The Tale of Fat-Frumos, the Hunter's Son, in the Kingdom of the Serpent
It is said 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 hunting, he was surrounded by a pack of wolves. Though he killed many, more came, enraged, and tore him to pieces in the dense forest, far from his home, leaving behind only his bones. His wife, having received no word from her husband, waited and waited, and then wept bitter tears, washing away her sorrow. She grieved for a long time, mourning her husband, for she was also about 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 may find a trade that suits me."
"Oh, my dear," his mother lamented, "you must not take up his craft—there are many dangers on that path. Better to take up what everyone else around you does."
Făt-Frumos heeded his mother's advice, but he did not reconcile himself to this thought for long and soon insisted again 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 hunting yourself, for I have paid dearly for the profits of that trade."
Like all young men, the boy did not take his mother's words seriously. As soon as he heard that his father had been a hunter, he decided to become one himself. He fashioned a bow and arrows, and the very next morning, he set out to hunt in the wide steppe.
While hunting, he wandered through the nearby forests, the groves along the riverbanks, the hills, and the fields, until he came to an extraordinary forest: the trees were silver, and their leaves sparkled like pearls. In the middle of the forest, he saw a meadow, beautiful beyond words, covered in flowers: roses, poppies, and peonies. In the very center of the meadow was a lake, the likes of which are rare: its shores were made of white marble, the water was as clear as a tear, and every pebble at the bottom could be counted. The sun shone brightly, there was not a breath of wind, and the water was warm—so very warm. The boy's heart fluttered with joy at the sight of such beauty. He slowly circled the lake and was about to head back when he suddenly heard: frr! frr!—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 transformed into three maidens of extraordinary beauty: their faces were delicate, their hair golden, and—splash!—they dove straight into the water. They swam, splashed, and dove, a delight to behold. The cunning boy sneaked behind the bushes, found their wings, hid them under his shirt, and set off on his way back.
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, noticed the boy's footprints on the grass. And so all three of them—eyes fixed on the ground—followed his trail. They hurried, overtaking one another, paying no heed to mountains or valleys, while the boy kept walking. They had covered a good half of the distance when they spotted Făt-Frumos on the horizon. The eldest fairy spoke in a gentle voice:
"Peony leaf, finely carved,
Proud young man, stop,
Stop, 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—frr! frr!—two wings flew out from under his shirt and, like lightning, soared to one of the maidens, transforming her, as if in a fairy tale, into a bird that swiftly ascended into the sky. Făt-Frumos understood the magic of the song, lowered his head, tightened his shirt at the collar, and decided not to look back again. He continued on his way, but not for long: the second maiden began to sing a sorrowful song:
"Golden leaf of the chamber,
Young lad,
Who came to our forest,
Took my peace away.
This song of mine,
I sing for you.
Go, but do not rush,
And linger on your path,
So that flowers may bloom,
So that love may grow,
So that I may not wither
In bitter sorrow and longing..."
She sang so tenderly, so soulfully, that:
The leaves in the forest whispered,
And the springs grew clear,
The sun slowed its course—
Setting diamonds alight 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,
I weep, I suffer."
The song grew closer and so enchanted Făt-Frumos that he could barely move his feet.
As the saying goes: a tree is destined to bear fruit, and a song—to ignite hearts. He turned his head, and the second pair of wings—frr!—flew out from under his shirt, and as a tear welled up in his eye, the maiden-bird was already far away in the blue sky.
Făt-Frumos stood there, his eyes wide open, 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 grass swayed to the rhythm of the song, and every bud instantly blossomed, and the branches were instantly 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
The burden of longing can be..."
And the song continued, weaving its magic, as Făt-Frumos walked on, tears still falling, watering the earth beneath his feet.
And bitter is my fate.
I am in anguish, but not for home,
But for a stranger from afar,
Who came from distant lands
To rest in the enchanted forest.
The young man walks, cautious and wary, while the maiden’s song pours 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 in the middle of the road
Fall at his feet.
With this song, with my pain,
Touch him, ignite his love..."
Mountains crumbled from the power of this song, and perhaps 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. No sooner had he entered the house than the fairy fell silent and stood behind him, stately 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: in the arch of her brows—the gleam of sunlight; on her slender neck, like a vine—the moon adorned her with its jewels; across her dress, flowers spilled from a May meadow.
