Gevæun the Giant

It seems that this happened once upon a time, and if it hadn’t, people wouldn’t be telling this tale.

Once, there lived a shepherd who had three sons. He built a sheepfold under the shade of the forest and grazed his sheep there all year round. A little lower, in the heart of the Codru forest, lived Gavăun the Giant—a vile and terrifying serpent, the kind you’d never want to see, neither in your dreams nor in waking life.

In the mornings, when the birds awoke, and in the evenings, when the cool breeze drifted up from the valley, Gavăun the Giant would shout and call out to the shepherds in the folds:

"Hey, shepherds, ehe-he-he,
Drive your sheep to me,
Into the lush grasses,
Into the shadowy forests!"

But all the shepherds knew that behind his sweet words lay terrible deeds. No one answered him, and no one went.

Every time the shepherd heard the giant serpent’s calls, he would warn his sons:

"God forbid any of you should answer the serpent—that’s all he needs: you’ll bid farewell forever to both your sheep and your lives. No one who has answered him or followed him into the forest with their flock has ever returned."

The boys heeded their father’s advice. Years passed. Eventually, the old shepherd died, and his sons were left alone in the sheepfold. They filled barrels with cheese, tended to the household as their father had, and managed their affairs. One fine day, the eldest and middle brothers went to the fair. They bought what they needed, but it seems they had a bit too much to drink along the way.

As they walked home, swaying from side to side, they stumbled over every stone on the road. By the time they neared the hut, they were in such high spirits that they began to pour out their hearts and boast loudly. When they reached the sheepfold and set about their chores, they suddenly heard:

"Hey, shepherds, ehe-he-he,
Drive your sheep to me,
Into the lush grasses,
Into the shadowy forests!"

"Let’s answer him and take the sheep," said the eldest brother.

"Let’s go. Who knows, maybe what Father told us wasn’t true. Let’s see for ourselves," replied the middle brother.

"My brothers, come to your senses—we’ll all perish," the youngest tried to dissuade them.

"Shut your mouth, hey, what do you know? You’re too young to lecture us."

At that moment, the serpent’s call sounded again. The elder brothers, hearing it, stood up and shouted at the top of their lungs:

"Uhu-uh-uh, Gavăun,
We hear your words,
But we’ve never seen you!"

Before they could catch their breath, Gavăun was right there:

"Hello, lads."

"Good day."

"Was it you who called me?"
"Who else?"

"Then come with me to the pasture, into the forest. But first, slaughter a sheep—I’m terribly hungry."

The brothers slaughtered a sheep, skewered the meat, lit a fire, and when the coals were ready, they began to roast the meat. In two or three gulps, the giant devoured the sheep, bones and all, and then led the boys and their flock into his forest. The pasture there was excellent, but the boys found no joy or benefit in grazing their sheep. The monstrous serpent never took his eyes off them and forced them to roast three sheep every day. The brothers’ hearts ached as they watched their father’s hard work go to waste.

Somehow, they endured their misfortune. But the monster wasn’t done with them. One day, he lit a blazing fire, hung a cauldron, and when the water boiled, he threw the eldest brother in, cooked him, and ate him. Then he ate the middle brother. It was the youngest brother’s turn, and the poor lad was terrified, seeing no way out. Sensing disaster, he drove the sheep to the pasture and began to ponder what to do, for the giant was about to seize him with his massive hands. He might never have found a solution if it weren’t for a clairvoyant sheep in the flock, which, sensing its master’s distress, began to bleat and thrash about, breaking away from the herd. The boy, noticing something was wrong, asked her:

"What’s wrong, my dear sheep, why aren’t you grazing?"

"Master, master, I sense great danger is looming over you. Gavăun the Giant has decided to kill you too. But don’t lose courage, don’t despair. Listen: after Gavăun sets the cauldron on the fire, he immediately falls asleep. You must add wood to the fire, and when the water boils, pour it between his eyes. Remember: even the mightiest tree grows from the tiniest seed, sending roots into the earth and branches toward the sky."

Thus reassured by the sheep, the boy began to hope for his salvation, and his strength returned. The next morning, the giant fell asleep by the fire, while the boy stood ready by the cauldron. When the water boiled, he carefully lifted the cauldron and—splash!—poured the boiling water between the giant’s eyes, blinding him. Gavăun leapt up—raging like a fire, more terrifying than a rabid dog or a disturbed viper—he spun around like a whirlwind, but to no avail. Then he approached the sheepfold, sat on a mound, and ordered the boy to milk the sheep. The boy had no idea what was going on, but the giant asked:

"Well, are you ready to drive the sheep in?"

"Yes," he replied.
Then Gaevoun rushed to close the gate of the pen, holding the gate with one hand and feeling the sheep with the other, releasing them one by one to catch the boy. But the boy was no fool. He crept up to a large ram, climbed under its belly, grabbed hold of its wool, and slipped through unnoticed. The giant missed the boy. Now he knew for sure that there was no way to tempt or capture him. The boy would only mock and taunt him. Standing to his full towering height, the giant began to lament:

"My dear, who advised you on such a clever trick—well thought out, and if you came up with it yourself, even better. I have no strength to keep you by my side, and if you’ve decided to go wherever you please, take this ring—let it be a memory of Gaevoun the giant."

