Kyrmyza

What tale shall I tell you, my friends? It all happened just like this long ago, and if it hadn’t, this story wouldn’t have been told across the world.

Once upon a time, there lived a rich nobleman who possessed immeasurable wealth and boundless estates. His palace was built of gemstones and glowed at night as if it were midday. Beneath its walls lay ninety-nine cellars, filled to the brim with gold and silver. Around the palace stretched a lavish garden, where trees from all corners of the world grew. But neither the gold, nor the palace, nor the gardens, nor the estates were what the nobleman cherished most. His most precious treasure was his daughter, Kyrmyza. She was as radiant as spring itself, her smile like the sunrise, her eyes like two stars in the night, her slender figure like a swaying ear of wheat in the evening breeze, her voice like the chime of silver beads, and her dress as beautiful as flowers washed by morning dew.

At seventeen, Kyrmyza had left many hearts restless, replacing their peace with confusion. The nobleman saw all this and decided not to give his daughter to just any suitor, but only to the chosen one. Suitors flocked from distant lands, from beyond nine seas and nine lands. The nobleman devised a test for them all. He built a tall, towering staircase of gemstones, reaching from the ground to the top of a tower, two spans wide, with steps of glass. He placed Kyrmyza in the tower and announced to the suitors:

"Whoever climbs this staircase, reaches Kyrmyza, removes the ring from her finger, and calls her by name, shall have her as his bride."

The young men rushed to fulfill the nobleman’s will, but all stumbled on the very first step. Suddenly, a dragon appeared, riding a lion with a bristling mane and hooked claws. Step by step, the dragon climbed the staircase all the way to Kyrmyza, removed the ring from her hand, and called her by name. The nobleman brought his daughter to the palace, summoned the dragon, betrothed them, blessed the union, and began a wedding the likes of which the world had never seen. The people rejoiced and feasted, the monstrous dragon exulted, but the bride wept bitterly, like a wilting flower. The poor girl sensed that this dragon was a cruel beast. She grieved and longed for escape, and seizing a moment, she fled to the stables to her beloved Gaitan, a magical horse, and wept bitterly.

The horse neighed and asked her:

"Why do you weep, dear Kyrmyza?"

"How can I not weep when my father is giving me to a dragon from a distant land? He cares not for the living, only the dead."

"Be silent, do not weep or lament. When life is dear, good triumphs and evil retreats. Tomorrow, when the serpent bids you prepare for the journey, give me a measure of hot coals, put a golden bridle with silver bits on me, and set out with him. Always stay three steps behind him. He will ask you, 'Why, dear Kyrmyza, do you ride behind me?' You must answer that it is proper for a woman to ride behind her husband. And when he stops paying attention, draw the saber from its sheath and hold it in your right hand at the height of his neck. Hold tight to the saddle, and I will gallop ahead. The dragon will fall dead on the road."

Kyrmyza calmed down, returned to the palace, and waited until the next evening when the dragon commanded her to prepare for the journey. Quickly, she took a measure, filled it with burning coals, and brought it to Gaitan. The magical horse devoured the coals in an instant. Then she placed the golden bridle with silver bits on him. The dragon mounted his lion, and Kyrmyza mounted Gaitan, the magical horse, and they set off. The bride always stayed three steps behind the dragon. The dragon kept turning back and asking:

"Why do you lag behind, dear Kyrmyza?"

"It is proper for a woman to ride behind her husband."

The dragon, gazing into the distance, galloped like the wind, raising a cloud of dust. But the beautiful Kyrmyza tugged Gaitan’s reins, drew the saber from its sheath, held it in her right hand at the height of the dragon’s neck, and—swish!—off came his head. The lion carried the headless corpse over mountains and valleys, straight to the castle where the dragon’s mother, the dragoness, had been waiting, her eyes strained from watching for her son and his beautiful slave. Her joy turned to grief, and in her rage, she bit her hands and tore her hair. From that day on, she burned wood in a great flint furnace, determined to capture Kyrmyza, alive or dead, and burn her. The fire burned year-round, never extinguishing, day or night. The dragoness roamed the world but could not find Kyrmyza.

