Făt-Frumos, the Hunter's Son, in the Kingdom of the Serpent

They say that once upon a time, there lived a husband and wife. The man was known as a great hunter—there was no one equal to him. But alas, misfortune befell him one day: while out hunting, a pack of wolves surrounded him. Though he killed many, more came, enraged, and tore him to pieces in the deep forest, far from his home, leaving nothing but his bones. His wife, having received no word from her husband, waited and waited, and then wept bitter tears, washing her sorrow with them. She cried long and hard for her grief and longing for her husband, for she was soon to give birth. Whether it was long or short, Făt-Frumos grew into a strong and handsome young man, and one day he turned to his mother with a question:

"Tell me, mother, what craft did my father practice, so that I too may find a trade that suits me."

"Oh, my dear," his mother lamented, "you need not take up his craft—many dangers await you on that path. Better to take up what all the people around you do."

Făt-Frumos heeded his mother's advice, but he did not reconcile himself to this thought for long and soon began to insist that his mother tell him the truth. She had no choice but to tell him everything.

"Your father, my dear son, was a hunter. But do not think of taking up this craft, for I have paid dearly for the profits of this trade." The young man, like all young men, did not take his mother's words seriously. As soon as he heard that his father was a hunter, he decided to become one himself. He fashioned a bow and arrows and set off the next morning to hunt in the wide steppe. While hunting, he wandered far and wide through the nearby forests, the groves by the river, the hills and fields, until he came to an extraordinary forest: silver trees with pearl-like leaves. In the middle of the forest, he saw a meadow, beautiful beyond words, covered with flowers: roses, poppies, and peonies. In the very center of the meadow was a lake, the likes of which are rare: its shores were of white marble, its water clear as a tear, and every pebble on the bottom could be counted. The sun shone brightly, not a breath of wind stirred, and the water was warm, so warm. The young man's heart fluttered with joy at the sight of all this beauty. He slowly circled the lake and was about to head back when he suddenly heard a rustling—three birds landed on the shore of the lake. Făt-Frumos hid and was about to shoot an arrow when the birds flapped their wings and instantly turned into three maidens of extraordinary beauty: their faces delicate, their hair golden, and—splash!—they dove straight into the water. They swam, splashed, and dived, a joy to behold. But the sly young man quietly crept behind the bushes, found their wings, hid them under his shirt, and set off back home.

The fairies emerged from the water, but their wings were gone. They searched under the bushes, in the grass, but no matter how long they looked, they could not find them. One of the maidens, the sharpest-eyed, saw the young man's footprints in the grass. And so all three set off, eyes to the ground, following his trail. They hurried, overtaking one another, not sparing themselves over hills and valleys, but the young man kept walking. They had gone a good half of the way when they saw Făt-Frumos on the horizon. The eldest fairy spoke in a gentle voice:

"Carved peony leaf,
Proud young man, stop,
Turn around, look back,
Turn to your betrothed."

He slowed his pace, turned around to see who was following him. But as soon as he looked back—whoosh!—two wings flew out from under his shirt and, like lightning, soared to one of the maidens, turning her, as in a fairy tale, into a bird that swiftly rose into the sky. Făt-Frumos understood the magic of the song, lowered his head, tightened his shirt at the collar, and, deciding not to look back again, walked on. But he did not go far before the second maiden began to sing a mournful song:

"Golden chamomile leaf,
Young lad,
Who came to our forest,
Took my peace away.
This song of mine
I sing for you.
Go, do not hurry,
But linger on your way,
So that flowers may bloom,
So that love may grow,
So that I may not wither
In bitter sorrow and longing..."

And she sang so tenderly, so soulfully, that:

"The leaves in the forest whispered,
And the springs grew clearer,
The sun slowed its course—
Diamonds lit up in the flowers."

Făt-Frumos did not look back, and the maiden did not fall silent:

"Red peony leaf,
What to do, I do not know,
It seems
I shed tears, I suffer."

The song drew nearer and so enchanted Făt-Frumos that he could barely move his feet.

It is not for nothing that they say: a tree is destined by fate to bear fruit, and a song to ignite hearts. He turned his head back, and the second pair of wings—whoosh!—flew out from under his shirt, and as a tear welled up in his eyes, the bird-maiden was already far away in the blue sky.

Făt-Frumos stood with wide eyes, bitterness in his heart, and resentment overflowing his soul. The young man thought that he would not lose the third pair of wings for anything.

He set off again, tears streaming down his face, watering the grass. As he passed through the valley, the third maiden began to sing, enchanting everything around her with her voice—so much so that even the grasses swayed in time with the song, and every bud instantly blossomed, and the branches were covered with leaves. The song flowed smoothly, like spring water from the foot of a hill:

"Walnut leaf, green leaf,
Filled with the sap of life,
Only you know
How heavy and bitter my fate is.
I am in sorrow, but not for home,
But for a stranger from afar,
Who came from distant lands
To rest in the enchanted forest."