The boy, sensing no danger, ran over, picked up the ring, and put it on his finger. And Gaevoun cried out:

"Ring, ring, where are you?"

"Here, here!" answered the ring (it was no ordinary ring, but a magical one). Then the giant—clomp! clomp! clomp!—stomped his feet toward the sound of the reply, then shouted again:

"Ring, ring, where are you?"

"Here, here," answered the ring, and the boy felt as though he had tied a noose around his own neck.

Gaevoun ran around with his arms outstretched, trying to catch the boy, and kept shouting:

"Ring, ring, where are you?"

"Here, here!" answered the ring right under the giant’s nose.

Then the boy grabbed the ring, trying to pull it off his finger. But it wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard he tried. And the giant was getting closer and closer.

The boy then bit at the ring with his teeth—but it was no use. Seeing no other way out, he drew the knife he carried at his belt, placed his hand on the edge of a nearby well, and—crunch!—chopped off the finger with the ring and threw it into the well. The giant shouted again:

"Ring, ring, where are you?"

"Here, here!" answered the ring from the well.

Frustrated, the gluttonous Gaevoun—splash!—dove headfirst into the well and, howling, fell down until he hit the bottom with a thud. He gulped down water, began to choke, and struggled to get out, until he finally breathed his last.

The boy, making sure the giant was truly dead, climbed onto his heels, which stuck out of the well, and danced for joy. Then he gathered his flock of sheep and drove them toward the forest. As he reached the shade of the trees, other shepherds caught up with him. He told them what had happened—and then the other shepherds dared to lead their sheep into the forest as well. At first, they moved cautiously, but then they built pens on the rich and beautiful forest clearings and began to graze their sheep there. Perhaps they still graze them to this day, if they haven’t died.

---

**The Serpent's Kingdom**

I wasn’t born in those fairy-tale times, but later, when the girls from Turlui carried tales in their aprons. Once, I quietly reached out my hand—and snatch!—I stole one of them. And now I’m telling it to you.

Once upon a time, there lived a husband and wife. Time had planted bitterness in their hearts and placed many burdens on their shoulders, but what saddened them most was that they had no son or daughter—no support or protection in difficult times. And they already felt the approach of their autumn. A bitter fate had befallen the poor couple, but then something happened. One fine morning, the wife walked through the dew to the top of a hill to greet the sunrise, and from this, she conceived. Soon she gave birth to a child—beautiful and healthy—and the parents’ joy knew no bounds.

A day or two passed, and the man thought: it’s time to call godparents, celebrate the christening, and give the child a name. But everyone he invited refused to be godparents. Anxiety grew in the house where the baby had been born.

One late evening, when everyone was already asleep, the poor man tossed and turned, unable to close his eyes, groaning and sighing:

"Oh, oh, my troubles,
My heavy troubles,
No one hears them,
No one sees them,
No one believes them."

No sooner had he spoken—bang!—someone yanked the door open and barged into the house:

"Good evening."

"Good evening."

"I’ve heard, man, of your need and trouble: that you cannot find godparents to name your child, and so I’ve come to help you in your sorrow."

"You’re most welcome, but who are you?"

- Death.

- And what do you want to use to seal the godparenthood?

- What do you mean, "what"?

- Don’t you know that godparents don’t come empty-handed? You must give the child something so that he grows and thrives.

- If that’s the case, I’ll take him with me.

- Get out of my house, you monster, and don’t let me hear your words again. If I haven’t found godparents until now, I’ll find them later, but I won’t give the child to you.

Death wandered away, and the man went out into the yard (it was a clear night, under a full moon), sat down on the porch, and began to lament and sigh again:

"Oh, oh, my troubles. My heavy troubles. No one hears them, no one sees them, no one believes them."

The Moon heard his weeping and lamentations and descended from the heavenly realm to the earth, stopping in front of the unfortunate man’s house, instantly silvering the yard, the house, and the path. She appeared before him, bowed low to the ground, and asked:

"Would you like, master, to take me as a godmother?"

"And what can you give to our child?"

"Beauty and wealth, as I possess."

The man looked at her, looked, and then said:

"Your wealth is consumed by the night, your beauty vanishes with the sun."

"If you are not friends with good, remain with evil," said the Moon, and in an instant, she rose back to her place in the sky and headed west. And the man once again began to mourn his fate. Until sunrise, he lamented:

"Oh, oh, my troubles. My heavy troubles. No one hears them, no one sees them, no one believes them."

Dawn broke. The Sun slowly rose from behind the hilltop and saw not dew on the grass leaves and wildflowers, but streams of tears flowing from the poor man’s eyes. And so it rolled across the treetops, across the oak groves, all the way to the house where the newborn lay.

"Good morning, man."

"Thank you."

"Why do you greet my ascent to the sky with tears?"

"Oh, brightest Sun, how can I not cry when I cannot find a godfather to give my child something and name him."

"Would you like to take me as a godfather?"