Meanwhile, the beautiful maiden, still in her wedding dress, sheathed her sword and rode her magical horse Gaitan across green meadows, high mountains, deep valleys, through open fields, shady groves, wide rivers, and deep waters. By dawn the next day, she arrived in a village much like our Baraboeni. It happened to be Wednesday, market day, and people from nearby villages were gathering there. As it was time to rest, Kyrmyza stopped her horse at the edge of the village on the market square.

In a neighboring village, let’s call it Frasinesti, there lived a young man named Ion. He was tall, handsome, and well-built, but he had one flaw—he couldn’t seem to get married. Those he courted refused him, and those who pursued him didn’t suit his taste. Troubled, Ion went to a wise woman who read the stars, cast beans, and foretold fortunes. The fortune-teller told him:

"Go to Baraboeni at dusk on Wednesday, and without hesitation, take the first person who arrives there, be it an old woman or a man, a girl or a boy. Bring them home and live with them: the beans say this will bring you happiness."

At the first light of dawn, Ion was already approaching the Baraboeni market. Gaitan, the magical horse, knew that Ion had left Frasinesti and said to Kyrmyza:

"Mistress, mistress, reach into my right ear and take out the clothes there, then put them on."

Kyrmyza reached in and pulled out a pair of shepherd’s trousers, a long peasant shirt with embroidered collar and sleeves, a fiery red sash, a tall pointed hat, and a pair of upturned boots—all brand new. Kyrmyza dressed, tucked her braids under the hat, and transformed into a handsome young man, as slender as a fir tree and strikingly beautiful.
As the stars began to fade on the horizon and the fog crept from the valley up to the hilltops, Ion arrived, drenched in sweat.

"Good morning, lad," Ion called from a distance.

"Good morning!" the other replied. Word after word, Ion spoke plainly:

"Come live with me."

After much arguing and persuasion, they set off together to Frăsineti.

But no matter how much the clouds covered the sky, the earth would still catch a glimpse of sunlight now and then. So too, from time to time, Ion would notice a glance, a smile, or a softer word, and his heart told him that it was not a lad traveling with him but a maiden. Yet he couldn't believe it. He pondered, puzzled, and eventually grew so confused that he went to see the wise woman again.

"Granny," he said, "I can't find peace because of the lad I brought from the fair today. I look at him, and it seems to me that he’s a maiden." The old woman lit a coal, gazed into the flame, and replied:

"If you doubt him, test him. Ride out together on horseback into the open field and race each other. If he overtakes you, then he’s surely a lad. But if he falls behind, know that he’s a cursed maiden."

Ion returned home and, seeing that the lad was deep in thought, said:

"Let’s go for a ride on horseback."
"Why not? Let’s go!"

Once in the field, Ion stood in his stirrups and pointed to a large mound in the distance.

"Let’s make a bet, lad: whoever rides around that mound and returns here first wins."

Kyrmyza whispered, "Gallop, magical horse Gaytan!" And in a flash, she was gone. Ion whipped his horse, but it was no match. He soon lost sight of the lad and grew anxious, fearing he might not return. As he approached the hill, the lad came rushing toward him like the wind.

Ion turned his horse and whipped it once, twice, but it was no use. By the time he circled the mound, the lad had already circled seven and was waiting for him back at the starting point.

Ion had fallen far behind and now stood with his head bowed, saddened and ashamed. But he couldn’t rest and went back to the old woman.

Again, she blew on the coal and said to him:

"There’s a pile of logs in your yard. Take him there and ask, 'What could these logs be used for?' If he’s a maiden, he’ll answer right away: 'What spindles, shuttles, or distaffs could be made from them.' But if he’s a practical lad, he’ll say: 'Good troughs could be made, or a fence for the house!'"

Ion returned home and casually led his companion to the logs.

"Fine logs! What could we make from them?"

"Hey, brother! We could make good troughs and a fine fence. And what a house we could enclose with such a fence!"
Ion only opened his eyes wider and ran back to the wise woman, and she, upon learning what the matter was, spoke thus:

"Go home and hang colorful towels, embroidered napkins, and a couple of skeins of wool on the wall near the sabers, arrows, spears, and mace. Once you've done that, bring your guest and let him look. If he gazes at the weapons, know that he is a man, but if he stares at the embroideries and the skeins of wool—then it's no doubt a woman." Ion rushed home in one breath, carried out the wise woman's instructions, and then called his companion, pretending to show him the weapons. The companion stared at the weapons, took them off the wall, turned them in his hands, examined them, ordered the rust to be cleaned off and oiled, and immediately sent Ion for tow and oil to get to work. He didn't even glance at the rest. Ion left the house disheartened and went to the wise woman for the fourth time, bowing before her.

