turned to stone upon his horse. Egor Zlatogor turned to stone within his coffin. Both stand, even now, not far from the Neva River—monuments to a forgotten age, when giants walked the earth.