"And what can you give to my son?"

"The gold that I possess and the beauty of light."

"So be it," said the poor man, and he led the Sun into the house. Where it stepped, everything brightened, and where it passed, everything turned golden. The Sun approached the child’s cradle, ran a beam of light across his face, woke him from sleep, then took him in its arms, gently touched him with its lips, and, as is customary, bathed him not in water but in its own warm and tender rays. Then it handed the child to the poor couple:

"Take your son, Făt-Frumos. May he grow strong and healthy and be your help and support in your old age."

The husband and wife bowed to the Sun, thanking it as best they could for such joy. Then, bidding them farewell, it resumed its journey from one end of the earth to the other. And the husband and wife began to live happily in their gilded house.

Făt-Frumos grew strong and handsome, and his parents could not get enough of him, so dear was he to them. When the time came, the son began to go hunting, first in nearby places, then farther away. One day, he returned from a hunt with a rich bounty, and his father said to him:

"Dear son, I allow you to travel the whole wide world, but do not cross the border of the serpent’s kingdom."

"Why, father?"

"All who have crossed its border have never returned."

From then on, Făt-Frumos went hunting everywhere, and when returning home, he always skirted the serpent’s kingdom—not because he was timid, but so as not to upset his parents, not wanting to make them wait and worry for him. One fine day, he decided to go hunting in more distant places, and—whether long or short, step by step—he spotted a hare in his sights. Zing! One arrow flew at it—zing! Another followed. The hare limped on one leg—the young man was about to catch it… but the limping hare just kept hopping from side to side, running so fast that it raised a cloud of dust. Făt-Frumos chased after it, and the hare led him further and further away. Before he knew it, Făt-Frumos found himself in the heart of the serpent’s kingdom. The hare had vanished, and before him, on the edge of the forest, among the trees, stood a mansion, so beautiful that it was impossible to look away.

Fat-Frumos approached and saw: the windows and doors were wide open, but there was no one around, not a single living soul to be seen or heard. He stepped over the threshold, and the smell of roasted meat, plăcintă, and various other dishes hit his nose, stirring his appetite. He crossed another threshold and saw all sorts of delicacies on the tables, goblets filled to the brim. If this wasn’t paradise, it was close to it. Fat-Frumos, hungry as a wolf, could have devoured everything with his eyes, but it felt wrong to just sit down at the table without anyone’s permission. He stood on the threshold, looked around—still no one. Then he puffed out his chest and shouted:

- Hey, people! Who’s the master here, show yourself!

He shouted three times in a row, but no one appeared. "If that’s the case," he reasoned, "I’ll sit down at the table. What will be, will be, and staying hungry is no good." He ate everything his heart desired and was about to get up from the table when suddenly he heard: stomp! stomp! stomp!—someone was approaching. Fat-Frumos barely had time to turn around when he saw a monstrous creature before him—hideous, ugly: a twisted neck, a crooked nose, disheveled hair, and bared teeth. When the young man looked at it, he froze in fear.

- By whose permission are you feasting here? - the monster howled.

- Who was I supposed to ask, when there’s no one around?

- And you, fool, thought you could rummage through my food?! - I didn’t expect to go hungry, seeing so many dishes before me.

- Come out and fight!

- What kind of fight?

- Whatever kind you want.

Fat-Frumos turned around, swung his sword to destroy the serpent with one blow, but the strike hit empty air, nearly wrenching his arm. The monster just chuckled—the sword didn’t touch it and passed through as if through a shadow. Then Fat-Frumos grabbed his saber, spun it above his head countless times to slice the serpent and bring it to the ground, but all in vain: the saber passed through the monster’s body as if through smoke. Fat-Frumos struggled, exerting all his strength, but the serpent just smirked and taunted:

- Hey, brainless lad, you must be one of those who tries to blind the blind.

The monster mocked him, calling him a "wind catcher" and a "water carrier with sieve buckets." Fat-Frumos was ready to gnaw the ground in frustration and anger.

- Ha-ha-ha, brave knight, your efforts are great, but your reward will be small: you’re not fighting a fool like yourself, but the very dragon of this kingdom.

And Fat-Frumos realized he couldn’t defeat the serpent, and his frustration gnawed at him in vain, his strength wasted for nothing. He stepped aside to catch his breath, but the serpent loomed like a storm cloud, scowling and stomping its foot on the ground, and instantly its foot grew enormous and thick, its toes like hills.

- Oh-ho-ho, cursed serpent, - Fat-Frumos marveled, - what a mountain you’ve grown for a foot!

- With it, I’ll crush you, trample you, and shatter your bones.

Fat-Frumos’s hair stood on end from fear, his hat lifted—he had to pull it down over his forehead.

The serpent shook its right shoulder, swung its right arm in a circle—and in an instant, it could have gathered all the clouds in the sky.

- Oh-ho-ho, fire-breathing serpent, what an arm you’ve got!

- With my foot, I’ll push you, and with my hand, I’ll grab and crush you into a lump, like mămăligă. The young man froze in awe and fear, but the serpent suddenly trembled, and its head became so terrifying and enormous that it pierced the sky.