They fell in love with each other and, without much persuasion, began preparing for the wedding. When the tables were cleared and the candles lit, they invited many people, all their relatives and loved ones, so that everyone could share in the joy of the young couple. They threw a grand feast, and an unprecedented merriment began. The groom danced with the bride, and all the youth danced so fiercely that the ground seemed to slip away beneath their feet.
The bride danced lightly, like a feather—now rushing like a whirlwind, now spinning in circles so skillfully that she left everyone gaping in awe.
People watched and marveled:
"May, may, what a dancer!"
And the fairy replied:
"If only 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 back her wings.
"Let her dance, and if she decides to fly away, surely we’re good for something: can’t we catch one bird?!" they shouted from all sides.
Fat-Frumos had no choice but to retrieve 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 a gentle breeze, she swayed, she swirled, she spun like a top, her eyes flashing like lightning. Everyone couldn’t take their eyes off her, and the bride tapped her way to the edge of the circle, then quickly moved to the center and suddenly—bang!—she struck the ground. Before a spark could ignite, she turned into a bird and flew upward, 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 God forbid, do not touch a cuckoo.
The groom grew sad and sorrowful, while the cuckoo descended, circled, and said to him:
"Young man, young man, if you wish to see me again, come to the golden palace that stands in the golden forest."
Having said this, she rose once more into the sky until she became the size of a wheat grain, then a poppy seed, and soon the blue of the heavens hid her from human eyes.
And so Fat-Frumos set off on his journey. He walked and walked until he came to a place where such a fierce drought raged that it seemed the very heart of the earth was burning. Near a mountain, he came across a hut, on the porch of which sat an old, old man; his beard like a haystack, thin and pale of face, but wise in speech.
"Good day, grandfather."
"Welcome, young man. Sit on the porch, rest from your journey, and tell me: what thought has brought you to these distant lands, what love and for whom has made you tread these roads, walking 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 and heard much in my time, but I don’t recall anyone ever telling me about this forest. But since you’ve come to me, I’ll try to help, and we’ll find out where you should go."
The old man rose, stood in front of the house, pulled out a flute from his bosom, and whistled once—the mountains bowed their peaks, and from all sides, animals, birds, flies, and other forest dwellers began to gather. They came in droves, more than could be counted.
When there was no more room to step, the old man asked:
"My children, you roam the wide world—have you seen the golden palace that stands in the golden forest?"
A little goat answered:
"I’ve just come from there, father."
"Then guide the young man, show him the way."
"Oh, father, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t show the way: an unprecedented drought has parched those lands—the grass has dried up, and not a drop of water can be found."
Nevertheless, an order is an order. The little goat set off with the young man on the road, leading him along untrodden paths, through rocky places, to the top of a hill, from which stretched a flat expanse scorched by drought.
"Now keep going straight, don’t 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 came upon a desolate land: no living thing in sight, only withered gardens and sun-scorched fields. In the distance, a small flame flickered. He approached it and saw a few shepherds milking sheep into walnut shells. They had milking pails, but they had long since dried out—there had been no one to milk in such a drought. The shepherds told him that ever since the serpent had abducted the Fairy Queen from the golden garden, all the springs and streams in their land had dried up, the rivers and lakes had vanished, and everything that once grew and thrived had withered away. Learning of the traveler’s destination, the shepherds gave him a flute.
"Take it, brave lad," they said. "It will serve you well on your journey."
And so Fat-Frumos set off again. He walked and walked, for how long no one can say, until he reached the serpent’s kingdom. Crossing the border, he looked around in amazement—it was as if he had stepped into another world. The grass was lush, waist-high and carpeted with flowers, the trees tall and sprawling. Overwhelmed by the beauty, Fat-Frumos raised the flute to his lips and began to play a doina, a song praising the land’s splendor. Suddenly, three wolves and three bears emerged from the forest, guardians of the serpent’s realm. They had come to devour Fat-Frumos, as their master had commanded, but upon hearing his music, they forgot their task. Entranced by the magical flute, they could not get enough of it.
The wolves and bears surrounded him.
