Krasnukh

Once upon a time, though perhaps it never happened, there lived a husband and wife, and they had a son. The husband became a widower early on, and to have someone to take care of the house and the child, he soon remarried. The stepmother came into the house. She turned out to be evil, beating the poor boy as if burning him with fire. The stepmother also had a lover. The husband didn’t know about this, but the boy did; that’s why the wicked stepmother wanted to get rid of him.

They also had a bull named Redhorn. The boy and Redhorn loved each other dearly. Every day, the boy would take his friend to the pasture—he would feed him and enjoy himself.

The stepmother, however, was just waiting for a chance to get rid of her stepson. One day, she pretended to be sick and began moaning and groaning. Her husband asked:

“What will help you?”
The wife replied:
“Only the heart and liver of your son—nothing else will help me.”
The father grew sad when he heard these words, but there was nothing he could do. He chose his wife over his son and decided to kill the boy.

The next morning, the son saw his father sharpening a knife.
“Father, why are you sharpening the knife?” the son asked.
“Take our bull to the water, give him a drink—I want to slaughter him,” the father said.
The boy led the bull to the water, gave him a drink, and cried, his tears mingling with the water.
“Why are you crying, my friend?” Redhorn asked. “Why are you ruining your eyes, my life?”
“They want to slaughter you, slaughter you!” the boy said.
Redhorn grew sad, sighed, and said:
“It’s not me they want to kill—it’s you. Go, take the whetstone, a comb, and a bottle of water, climb on my back, and let’s run.”

The boy went, took the whetstone, comb, and bottle of water, and brought them. He climbed onto the bull, and they rode off. The father found out that the boy had run away, jumped onto a cursed pig, and chased after them.

Redhorn raced, carrying his friend away from danger, while the father chased them on his pig, holding a sharpened knife—he was about to catch up.

Redhorn shouted to the boy:
“What are you waiting for, my friend? Death is right before your eyes—pour out the water from the bottle!”
The boy poured out the water, and a vast sea spread out. The sea raged, the waves threatening to swallow and destroy anyone who dared to fight them. But the waves didn’t frighten the pig—it swam, overcoming them.

Meanwhile, Redhorn and his friend had gone far ahead. The pig swam out and raced after them again. Redhorn said:
“Turn around—do you see anything?”
The boy turned—something in the distance, like a fly, was rushing toward them. The boy said:
“Something the size of a fly is visible.”
“That’s the pig with your father and his knife,” Redhorn said. “Run, my friend, run from injustice, since we have no protection from it.”

Redhorn ran, carrying the boy, while the pig raced after them, the sharpened knife gleaming in the father’s hand. A little more, and the pig would catch up.
“Throw the comb!” Redhorn shouted.
The boy threw the comb, and instantly, a dense forest grew—so thick that even a mouse couldn’t crawl through it, couldn’t turn its tail. The pig gnawed at the forest, gnawed and gnawed until it broke through.

Redhorn and the boy kept running. They had gone far. The boy looked back and said:
“Something the size of a fly is visible in the distance.”
“That’s the pig chasing us,” Redhorn said.
A little more, and the pig would catch the fugitives.

The boy threw the whetstone, and a huge, impassable cliff rose between the pig and the fugitives—so vast it couldn’t be taken in with the eyes. The pig gnawed, cut, and carved steps into the cliff, climbing upward. The pig reached the middle, pressed its hoof against a ledge, the cliff broke, and the pig with its rider fell into the abyss... It took away our sorrow and yours. Redhorn and the boy rejoiced, having escaped the danger. Redhorn led the boy out into an open field.

In the field stood a tall poplar tree, its top reaching into the sky. Redhorn helped the boy climb the tree, gave him two flutes—one joyful, the other sorrowful—and said:
“I’ll go wander the fields, grazing, while you stay here. If you’re sad, play the sorrowful flute—I’ll come to you at once and help. If you’re happy, play the joyful flute, and it will give you food and drink.” Redhorn bid farewell and left.