The wrinkled old woman blew into the oven, whispered her incantation, read his palm, and then said:

"Go home and throw a broom on the threshold. Take the lad with you and go wherever your heart desires. But when you return and enter the house, keep your eyes open: if he steps on the broom or steps over it, know that he is a man, but if he picks it up, sweeps, and then places it in the corner with the handle up—then it's no doubt a girl."

Ion carried out the old woman's instructions. They walked around the entire village and were now returning home. "Now or never," thought Ion. He entered the house and stepped on the broom, but his companion grabbed the broom by the handle, swept around, and placed it in the corner. Then Ion turned around and embraced the maiden.

"My beloved, my life, what is your name?"

And then Kyrmyza took off her headscarf. Long, silken hair adorned her maidenly face, and she became as radiant as the sun. She looked into his eyes—herself full of joy, a smile in her gaze—and answered:

"My name is Kyrmyza."

They held a true Moldavian wedding, threw a feast for the whole world, danced the *ostropets*, and in a week, a hundred friends cooked a mountain of dumplings, a hundred groomsmen spread the word far and wide that there was food and drink to be had, saying, "They're celebrating in Frăsinești, everyone is invited to the wedding."

After the wedding, they lived peacefully and happily. For Kyrmyza's sake, the hardworking and diligent Ion toiled from dawn till dusk. Whether they lived like this for a long or short time, suddenly war broke out. Ion was taken away, but he managed to instruct his parents: "Father and mother! Take care of Kyrmyza, don't burden her with heavy work, be gentle with her. If fortune doesn't turn away from me and I return home alive and well, I will cherish you in your old age so much that you'll wish to live another century without a care."

Ion left and vanished without a trace—no word, no news.

They didn't know if he was alive or had fallen in battle, but they waited for him at home like a child waits for spring.

Amidst the clashing of sabers and the whistling of arrows, he managed to write a letter: "Father and mother, take care of Kyrmyza. The bloodshed will soon end, and I will return home. I wish you good health."

The old folks remembered their son's instructions and didn't let the beautiful maiden lift even a straw from the floor. They cherished her so much that they were ready to walk through fire for her. But the man who carried the letter, whether he traveled for a long or short time, found himself in a deep forest at midnight. Darkness surrounded him, so thick you could poke your eyes out. He stumbled upon the house of a dragoness and decided to knock, asking for shelter. The dragoness opened the door, let him in, fed him, and then began reading the letters. She found the one about Kyrmyza. Then the old hag pretended to be a gracious hostess, brought out old wine that sparkled in the cup, got the poor man drunk, and while he slept like the dead, she burned the letter to Kyrmyza and wrote another: "Father and mother, when this letter reaches you, bring nineteen cartloads of wood, light it, and burn Kyrmyza. She has been wandering with a dragon all her life and then attached herself to me. I will soon return home, and if you do not carry out my will, I will not hesitate to burn you alive on a great pyre." In the morning, the man set off on his journey. Whether he traveled for a long or short time, he brought the letter to Ion's parents. They read it and burst into tears. Hearing their lamentations, Kyrmyza ran in, read the letter, and also wept bitterly. Then she went out to the magical horse Gaitan, who neighed and asked her:

"Why, dear Kyrmyza, do you shed tears?"

"How can I not cry, when this is what has happened to me," and she told the horse what the letter said.

"Don't cry, don't grieve!... Tell the parents to do as the letter says, but when the fire blazes fiercely, tell them you want to die with the horse. Lead me to the fire, pull a folded handkerchief from my right ear, throw it into the flames, and boldly ride straight into the fire."

The old man, in his grief and despair, brought nineteen cartloads of wood, built a huge pile, lit it, and the fire blazed so fiercely that the sky grew hot. Kyrmyza took the horse by the reins, led it to the fire, whose flames leapt in all directions. And when the parents covered their faces with their hands so as not to see her burn, Kyrmyza pulled a handkerchief from the magical horse Gaitan's right ear and threw it into the fearsome flames. The fire immediately died down, as if doused with water, and Kyrmyza leapt into the saddle, galloped through the smoke, soared to the sun, flew above the clouds, over mountain cliffs, over blooming fields, over deep forests, then landed on the ground and rode at a light trot. At a spring they encountered on a hillside, Kyrmyza stopped the horse, jumped to the ground, and lay down on the grass.