- Hey, hey, what a head you’ve grown!..

- I’ll eat you with it. - And it raised its foot to crush the young man. Fat-Frumos drew his dagger and—whack!—swung it, but upon hitting the serpent’s foot, the dagger shattered into pieces, as if it had struck an iron mountain.

- You’re defending yourself in vain, I’ll crush you with my foot, squeeze you with my hand, and you won’t escape my sharp teeth.

Fat-Frumos stepped back a little, the serpent also took a step back and said:
- If you wish to save yourself and leave my kingdom alive, bring me Frumoasa-Frumoaselor, the daughter of the king of the garden kingdom, and then not only will you gain your freedom, but you will also receive a reward from me.

And so, Făt-Frumos decided to set out on a quest to save himself from the monster, at the sight of which his legs trembled with fear and his heart leaped in his chest.

- In which direction should I search for her?

- Head south.

And so, he set off on his journey. He walked and walked, guided by the signs of the land: by the stars in the sky, by the flickering of fireflies on the hills, until one fine day he reached a windmill.

In those parts, a terrible wind blew, and the mill's sails spun so fast that they were invisible. At the entrance to the mill, he saw none other than an old miller, bent over sacks of flour, packing them with great effort.

- Good day, miller!

- Welcome, young man! - they greeted each other: the first, weary from the hardships of the road, the second - from the heavy labor, and they sat down on the bench to rest.

- Who are you grinding the flour for?

- I grind it, my dear, for Frumoasa-Frumoaselor from the garden kingdom.

- Are you telling the truth? - Făt-Frumos jumped up as if stung.

- What's the matter with you?

- I am heading there.

- To that kingdom? Be careful, young man, with your words and your steps: to reach that place, you must pass through the deep kingdom, strewn with rocks, the kingdom of mountains, the kingdom of seas, and many other distant realms where you will hear neither human breath nor the song of a bird. A single lifetime would not be enough to reach it!

- And how does the flour you grind get there?

- It is not delivered by people, but by creatures of the sky. Two eagles, as large as clouds, come, grab the sacks with their talons, and fly faster than lightning to the garden kingdom.

Făt-Frumos marveled at this wonder, but then he thought that this might be his only way to reach the garden kingdom. He volunteered to help the old miller shake out the sacks, fill them, pack the flour, and tie them up. The old man was overjoyed, as he could now stroke his beard and lament the passing years at his leisure. Just as Făt-Frumos had carried two sacks of flour into the yard, he saw: two giant eagles descended from the heavens, grabbed a sack each with their talons, and flew south. Gradually, the eagles disappeared into the blue distance, and Făt-Frumos, shielding his eyes from the sun, watched them for a long time.

When it was time for the eagles to return, Făt-Frumos climbed into one of the sacks. The old man, being somewhat blind, noticed nothing - he took a bundle of hemp stalks dried by the autumn sun, twisted them into ropes, tied the sacks, and carried them to the agreed-upon spot. The eagles began to descend, swiftly grasped the sacks with their talons, and... whoosh! whoosh! whoosh! - they lifted off the ground and flew toward the garden kingdom.

From inside his sack, Făt-Frumos could hear only the rustling of wings and the howling of the wind. After some time, one of the eagles, struggling to stay aloft, groaned:

- Oh, brother, I'm about to drop the sack.

- Hold on tight, we're flying over the ocean.

- I can't, my legs are trembling, my talons are slipping.

- What's wrong with you? You've never complained about the weight before!

- I don't know what's in this sack, but it's heavier than usual. Oh-oh, I'm about to drop it.

- If that's the case, hold on a little longer with all your strength, then soar upward and release the sack: we'll swap them. You grab mine, and I'll take yours.

And so they did. Both soared upward like arrows, released the sacks, and rushed to catch them. They switched the heavy sack several times and finally reached the kingdom, though much later than usual. The flour they brought had long since run out, the ovens had cooled, and hunger had left some people as skin and bones. As soon as the eagles delivered the flour, the bakers quickly lit the ovens, kneaded the dough, and... in one of the sacks, they found Făt-Frumos. In the midst of their work and haste, they made him chop wood and carry water. This time, the bakers were in such a rush that they didn't put much effort into their work: the bread sank in the hot oven, didn't rise, and turned out ashen in color.

They ordered Făt-Frumos to scrape the remnants of dough from the troughs. He rolled the last bits of dough into a loaf, placed it in the oven, and baked such a fluffy, golden loaf that it brought joy to the heart. The bakers took the warm bread to the palace, but there they were scolded and mocked, for they had used up all the flour, and the bread was inedible. Then, Frumoasa-Frumoaselor was presented with the bread baked by Făt-Frumos on a towel. She was so delighted with the bread - not because she was hungry, but because even on the grandest holidays, they had never baked such bread.

- Who is the baker?
- Servant.
- Call him to me.

And they began to call him to the princess so that she could thank him, reward him, and treat him. Fat-Frumos appeared, and you might think the story ends here? Not so fast!