The boy sat in the tree, playing the joyful flute. A shepherd heard the flute. He followed the sound, found the poplar, and saw the boy playing the flute, with butterflies fluttering around, dancing and playing to the music. The shepherd’s eyes bulged with envy. He decided to get the flute at any cost and shouted to the boy:

“Come down, show me your flute—let me see what it’s made of!”
The boy didn’t listen to the shepherd and didn’t come down.
The envious shepherd went to the king. He reported: “In such-and-such a place, a boy sits in a poplar tree and plays the flute so beautifully that the whole world rejoices.”
The king immediately summoned his advisors and ordered:
“Either bring that boy to me yourselves, or find someone who can bring him.”
The advisors brought an old woman to the king. She said:
“I’ll bring the boy.”

The old woman took a goat, an awl, and went to the poplar tree.
The boy sat at the top, playing the joyful flute, while the old woman stood under the tree and poked the goat with the awl—the goat cried out.

The boy saw that the old woman was tormenting the goat and shouted:
“Grandma, why are you hurting the poor goat?”
“I can’t seem to slaughter it,” the old woman said. “Do a good deed—come down and help.”

How could the boy know the old woman had evil intentions? He climbed down. The old woman drugged him and put him to sleep. The king’s servants took the boy, locked him up behind nine locks. The boy woke up, saw he was imprisoned, and grew sad. He remembered his flutes—but they were far away, left on the tall poplar in the field—and cried. The boy sat, looking out the window at the sky. A crow flew by the castle, and the boy saw it and shouted:
“Crow, crow! Where are you flying, where are you rushing? Fly, for the sake of your children—far in the field stands a tall poplar, my flutes are hanging on it—bring them!”
“Have you forgotten how I ate carrion, and you threw stones at me?!” the crow cawed and flew away.

The boy watched it go, tears streaming from his eyes. A raven flew by.
“Raven, raven, fly, for the sake of your children’s sun, to the field, there on the tall poplar are my flutes—bring them!” the boy shouted.
“Why didn’t you let me eat your bull?” the raven cawed. “I won’t bring you the flutes.”
The raven flew by, darkening the already bitter day of the little prisoner. An eagle flew by.
“Eagle, mighty eagle,” the boy shouted, “you are the king of all birds; you nest on the most inaccessible cliffs and the tallest trees. Fly, find the tall poplar in the field, my flutes are there—bring them!”
“I have my own business to attend to. When did you ever give me a ram, for me to carry your flutes?” the eagle said, flapped its wings, and flew away.

A little bird flew by.
“Little bird, little bird, for the joy of your chicks—bring my flutes from the field!”
“You set traps for us and destroyed our nests! I won’t bring you the flutes—ask someone else,” the bird said and flew away.
The boy watched it go and cried. He saw a swallow flying by.
“Swallow, swallow, herald of spring, bring my flutes from the field.”
The swallow flew and brought the flutes.

The boy played the sorrowful flute, and the flute moaned and wept. Redhorn heard it and hurried to help his friend. He charged at the castle and began breaking down the doors with his horns. He broke eight doors, but on the ninth, his horn broke. Redhorn grew sad—not so much for losing his horn, but for leaving his friend imprisoned.
A mouse appeared out of nowhere and said:
“What will you give me if I reattach your horn? Will you let me feast on your carcass?”
“I will,” Redhorn said. The mouse reattached the horn.
Redhorn charged and broke the ninth door. He entered, put the boy on his back, and carried him to the poplar tree.

Redhorn helped the boy climb the tree and went back to the field.
The boy sat in the tree, playing the joyful flute and rejoicing. He remembered his bull and wanted to see him, so he played the sorrowful flute, played and played—but the bull didn’t appear. The boy waited and waited—but the bull didn’t come.

The boy grew despondent. He climbed down from the tree, played and played, and the whole earth grieved with him. The grass shed tears, the butterflies didn’t fly—they wept, and the trees didn’t rustle.

The flute played, and even the cold cliffs shed hot tears; the flute played, and the black raven hurried somewhere with carrion... The boy went, searched and searched for his friend, and found him dead in the field. Evil vultures and black crows had already pecked out his eyes. The boy cried. He cried bitterly and stopped playing both the joyful and sorrowful flutes.

Death there, feast here,
Chaff there, flour here.
Elasa, melasa,
A jug hung on me.
To the storyteller and the listener,
Sweet dreams, to you and me.

↑ To the top

Krasnukh

More fairy tales