The young man walked on, cautious, but the maiden's song poured forth with even greater passion:

"Heart, you are weary of beating,
Turn into a swift bird
And fly to him, fly
With all your might—catch up, catch up,
And fall at his feet on the road.
With this song, with my pain,
Touch him, ignite his love..."

The mountains crumbled from the power of this song, and perhaps even the young man's heart would not have withstood it had he not hurried to step onto the threshold of his home and open the door. As soon as he entered the house, the fairy fell silent and stood behind him, tall and beautiful, with a smile on her lips. She bowed to the young man, extended her hand to him, and she was more beautiful than a proud princess, as if she were the daughter of the sun: the arch of her brows shone with the light of the sun's rays, the moon adorned her slender neck like a vine, and flowers from a May field spilled over her dress.

They fell in love with each other and, without much persuasion, began to prepare for the wedding. When the tables were set and the candles lit, they invited many people, all their relatives and friends, so that everyone could share in the joy of the young couple. A great feast was held, and unprecedented merriment began. The groom danced with the bride, and all the young people danced so hard that the ground seemed to slip away beneath their feet. The bride danced lightly, like a feather—now she whirled like a gust of wind, now she danced in a circle so skillfully that she left everyone gaping. People watched and marveled:

"My, my, what a dancer!"
And the fairy replied:
"If the groom would return my wings, I would dance a hundred times more beautifully."
All the guests began to beg the groom to give her the wings.
"Let her dance, and if she thinks to fly away, are we not good for anything? Can we not catch one bird?" they shouted from all sides.
Făt-Frumos had no choice but to pull out the wings and give them to her. The maiden placed the wings on her shoulders, her hands on her hips, and, like a poplar leaf in the breeze, she swayed, swirled, and spun like a top, her eyes flashing like lightning. Everyone could not take their eyes off her, and the bride tapped her feet quickly at the edge of the circle, then swiftly moved to the center and suddenly—thud!—she fell to the ground. Before a spark could ignite, she turned into a bird and flew up, higher and higher. The groom grabbed his bow, drew the string, and took aim. But the bird, sensing danger, flipped over and turned into a cuckoo. Then the young man lowered his bow, for there is a law among hunters: shoot any bird, but never, God forbid, a cuckoo. The groom grew sad and sorrowful, but the cuckoo descended, made a circle, and said to him:
"Well done, well done, if you wish to see me again, come to the golden palace that stands in the golden forest."
Having said this, she rose again into the sky until she became the size of a wheat grain, then a poppy seed, and soon the blue sky hid her from the eyes of the people.
And so Fat-Frumos set off on his journey, walking and walking until he came to a place where a terrible drought raged, so severe that it seemed as though the very heart of the earth was burning. Near a mountain, he came across a hut, and on its porch sat an ancient old man; his beard like a haystack, thin and pale of face, yet wise in his words.

"Good day, grandfather."

"Welcome, young man. Sit on the porch, rest from your journey, and tell me: what thoughts have brought you to these distant lands? What love or whom has compelled you to tread these roads, to walk through our desolate places?"

"I am searching the wide world for the golden forest with the golden palace." The old man thought and thought, then shrugged his shoulders:

"I have seen much in my time, heard many tales, but I do not recall anyone ever speaking of this forest. But since you have come to me, I will try to help, and we shall find out where you should go."

The old man stood up, stepped in front of the house, pulled out a flute from his bosom, and blew a single note. The mountains bowed their peaks, and from all directions, animals, birds, flies, and other forest dwellers began to gather. They came in countless numbers.

When there was no more room to stand, the old man asked:

"My children, you who roam the wide world—have you seen the golden palace that stands in the golden forest?"

A little goat answered:

"I have just come from there, father."

"Then guide the young man, show him the way."

"Oh, father, even if I wanted to, I could not show him the way: an unprecedented drought has parched those lands—the grass has withered, and not a drop of water can be found. But an order is an order." The little goat set off with the young man, leading him along untrodden paths, through rocky places, up to the top of a hill, where a flat expanse stretched out, scorched by the drought.

"Now keep your path straight ahead, do not turn aside. When your eyes see the edge of the earth, know that you have reached the golden palace that stands in the golden forest," the little goat said to him in farewell.

Fat-Frumos continued on his way and saw desolate lands: nothing living around, only withered gardens and sun-scorched fields. In the distance, a small fire burned. He approached it. Several shepherds were milking sheep into walnut shells. They had milking pails, but they had long since dried up: there was no one to milk in such a drought. The shepherds told him that ever since the serpent had taken the fairy queen from the golden garden, all the springs and streams in their lands had dried up, the rivers and lakes had vanished, and everything that once grew and flourished had withered at the root. Learning of the traveler's destination, the shepherds gave him a flute.

"Take it, young man. It will serve you well on your journey."