"Oh, my dear horse, magical Gaitan, my time to give birth has come," she said.

"And my time to die has come," replied the horse and fell down dead. Kyrmyza fell asleep, and when she woke up, she found herself in a large, beautiful castle. She lay on a bed, holding two handsome, golden-haired sons in her arms. A midwife stood at the head of the bed. All this was done by the magical horse Gaitan. He protected the beautiful Kyrmyza even after death: his chest became a castle with golden towers, walls of precious stones, and silver doors adorned with pearls; his head became a table laden with all kinds of food; his eyes and ears became two fierce wolfhounds that ran around the castle; from Gaitan's fur, a beautiful garden grew in front of the castle, filled with various trees laden with fruit and singing birds; and from one hoof, a wrinkled and hunched old woman appeared. She swaddled the infants, bathed them, and brought them to Kyrmyza to feed.
Whether they lived long or not, the sons grew not by days but by hours and became as beautiful as two flowers. One fine day, as they were running around the yard, an old woman approached the gates. The dogs sensed her and stood by the gates, not letting her in. Then the old woman said:

"Come here, my dear children!"

The boys ran to the gates, and the old hag pulled out three hairs from one belt and three from another, gave them to the boys, and said:

"Take these! You throw them at that dog, and you throw them at the other one's neck." And as soon as the boys threw them, the three hairs turned into three thick, heavy iron chains, chaining the dogs to the gateposts. Meanwhile, the old hag, with a face as ugly as a devil's, a forehead like a boulder, hair standing on end, clenched fists, and flashing eyes, rushed to the doors. The dogs barked, strained, and suddenly broke the chains. Before the old woman could grab the latch, the wolfhounds sank their teeth into her back and began tearing and ripping her apart so badly that her own mother wouldn't have recognized her. The boys saw all this, got scared, and shouted:

"Mother, mother! Come out quickly! The dogs have torn the old woman apart!"

Kyrmyza ran out of the castle and, seeing the bloodied, evil face, recognized the cursed dragoness who had come by untrodden paths to kill her. She picked up the boys, hugged them, and said:

"Serves her right. All her life she followed me, dreaming of driving me to the grave."

They didn't let the black plague linger in front of the castle but dragged her bones far away to a high mountain and threw them there under the scorching sun, in the shifting sand, so that the winds would whip her, the rains would wash her away, and the storms would torment her, so that the world would forget her evil deeds, and she would have neither bottom nor cover.

Now let's go back and remember Ion: we've gone far with the tale. Meanwhile, he returned from the war safe and sound, reined in his horse at the gates, and shouted:

"Come out of the house, dear Kyrmyza! Welcome guests, greet your husband!"

But how could Kyrmyza greet her husband when she had gone far away from him, beyond thrice-nine lands. His parents came out, wept with joy, and remembered Kyrmyza with tears. Ion, learning of his sorrow and reading the letter, turned his horse and began to ride across the land, east and west, north and south, but he never managed to meet his wife. He grew weary from so many untrodden paths, spent his strength in places where no human foot had ever trod, threw the reins on the saddle bow, and let the horse go free. This happened in Kyrmyza's valley, and soon, as if from underground, two dogs appeared before him. They growled and barked, first from one side, then from the other, driving the rider straight to the castle, not allowing him to stray from the path. The boys were playing in the yard at the time and, seeing the rider, shouted:

"Mother, mother, come out and look: some rider has come to us."

Kyrmyza came out, shielded her eyes with her hand, saw him, and recognized him.

"Oh, my dear sons, your father is coming."

Ion picked up the boys, kissed them, and the four of them sat down at the table. They drank, ate, and then began to tell each other about their lives: they talked for three days, unable to stop, until sweet sleep closed their eyes. When they woke up, they found themselves in an open field, not in bed but on the bare ground, their heads on a hill. They looked around and saw a pair of horses galloping playfully from afar. One was Ion's black horse, and the other was the magical horse Gaitan. They mounted the horses, took their sons in their arms, and rode home.

And I, having mounted a good saddle, told you the tale as best I could, then saddled the kettle and brought the tale to its end.

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Kyrmyza

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