So, as she treated him, the king's daughter noticed how the rays of the sun danced in his eyes, dispelling the darkness, and her heart trembled, a smile played on her lips, and a fiery love ignited in her eyes... They took a liking to each other. Sitting at the head of the table, the old king saw from the way his daughter thanked, rewarded, and treated Fat-Frumos that she was ready to give even her royal crown to this baker.

Angered, he discreetly signaled two guards, and they immediately dragged Fat-Frumos into the courtyard, kicking and cursing him, where they beat him to the ground. Grief clouded the face of Fumosa-Frumoaselor, unbearable pain burned her heart, and, overwhelmed with sorrow, she stepped outside the gates, where she saw the mangled body of Fat-Frumos. She paused for a moment, unable to hold back her tears and sobs, then trudged with a heavy heart along a path to a young grove. She sat there to console herself, and then, glancing at the grass, she saw two ants struggling to carry a grain ten times their size. One ant pulled the grain forward, while the other kept trying to push it sideways. Out of frustration and anger at the lack of progress, the ant pulling the grain lunged at the other and—crack!—bit it in half. The poor ant was left to wither in the sun, while the first one, no matter how hard it tried, couldn't move the grain alone. It stopped and thought: the road is long, and alone it could achieve nothing. The other ant, though sometimes pulling backward or sideways, was still a helper—they hadn't stayed in one place, slowly but surely moving forward. After much deliberation, it left the grain, crawled away, and, after some time, returned with a blade of grass in its mouth. It placed the two halves of the ant together and, as soon as it ran the blade over the cut, the dead ant sprang to its feet, whole and unharmed, as if nothing had happened. They grabbed the grain and, tugging in all directions, carried it onward.

The girl watched them wide-eyed. At first, she was amazed, but when she saw the ant come back to life, she understood what she needed to do. But how? Where could she find the healing herb? The ants—tap! tap!—dragged the grain slowly and moved further away...

A heavy trial had been sent her way, but fortune smiled upon her. She decided what to do. She bent down, caught the resurrected ant, tore it in half, and placed it near the grain. The other ant, seeing the misfortune that had befallen its companion once again, left the grain and went off in search of the magical herb. Fumosa-Frumoaselor kept her eyes on it. The ant crawled from blade to blade, from bush to bush, until it found the herb it was looking for. Its roots were shallow, its stem low, and it looked unremarkable and withered. The ant gnawed on the herb and hurried back to its companion. The miracle repeated itself. The ant came back to life. Once again, they grabbed the grain and dragged it toward their storage.

Overjoyed, Fumosa-Frumoaselor uprooted the withered and dried herb and began to run it over the body of the unfortunate Fat-Frumos. The pieces of the young man's body began to fuse together. Just as the mighty sun brings forth the beauty and wealth of the fields from the depths of the earth, so the wise maiden, with her life-giving herb, revived Fat-Frumos to life. And he became a hundred times more beautiful and desirable. He rose, looked around, and groaned:

- Oh, how long I've slept!
- You would have slept forever, my dear, if I hadn't revived you.

And so, they began to talk, and a heartfelt attraction was born from the fire in their gazes. They would have lingered in sweet conversation, but fear crept into their hearts that the old king might discover Fat-Frumos, and then only fire, water, wind, or earth would know what would become of him.

- Let's run away from here, - he said to the maiden.
- How?
- On my father's eagles.
- That would be wonderful, my dear. But do you know that they can carry any load, except for a human?

Fat-Frumos began to think and ponder, but he couldn't come up with anything. Meanwhile, the beautiful maiden wept and wept, until finally, through her sobs, she said:

- I once overheard a conversation in the palace that only the horse of Baba Jghivara with three mares can make the eagle's journey. The old witch makes young men tend her mares, which give birth to three foals every three days. They grow, mature, and become fine steeds right before your eyes. There are no better horses in the world than these. They are the only ones capable of making this perilous journey.

But it is not easy to obtain such a horse: the witch's tasks are too difficult. Many brave men have gone to her, but their traces have been lost. The old woman ensures no one leaves alive. She controls the horses' strength and hearts as she pleases. Mostly, she hides them in a sickly nag, which can only be recognized by feeding it burning coals instead of hay and oats. So spoke the maiden, and they parted with hope of meeting again. The girl stayed to wait, while Fat-Frumos set off on his journey, walking through blooming fields, green forests, valleys, and paths with spring water. After some time, he came across a tall tree with a nest at the top. In the nest were two birds, making such a racket as if they wanted to turn the world upside down. Fat-Frumos looked around and saw a snake reaching for the bird's nest. The chicks, huddled at the edge of the nest, squealed pitifully: peep... peep... peep...

- Oh, kind man, have mercy and save my chicks from the cursed snake, - suddenly spoke the bird in a human voice, flapping its wings right in front of the traveler's face.

Fat-Frumos didn't need much convincing—he broke off a large branch and struck the viper so hard that it slithered away. The young man chased after it and didn't stop until he killed it. How happy the poor birds were! They perched on his shoulders, thanked him with tears in their eyes, and finally, the one on his right shoulder said:

- Traveler, you have done a great deed, and for your kindness, we will repay you with kindness. Pluck a feather from my wing, and when you encounter any difficulty on your journey, just take the feather in your hand and think of me—I will be with you.

