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Gole the Victorious

So there I am, minding my own business, you know, my business of ploughing that putrid piece of land that his freakin’ feudal lordship allows me, when Blossom is enveloped by a storm of midgets, and he twitches and moans in pain, and all I could do is snap my whip, and I do it so well that thirty leeches fall off him, fat and dead, and midges die in their thousands. Well, I say to myself, this is a satisfying day. I may be small, but I’m good. So I unhitch Blossom from the plough, and lead him towards the city road, and spit at the freakin’ feudal lord (may the leeches consume him), and walk a bit, and, boy, is it hot.

I stop for a brief break, and Blossom is pleased, I think, for he nibbles on some grass, and I ponder great things. I chop down a little tree with my faithful axe, and I shape it into a signpost, and I carve out a message.

This way went Gole the Warrior, vanquisher of Saracens, thirty knights undone by me, and countless forces of infantry.

And I clamber onto Blossom, and whisper to him, and he waggles his ears at me, and we are back on the road.

And then we hear frantic clip-clops approaching us from behind, and a great knight stops us, and says, “Have you seen Gole the Warrior?” and I say, “That’s me, buddy.” and he nearly falls off his destrier. “Ride on my right,” I say, nudging Blossom on, and the knight obeys, and I can see his brow is furrowed and his nose is wrinkled, for I haven’t washed in days, and I am fairly ripe, and Blossom’s scarcely much to look at, and he is thinking, “Can this be? A stinky peasant on a half-dead horse? Is there some enchantment?”

“Who are you?” I say, and the knight shakes himself alert, and bows from his saddle.

“Bova, the king’s son,” he says, and rides beside me, thinking deeply.

And then we hear frantic clip-clops approaching us from behind, and a magnificent knight stops us, and says, “Bova! Have you seen Gole the Warrior?” and Bova points silently at me, and the knight is so surprised that a prince is riding with a peasant that he bows to me, and says, “Yeruslan, at your service.”

I bid him ride on my left, and he does so, and raises his eyebrows at Bova who shrugs. They think I don’t notice. I do, but do I care? They are warriors of legend, and many a tale is told of their doings in Rus, but I’m no less after all. I am Gole the Warrior.

And then we hear frantic clip-clops approaching us from behind, and a young knight overtakes us, and, recognising Bova and Yeruslan, he bows to me and exclaims, “Churila, sir, at your service,” and I reply, “Gole, at yours.” and he takes Bova’s side, and we go on for some miles, and I don’t speak much except to say, “I’m grateful for your company, my brothers,” for that is how I fancy knights talk among each other.

And we come across fine meadows and lush pasture and there are fine cows too many to count, and I direct Blossom towards them when Bova shouts, “Stop, Gole. These are the domains of the Saracen Queen!” and I say, “Long has she menaced Rus. Let us rest and refresh ourselves on her lands.”

And Yeruslan turns to me, and I can see he is worried, and he says, “The Saracen Queen’s forces are mighty – twenty-two knights, and Zilant the Undefeated.”

And I say to him, “Mere mosquitoes! Are they too much for you?” and he is struck dumb. The knights follow me onto the meadow, and I let Blossom graze, and I take my sweaty shirt off, and I lie down beneath an ancient oak, and the knights bestir themselves to do battle with each other, to test their strength and mettle. To each his own, I think, and I close my eyes.

And the knights chase the shepherds away, and the meadow is pummelled into mud under their war-horses, and they come back to sit near me, to wonder at my calm.

For the bells are pealing and the gates to the Saracen Queen’s city are opening, and trumpets are blaring, and Churila is shaking me awake, saying, “Gole, there’s a force sent against us.”

I open one eye, and I say, “A force? Three knights – three leeches. And a division of infantry? All mosquitoes. Go on, Churila, deal with them, and send one to the queen with a message to marry me.”

Off Churila goes, and fights hard, and cuts down one knight and then another and he spares the third, who drags himself back to his queen, and she, clearly is not happy, and she sends six champions against us with three divisions of infantry. Churila is exhausted but he shakes me awake, and I take a look, and I say, “Six knights? One blow and they are dust. Go on, Bova, surely you can manage?” and I go back to sleep.

And Bova fights long and hard, and he takes them apart, and sends one man to tell the Saracen Queen to marry me.

But she sends twelve knights now against us, and six divisions of men-at-arms, and they blow their horns and wave their maces and make a godawful din.

“Yeruslan,” I say, “Sort them out, there’s a good fellow.”

“If you can’t,” I add, “We’ll help you.”

And he is as good as they say, for he charges the enemy and fights them like a lion, and though they are so many, he outdoes himself, until he crushes the lot, and, barely able to stay up on his saddle, sends one man to the Saracen Queen, demanding that she marry me.

And then appears Zilant, a giant of a warrior clad in iron. The earth shakes as he emerges from his iron nest that is stretched across twelve trees that bend under the strain.

Zilant roars and the grass flattens before him, and I awaken again.

My brothers are exhausted and there is nothing for it, and I put on my shirt and I’m sweating again, and I clamber onto Blossom, and he staggers forward, and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, and I cross myself, and I think, “Here I go to my death, and it is an honourable one.”

And I wave my axe over my head, and I whisper to myself, “Fathers and brothers, remember my name.” and later they tell me that Zilant cannot believe his eyes and roars, “Is this for real? A silly peasant? Against me? A flick of a finger and he’ll fly a furlong!” and he crouches close over his horse’s neck for a better look, and then Blossom jumps, and I rise on my stirrups, and I chop hard against Zilant’s head, and he goes down pole-axed, and I strike him as he lies stunned on the ground, and I cut him as I would an oak, and then I shrug, and Blossom limps back to my friends.