"Listen, brave one," they said. "If you play for us again, all will be well. But if you refuse, you must turn back, for we are ordered to tear apart anyone who crosses into this kingdom."
What did Fat-Frumos reply?
"I would play for you a hundred times more beautifully, but alas—my flute is broken. If you would help me extract the heartwood from a century-old oak, I would play for you with all my heart."
The wolves and bears went and found a massive oak tree, thick and towering. They brought Fat-Frumos to it, and with one swing of his sword, he split the oak down the middle.
"Quick, grab the edges of the crack and pull them apart," he said. "I’ll find the heartwood."
The wolves and bears thrust their paws into the crack, and Fat-Frumos swiftly withdrew his sword. The oak clamped shut, trapping the animals so tightly they could neither move their paws nor topple the tree. Leaving them ensnared, Fat-Frumos 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 wielding a double-edged saber appeared before him. With one swing, he severed Fat-Frumos’s legs; with another, he cut off his arms. As he raised the saber to behead the young man, Fat-Frumos collapsed. Not far from where he fell, there was a spring. Regaining consciousness, Fat-Frumos rolled toward it to drink. He leaned down, trying to draw water, but it eluded him—this was the serpent’s water. Summoning his strength, he bit down on the main vein of the spring, gripping it tightly.
The spring cried out, "Release me, oh, release me, brave lad!"
"I will not."
"Release me, and I will do anything for you. I will give you whatever you ask."
"Then make my arms grow back, just as they were before."
"So be it," said the spring, and instantly Fat-Frumos’s arms were restored.
Again the spring pleaded, "Release me, brave lad, I am dying of pain!"
"I will not release you until my legs grow back, just as they were."
"Let your wish be granted!" said the spring, and Fat-Frumos’s legs were restored.
He tensed his muscles, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and tightened his grip on the spring’s vein.
"What do you want, brave lad? Why do you torment me?"
"Tell me how to defeat the Black Arab."
"Drink three times from the place where you hold the vein with your teeth."
Fat-Frumos drank three times, as the spring instructed, and became so strong that the earth trembled with his breath.
He set off again, and once more the Black Arab appeared before him with his saber. Fat-Frumos seized him, hurled him to the ground with a crash, and the saber flew from the Arab’s hand. For three hours, the Arab’s wails echoed as he sank into the earth. And that was that!
Fat-Frumos made his way to the serpent’s palace, traveling through shadowy forests, flower-filled meadows, green valleys, and groves alive with birdsong. He arrived at the palace, gleaming in the sunlight, its beauty undimmed. The Fairy Queen stepped onto the threshold and said, "It is good that you have come, Fat-Frumos. But it would have been better if you had not, for the serpent-dog will destroy you."
No sooner had she spoken than the dragon’s club flew through the air, struck the door, bounced onto the threshold, and returned to its place on a nail. Fat-Frumos caught it and hurled it back—had it not struck the serpent’s chest, it would have flown even farther.
"Troublesome guests await me at home, it seems," said the serpent.
He entered the palace, saw Fat-Frumos, and asked, "How do you wish to fight, brave lad—hand-to-hand or with sabers?"
"With sabers or hand-to-hand—it makes no difference. I will prevail."
And so they fought. When the serpent threw Fat-Frumos to the ground, the earth shook. Then it was Fat-Frumos’s turn. He hurled the serpent into the earth, leaving only a tuft of hair above the ground. But the serpent clawed his way out and cried, "Wolves, bears, come to me! Your master is in trouble!"
Fat-Frumos threw the serpent again, and once more he sank into the earth, only a tuft of hair remaining. But the serpent cried even louder, "Black Arab, where are you? Your master is in peril!"
But who could hear him and come to his aid? The earth had swallowed the Black Arab, and the oak held the wolves and bears fast.
When Fat-Frumos threw the serpent a third time, it took him three days to descend wailing into the depths of the earth, and he has not returned to this day.
Water flowed once more from the dried-up springs, and the fields turned green—grace had descended upon the land.
Fat-Frumos entered the palace. What else was there for him to do? He took the Fairy Queen by the hand, turned all the serpent’s treasures into a golden apple, and returned home. And so they lived happily ever after.
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