Fat-Frumos carefully hid the feather and set off again to reach Baba Jghivara. He quickened his pace and shortened his path, walking and walking until he stopped to rest by a spring. As he bent down to drink, he saw a bee on the water, about to drown. "God, how much sorrow there is in the world," thought our young man, and he gently took the bee out of the water and placed it on a green leaf warmed by the sun. He quenched his thirst and rose to continue his journey. The bee, having recovered, thanked him and asked him to tear off a piece of its wing so that it could fly to his aid if needed.

- Keep it in a safe place and don't lose it, for it will be useful if trouble comes.

Fat-Frumos hid the piece of the bee's wing and continued on his way to Baba Jghivara.

He walked through blooming fields and shady forests until one day he found himself on the seashore. The heat was so intense that everything around seemed to burn. A person could dry up right on their feet. As he walked across the scorching ground, he saw a fish on the sand, barely breathing from the heat.

- Oh, oh, be merciful, traveler, throw me from this heat into the water, or else I will perish.
Fat-Frumos did not consider it a great effort to throw the fish back into the water to save it from death. Instantly, it plunged, thrashed about, and then resurfaced, saying to the traveler:

"You have done a great kindness. As long as I live, I will remember your good deed. And to repay you, I wish to offer my help should misfortune befall you. Lean down, take one of my scales, and if you are ever in need, just look at it—I will be by your side."

Fat-Frumos hid the fish scale along with the bee's wing and the bird's feather, bid farewell, and continued on his way. He walked through mountains and valleys, through ravines and paths, until he came to a wretched, leaning hut with windows no larger than fox holes. The hut was surrounded by a wooden fence, on the stakes of which human skulls dangled. Only one stake was without a head, and it swayed back and forth in the wind, plaintively crying, "A head, a head! A head, a head!"

Fat-Frumos knocked on the door of the hut, and a bony old woman appeared on the threshold—dirty, bent over, black as the earth, with disheveled hair. She was so ugly and terrifying that our young man would have run wherever his eyes led him, just to avoid seeing her. Behind her, three mares impatiently stamped their hooves; pricking up their ears and shaking their manes, they were ready to bolt into the open. Seeing the man at her doorstep, the old woman was beside herself with joy: "Ha-ha, ha-ha!"

"Go to Baba Zhgivera,
Look at her mares,
And hire yourself to her as a laborer,
To pasture the mares till dawn.

After three full days,
As you well know,
You may choose from the good steeds,
Whichever you desire."

Fat-Frumos, also pleased, replied:

"Release the mares, old woman,
Let them out into the wild,
For the poor, the world is no longer dear,
I will go and pasture them in the field.

For my hard labor, I trust,
You will fulfill your promise in full."

"But remember, if even one mare is lost, your head will hang on that stake that has long been weeping and pleading, 'A head, a head! A head, a head!' In the evening, as soon as the sun disappears behind the hilltop, you must be home with the mares."

"Alright," agreed Fat-Frumos, "I will keep an eye on them and not let them out of my sight."

Baba Zhgivera then brought out a piece of bread and a couple of onions from her hovel, placed them in a bag, and was about to untie the mares. Seeing this, Fat-Frumos exclaimed:

"Wait, don't let them go! If you don't put bridles on the mares, I won't pasture them." The old woman gnashed her teeth in anger, cursed, and muttered something under her breath, but she reached under the roof and pulled out three bridles. Fat-Frumos put them on the mares, tied them together, saddled them, and rode off to the pasture. Feeling free, the mares began to jump, frolic, raise their muzzles to the wind, prick up their ears, and do who knows what else. And when they reached the young green grass, adorned with ears and flowers, they began to nibble it all so thoroughly that only bare earth remained behind them. Fat-Frumos dismounted but held the mares by the bridles and admired how quietly and peacefully they grazed. Time passed, and it was already past noon. Fat-Frumos grew very hungry, and taking the piece of bread from his bag, he broke off a piece and began to eat. After eating, he soon felt an overwhelming sleepiness, like a deathly slumber.

The fact was that the bread had been laced with a sleeping potion, and that's why he felt so drowsy that his eyes closed and he could no longer see the light of day. He lay down in the green grass, closed his eyes, and fell into a deep sleep. Meanwhile, the sun was nearing the horizon. Fat-Frumos woke up—no bridles in his hands, no mares in sight. He searched here and there, whistled, called—but where could he find the mares if they were gone? Fear of Baba Zhgivera shook him like a fever, and he broke into a cold sweat. Remembering the stake in the old woman's yard that was eagerly awaiting a head, he nearly burst into tears. But as the saying goes, every cloud has a silver lining. Fat-Frumos remembered the bird's feather, and as soon as he pulled it out from its hiding place, the bird appeared and gently asked:

"What misfortune has befallen you, master?"

"Well, I hired myself out to Baba Zhgivera, and she sent me to pasture her mares, but I fell asleep, and they ran off."

