The Musician-Sorcerer

Once upon a time, there lived a musician. He began playing music from a very young age. While herding oxen, he would cut a willow branch, make himself a pipe, and start playing. As soon as he played, the oxen would stop grazing—they would prick up their ears and listen. The birds in the forest would fall silent, and even the frogs in the swamps would stop croaking.

When he went out at night, it was always lively: the boys and girls would sing and joke—such is youth. The night would be warm and humid, and everything would feel beautiful.

Then the musician would take out his pipe and play. All the boys and girls would instantly quiet down, as if on command. And it would seem to each of them as if some sweetness had poured into their hearts, as if some unknown force had lifted them up and carried them higher and higher—into the clear blue sky, toward the bright stars.

The night shepherds would sit motionless, forgetting their tired hands and feet, forgetting their hunger.

They would sit and listen.

And they wished they could sit like that forever, listening to the musician’s music.

The pipe would fall silent, but no one would dare move, afraid to disturb the magical voice that had scattered through the forest, through the oak grove, and risen up to the very sky.

Then the pipe would play again, but this time something sad. And such melancholy would overcome everyone... Late at night, peasants returning from their labor would hear the music, stop, and listen. And their whole lives would rise before their eyes—poverty and sorrow, the cruel lord and his overseers. And such grief would seize them that they would want to wail, as if mourning the dead or bidding farewell to their sons being sent off to the army.

But then the musician would play something joyful. The peasants would drop their scythes, rakes, and pitchforks, put their hands on their hips, and start dancing.

People would dance, horses would dance, the trees in the oak grove would dance, the stars would dance, the clouds would dance—everything would dance and rejoice.

That’s the kind of musician he was—a magician who could do whatever he wished with people’s hearts.

As he grew older, the musician made himself a fiddle and set out to wander the world. Wherever he went, he would play, and in return, people would feed him, give him drink, treat him like the most welcome guest, and even give him something for the road.

For a long time, he wandered the world, bringing joy to good people. But to the cruel lords, he was like a knife to the heart: wherever he went, people would stop obeying the lords. And so, he became a thorn in their side.

The lords decided to get rid of him. They began to persuade one person after another to kill or drown the musician. But no one was willing—the common folk loved the musician, and the overseers were afraid of him, thinking he was a sorcerer.

So, the lords conspired with the devils. And as everyone knows, lords and devils are cut from the same cloth.

One day, as the musician was walking through the forest, the devils sent twelve hungry wolves after him. The wolves blocked his path, baring their teeth, their eyes glowing like hot coals. The musician had nothing in his hands except his fiddle in his bag. “Well,” he thought, “this is the end for me.”

He took the fiddle out of his bag, wanting to play one last time before his death, leaned against a tree, and drew the bow across the strings.

The fiddle came to life, and a magical sound spread through the forest. The bushes and trees froze—not a leaf stirred. And the wolves, with their jaws open, stood still as if turned to stone.

They listened with all their ears, forgetting their hunger.

The musician stopped playing, and the wolves, as if drowsy, slunk back into the forest.

The musician walked on. The sun had already set behind the forest, but its light still glowed on the treetops, as if pouring golden streams over them. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

The musician sat down by the riverbank, took out his fiddle, and began to play. He played so beautifully that the earth and the sky listened in awe. And when he played a polka, everything around him began to dance. The stars whirled like a winter blizzard, the clouds floated across the sky, and the fish in the river became so lively that the water boiled as if in a pot.

Even the Water King couldn’t resist—he started dancing. He danced so wildly that the water overflowed the banks, and the frightened devils jumped out of the river’s depths. They were furious, gnashing their teeth, but they could do nothing to the musician.

The musician saw that the Water King had caused trouble for the people—flooding the fields and gardens—so he stopped playing, put his fiddle back in his bag, and walked on.

As he walked, two young noblemen suddenly ran up to him.

“We’re having a feast tonight,” they said. “Play for us, Master Musician. We’ll pay you generously.”

The musician thought—it was night, he had nowhere to sleep, and he had no money.

“Alright,” he said, “I’ll play.”

The noblemen led the musician to a palace. He looked around and saw that the place was filled with young lords and ladies. On the table stood a large, deep bowl. The lords and ladies took turns approaching the bowl, dipping their fingers into it, and smearing something on their eyes.

The musician approached the bowl, dipped his finger, and smeared the substance on his eyes. And as soon as he did, he saw that these were not lords and ladies at all, but witches and devils, and that he was not in a palace, but in hell.

“Ah,” thought the musician, “so this is the kind of feast they’ve brought me to! Well, alright. I’ll play for you now!”

He tuned his fiddle, struck the bow across the living strings—and everything in hell turned to dust, while the devils and witches scattered in all directions.

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The Musician-Sorcerer

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