And they gape at me unbelievingly, and meanwhile the Saracen Queen is filled with grief and foreboding, and she can do nothing other than to open the gates and come out herself and bow to me. And she is puzzled by me and shakes my hand and crushes it so hard that I have to clench my mouth shut not to shout, and I jump from the agony in my breaking fingers and jerk my hand back. And she says, sweetly, “I’ve always honoured courage.” And she puts her hand on my shoulder, and I can scarcely withstand her strength, and I stagger, and she says, “Protect my kingdom! You are our defender now.”

So I bow to her and worry how I am to save my head.

And she throws a feast in our honour, and she brings out her best mead thinking to muddle our heads, but I refuse, and I say, “After a day’s hard work, I drink nothing except the Water of Champions.”

And the Saracen Queen says, “We have a little of the mighty water.”

And I say, “How much of it do you have?”

And she says, “A bottle full.”

And I say, “Is it any good? The usual variety is no better than beer.”

And she orders it brought before me, and I pour myself a glass and swallow it in one, and she says, “How is it?” and I say, “I have hardly got a taste.”

And I pour myself out another glassful and I down it, and then I down three more, and the queen shouts, “Enough, enough! You’ll leave none for me!”

And I say, “Excellent water. How strong am I now?”

And I ask that a length of ship’s cable be brought, thick as an oak tree, and order it tied into a knot, and I take a destrier from the stables, and I ride him full pelt towards the rope, and the knot slips over my head, and I tear it open, and all who see it, fall onto their knees in awe, and raise their hands to the heavens, and praise my name.

And soon I am known far and wide as the Gole the Great, and the Saracen Queen marries me, and she gives me two daughters, Luck and Fortune, and I look upon them and am proud.

And nobody can doubt again that I once felled thirty knights with one terrible blow of my hand.

[Based on the Russian folk tale. Crossposted from here.]

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Categories: folk tales, russia, war

Beksolta Who Could Grab Three Lions In One Swoop

10/04/2009 2 comments

[A Chechen folk-tale, translated from a Russian translation available here.]

Once upon a time there lived a man and his wife. They had a son on whose arm was written: “Beksolta who can catch three lions in one swoop.” But in fact, the boy was such a coward that he scarcely stepped out of his house in the daytime, leave alone catch lions.

“He will never become a man if in fifteen years he has never set foot outside the house,” said his parents. “We cannot look after him forever.” They took Beksolta into the forest and left him there. The boy, fearing that wolves would attack him, immediately climbed a plane tree.

Meanwhile, one of the nearby villages was being savaged by a wolf. People were beginning to give up all hope of ridding themselves of this scourge. When they  set out hunting that day, they came across Beksolta perched high on the branch. They turfed him out of the tree and asked him:

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I’m here hunting lions,” replied Beksolta, shivering with fear. He held out his arm so that the people could see what was written on it. The hunters were pleased to have found such a brave man. The whole village got to hear of him, and people gossiped about Beksolta, who had miraculously appeared in their midst.

“Here is Beksolta who can catch three lions in one swoop,” they said to each other happily, “He will kill the wolf that has been besieging our village.”

The villagers armed the boy and sent him back into the forest on the trail of the predator.

“I’ll hide near where the wolf dwells, and you drive him to me,” he said, climbing the plane tree, terrified that the wolf would carry him off.

Presently, the wolf, heading to the village, passed by the plane tree. Beksolta looked down, and seeing the wolf, froze in his fright, fell off the tree onto the animal and broke its back. Dragging the carcass behind him, he came back to the village.

“How did you manage to kill the wolf?” asked the villagers, astounded.

“As soon as the wolf came near  me,” said Beksolta, “I grabbed him and twisted him and broke his spine.”

Beksolta’s fame soon resounded through the district, and the villagers made much of him.

Shortly thereafter, a quarrel between Beksolta’s village and a neighbouring town began to escalate into outright violence. The villagers went to Beksolta seeking his advice on what to do.

“We will fight them,” said Beksolta. “Bring me a herd of horses so that I can choose one for my own.”

Bearing a wooden nail, Beksolta went to the middle of the herd. Walking past the horses, he poked them with the nail, and, ignoring those that jerked away from the nail, he finally found a stallion that shrugged off the irritation. Beksolta had thought to find himself a horse so dull that it would fall back during the battle ahead, but, ironically, he found himself a horse of fortitude that had never once before been in battle. The villagers were amazed at his choice of an untested horse, but they prepared themselves for the fight, and stood awaiting the enemy. As soon as the enemy was seen, Beksolta’s horse reared and charged full-tilt towards them, leaving his cohorts behind. The boy, fearing that the horse, in the heat of its passion, would hurtle further into battle, somehow guided it between two wooden columns that were standing upright in the ground. As the horse charged between them, Beksolta, trying to slow it down, snatched at the poles, and uprooted them.

The horse, suddenly enthralled by the fighting, tore into the midst of the battle, and charged wildly up and down the field. Clutching onto the wooden columns for dear life, and waving them about desperately, Beksolta laid the enemy low left and right, and flattened their forces single-handedly.

Victorious, the villagers returned home with the boy. Unwillingly having performed feats of valour twice, Beksolta became the most famous man in the region. And the words “Beksolta, who can grab three lions in one swoop” firmly became his motto.

Categories: chechnya, folk tales, russia