"Do not grieve, master. You did not abandon me in my time of need, and I will do my best to help you. I will call all the birds from across the world, and whether the mares are on earth or in the heavens, we will bring them back. You won't have to wait long; you'll have time to feed and water them before sunset."

The bird flew off, soaring high and low, and after some time, the sound of hooves and loud neighing could be heard in the distance. On the horizon appeared Baba Zhgivera's mares, running in terror, pursued by a flock of birds pecking at them so fiercely that blood flowed. When they came close enough to hear him, Fat-Frumos shook the bridles and shouted:

"Away, you witch's mares,
Back to Zhgivera's stable!"

And with those words, the bridles instantly appeared on the mares.

He was deeply grateful to the birds for their kindness. As the sun began to dip behind the hill, Fat-Frumos led the mares home. The old woman tried to appear kind and welcoming, but after the young man lay down on the bench, she grabbed a fiery whip and began to lash the mares, saying:

"Tomorrow, hide in the deepest part of the forest, where even the devil's foot has not tread. Understood?"

"Understood, understood, we will do so," the mares assured her, tears in their eyes.

At dawn, the mares gave birth to three handsome foals, strong as flint. As the sun rose, Baba Zhgivera led the mares and foals into the yard, and as soon as the foals suckled their mothers three times, they shook themselves and turned into strong, stately horses, so beautiful that one could not take their eyes off them. The old woman looked at the horses, quite pleased, laughed, and commanded them:

"March, you witch's mares,
Back to Zhgivera's stable!"
The horses entered the doors of the hut and disappeared into the underground stable.

"You'll get a horse like this if you herd the mares for two more days," said the old woman to Fat-Frumos, sending him out again the next morning. He set out on the second day as well, keeping watch diligently in the morning, but after eating what the old woman had given him, he once again fell into a deep sleep. The mares broke free from their reins and galloped off to who knows where. Fat-Frumos woke from his sleep when the sun was just a hand's breadth above the horizon. Panic and fear gripped him. He searched in one direction, then another, but there was no trace of the mares. Fat-Frumos grew despondent, but then he remembered the piece of a bee's wing, and as soon as he brought it out into the light, a little bee appeared before him. Remembering the good deed he had done, it asked:

"Why are you so troubled, master?"

"I've lost the mares of Baba Zhgivara."

"Don't fret over that. I was just thinking today: who could be breaking trees in the depths of the forest? — and it was the mares. I'll bring them to you in no time, just shake the reins and call them."

In the blink of an eye, the bee disappeared, and soon the ground rumbled with the sound of hooves, and the neighing of horses could be heard. A swarm of bees was leading the mares, stinging them so fiercely that it gripped their hearts.

When Fat-Frumos saw them, he shook the reins and shouted: "Away, you enchanted mares, to Zhgivara's stable!" Then he mounted one and galloped back to the old woman's hut. The furious Zhgivara was amazed to see him but hid her anger and feigned joy. She fed the young man and put him to sleep on the bench. That night, Fat-Frumos heard only the whistle of the whip and the old woman's curses:

"Here, you wolves should tear you apart, you couldn't hide, you couldn't escape!"

"We did run away, mother, we hid in the forest, but a swarm of bees attacked us and stung us until they led us back to the farmhand."

"Tomorrow you'll hide at the bottom of the sea. Understood?" — and she whipped them again, the lash whistling through the air.

At dawn, all three mares foaled again, and as the sun rose, the old woman led the foals into the yard. They suckled three times and turned into magnificent steeds, even more beautiful than before. If they had decided to run, no one could have caught them. Zhgivara couldn't take her eyes off them, admiring them, then she called out:

"Away, you enchanted mares, to Zhgivara's stable!"

They crowded at the door and disappeared into the underground stable.

"See how handsome they are? Herd the mares again today, and you'll get one of them," the old woman said to Fat-Frumos, who, holding the mares by their reins, prepared to lead them to pasture.

This time, he vowed not to fall asleep no matter what. It was well past noon, and Fat-Frumos hadn't eaten, keeping the mares close and grazing them in the fresh grass. But in the end, he couldn't resist and ate what the old woman had given him, and once again, a heavy sleep overcame him, so that he couldn't understand what was happening. He fell asleep standing and slept until the sun began to set behind the hill. Oh, how terrified the young man was this time! He trembled so much with fear that his shirt seemed to jump on him. But remembering the old woman's command to the mares — to hide at the bottom of the sea — he raced like lightning to the seashore, pulled out a scale from his secret place, and immediately heard:

"What misfortune has befallen you, master?"

"I've lost Baba Zhgivara's mares."

"Don't worry, it's a fixable problem. I was just wondering who could be stirring up the water so much at the bottom of the sea — and it was her mares. I'll bring them to the shore in no time, you just be ready."