And Fat-Frumos set off again, walking and walking, for a long time or a short time, until he came to the serpent's kingdom. He crossed the border and looked around in amazement: it was as if he had stepped into another world. The grass grew lush, waist-high, woven with flowers like a carpet, and the trees stood tall and sprawling. Seeing such beauty around him, Fat-Frumos raised the flute to his lips and began to play a doina, praising this paradise. And then, from the forests, three wolves and three bears emerged from their dens, guardians of the serpent's kingdom. They came to devour Fat-Frumos—such was their master's command—but when they heard his music, they forgot everything. They listened to the magical flute, unable to get enough. Then the wolves and bears surrounded him.

"Listen, brave one, if you play for us again, all will be well. But if not, turn back, for we are commanded to tear to pieces anyone who crosses the border of this kingdom." What did Fat-Frumos answer them?

"I would play for you a hundred times more beautifully, but alas—my flute is broken. If you would dare to help me extract the heartwood from a hundred-year-old oak, then I would play for you with all my heart."

The wolves and bears went and found the oak—huge and thick—and brought the young man to it. With one stroke of his sword, he split the oak down the middle, and Fat-Frumos said:

"Quickly, grab the edges of the crack and pull them apart, and I will find the heartwood."

The wolves and bears thrust their paws into the crack, and Fat-Frumos swiftly pulled out his sword—trapping all the beasts in the oak so that they could neither move their paws nor topple the tree. Fat-Frumos left them all, as if in a trap, and continued on his way. He walked and walked until he reached the border of another kingdom. Before he could take three steps, a Black Arab with a double-edged saber came out to meet him. With one swing of the saber, he cut off Fat-Frumos's legs; with another, he severed his arms. When he raised the saber to cut off the young man's head, he did not need to—Fat-Frumos fell. Not far from where he fell, there was a spring. The young man came to his senses and rolled toward it to drink. He leaned down, tried to draw the water, but it slipped away—it was the serpent's water. He strained and bit down on the main vein of the spring, clamping it so tightly that the spring cried out:

"Let go, oh, let go, young man!"

"I will not let go."

- Let me go, I will do everything for you and give you whatever you ask for.
- Make my arms grow back—just like they were before.
- "So be it," said the key, and instantly, Fat-Frumos's arms grew back—just like they were before.

Once again, the key pleaded:
- Let me go, young man, I am dying from the pain!
- I won’t let you go until my legs grow back—just like they were before.
- "May your wish be fulfilled!" said the key. And Fat-Frumos's legs grew back.

He then tensed his muscles, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and pulled the key’s sinew even tighter.
- What do you want, young man? Why are you tormenting me?
- Tell me how to defeat the Black Arab.
- "Drink three sips of water from the place you are holding with your teeth." Fat-Frumos drank three sips of water, as the key instructed him, and became so strong that the earth trembled from his breath alone. He set off on his journey, and once again, the Black Arab came out to meet him with a saber. Fat-Frumos grabbed him, threw him to the ground—*thud!*—the saber fell from the Arab’s hand, and for three hours, the sound of him howling as he sank into the earth could be heard. That’s how it was!

Fat-Frumos then made his way to the serpent’s palace. He walked through shadowy forests, flower-filled meadows, green valleys, and groves filled with birdsong, until he arrived at the palace that gazed at the sun—its beauty never fading. The Fairy of Fairies stepped onto the threshold and said:
- It’s good that you’ve come, Fat-Frumos. But it would have been better if you hadn’t, for the serpent-dog will destroy you.

No sooner had she spoken than the dragon’s club came flying, struck the door, bounced onto the threshold, and returned to its place on the nail! Fat-Frumos grabbed it and hurled it back—had it not struck the serpent’s chest, it would have flown even farther.
- "Tough guests await me at home, it seems," said the serpent. He entered the house, saw Fat-Frumos, and asked:
- How do you want to fight, young man—hand-to-hand or with sabers?
- With sabers or hand-to-hand—either way, I will prevail.

And so they began to fight. When the serpent threw the young man to the ground, the earth shook beneath him. Now it was Fat-Frumos’s turn. He threw the serpent to the ground—and the serpent sank into the earth, leaving only his tuft of hair sticking out. But the serpent managed to climb out and shouted:
- Wolves, bears, my servants, come here, your master is in trouble!
Fat-Frumos threw the serpent down again. Once more, the serpent sank deep into the earth, with only his tuft of hair sticking out. But he shouted even louder:
- Black Arab, where are you? Your master is in trouble!

But who could hear him and come to his aid, when the earth had already swallowed the Black Arab, and the oak tree held the wolves and bears tightly?

When Fat-Frumos threw the serpent down for the third time, the serpent wailed as he sank into the depths of the earth for three days—and he has not emerged to this day.

Water began to flow from the dried-up springs, fields turned green—and grace descended upon the entire land.

Fat-Frumos entered the palace, and what else could he do? He took the Fairy of Fairies by the hand, turned all the serpent’s treasures into a golden apple, returned home, and they began to live happily ever after.

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