Before Fat-Frumos could blink, the water bubbled and churned, and — splash! — all three mares appeared on the shore. Fat-Frumos shook the reins and shouted at them:

"Whoa, you enchanted mares, I'll take you to Zhgivara!" He put on their bridles, saddled them, and drove them back to the old woman. As the sun's edge disappeared behind the hill, Fat-Frumos stopped in front of Zhgivara's hut, and she nearly burst with frustration and anger at the sight of him. The third night passed. The mares foaled again, and Zhgivara did the same with the foals as she had before. After driving them into the stable, she followed them inside, pretending to discipline them and tidy up, but in truth, she was consumed by sorcery and spells. It is unknown to us what the witch did, how she conjured, but she took the hearts of eight horses and placed them into one, turning it into a skinny, sickly, and scabby nag that couldn't even stand on its feet. The other horses were beautiful, stately, strong, and swift as fire.

Fat-Frumos sat on the bench, not swatting flies but thinking about what his beloved had told him before parting. When Baba Zhgivara called him into the stable to choose a horse, the young man found a shovel, filled it with hot coals, and went to make his choice. The horses stood in a row. As soon as Fat-Frumos approached them with the coals, they snorted, shook their manes, and tried to bite him. Only the nag, lying quietly in the corner, reached for the shovel.

"I'll take this one," said Fat-Frumos.

"How can that be, my dear? Don't you consider your service to be work? What will you do with it if it can't even get up from the ground? Choose a good horse and don't deceive yourself."

Fat-Frumos looked at the nag once more, and doubts began to plague him, but he didn't give in to them.
- No, auntie, I won't take another one. - And since he had made up his mind, it was in vain that the woman tried to persuade and plead with him. There was nothing to be done; if she had promised to give him the horse of his choice, then so be it.

Fat-Frumos led the horse into the yard and was about to set off on his journey when he saw: Zhgivyera's face turned crimson with frustration and anger. She couldn't hold back and said:

- Wait, young man, let me seat you at the table, have a little refreshment: it's not good to set off on a journey hungry.

- Don't ask or plead, woman, I can't swallow a bite.

- Don't be stubborn, it would be a sin on my part to let you go hungry after you've worked so hard for me. Fat-Frumos, however, knew that no good or kindness could be expected from Zhgivyera. He gave the horse another scoop of coals, and it - whoosh! whoop! - quickly dealt with them, shook itself, and became strong and round like a cucumber, while six rows of wings grew on its sides - so long and wide that the wind howled through them.

- Saddle up, master, - the horse said to Fat-Frumos.

He mounted, and the horse, shooting up like an arrow, sped through the clouds like lightning.

In the blink of an eye, the rider found himself at the tower of Frumoasa-Frumoaselor and, already flying on the magical horse, saw her in the window - sad and pale. She didn't take her eyes off the road, waiting for her dear friend - she was grieving and shedding tears. She didn't know that from this day on, the sun would chase away her sorrows and happiness would rise above her.

As lightly as a breath of wind, the horse descended before the tower, and Fat-Frumos, warmly embracing the girl, said to the horse:

- Gallop, my horse, take us home, bring the bride quickly. But the horse, leaping upward, groaned heavily:

- Master, master, I will take the beautiful bride, but not to your home, but to the kingdom of the serpent, as you swore.

- Stop, foolish horse!

- I can't, we're flying over the seas. - Stop, I'm telling you!

- I can't: we're flying over the deep kingdom, strewn with rocks. Then Fat-Frumos lunged forward to grab the horse by the mane, and his hat flew off his head.

- Stop, horse, my hat fell off.

- We can't stop, master. By the time you said your hat fell off, we covered a distance that would take a pedestrian six months. And while I was speaking about it, it fell behind us by a full year's journey.

Such was the flight of the horse. Before Fat-Frumos could tell his bride about the dragon, they found themselves before its palace.

The monster, seeing such a guest, Frumoasa-Frumoaselor, on the threshold, was overjoyed. It twisted like a vine before her, hoping to win her heart, but to no avail - the girl immediately scolded it:

- Get out of my sight, you ugly, cursed dog! The serpent's heart burns with love, but the girl said:

- Don't come near me, you monster, who brings sorrow and grief to people! With cunning and persuasion, the dragon-monster tried to win the girl's soul, bowing to the ground before her, but all in vain. The girl was ready to destroy it with a glance, mocked it, and finally spat in its face and cursed it: Perish, unclean force, from the face of the earth, like grass withering in the harsh winter! It twisted and turned around the beautiful girl, but only gathered more anger and malice, and so raged and fumed that its heart and gallbladder burst from frustration.

Fat-Frumos, seeing the serpent fall dead to the ground, gathered a large pile of wood, placed the serpent on top, set it on fire, and the monster burned to ashes. They scattered the ashes to the wind so that no trace of it would remain on earth.

Then Fat-Frumos took the hand of his beautiful bride, led her into the palace adorned with rare gems, and they began a feast for the whole world. They brought Fat-Frumos's parents to the wedding, invited kings and courtiers from distant lands, and many more people from all over the world, for the news spread far and wide that the dragon-dog had been defeated. And the groom called me to the wedding - There I drank and feasted much, And when I heard the tale, I rose from the table, bid farewell, And wandered the wide world, telling you this tale.

More fairy tales

• The Priest and the Mare
• The Blacksmith and the Jug
• Făt-Frumos, the Hunter's Son, in the Kingdom of the Serpent
• Ileana Cosânzeana
• What the Larks Sing About