Ancient Legends
Tatiana Edel

© Tatiana Edel, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0065-6589-0

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Tatiana Edel
Ancient Legends
2025г

This is a book of unusual fairy tales and legends that I wrote for children while gazing at the paintings of the great Russian artist, Nicholas Roerich.

Modern children love fantastic and magical stories, so I decided to create illustrations using generative artificial intelligence.

If you enjoy these tales and legends, I hope you will also want to learn more about the man who inspired them – Nicholas Roerich. Over the course of his life, this remarkable artist created more than seven thousand paintings. His name is known around the world, and in India, where he lived for nearly half his life, he is revered as a sage. And that is no surprise. Nicholas Roerich was not just a painter – he was also a writer, a scholar, a philosopher, and a great traveler.

He journeyed through ancient Russian cities, Scandinavia, America, and Europe. But his most extraordinary expedition was through many countries of Central Asia – the oldest region of our planet. There, Roerich studied the customs, beliefs, and way of life of the peoples who lived in these lands, marveling at their profound wisdom and centuries-old cultural treasures.

Roerich’s expedition crossed the dense Siberian taiga, the blooming meadows of Altai, the scorching steppes of Mongolia, the highlands of Tibet – called the “Roof of the World” – as well as China and the towering mountain passes of the Himalayas, the highest peaks on Earth. In his paintings, filled with vibrant colors, he captured an indescribable beauty – the sacred lands of our world bathed in golden and crimson sunrises and sunsets, fiery clouds and pearlescent mists, breathtaking northern lights, and the crystal-clear blue of the sky.

I am deeply inspired by the work of Nicholas Roerich, and I want you to love his paintings with all your heart, too. And as you grow older, I hope you will take an interest in his spiritual revelations and his thoughts on the role of beauty in our lives. After all, Beauty is what fills a person with qualities such as Heroism, Kindness, and a Love for all that is noble and sublime.

Read, discover, and enjoy.

Yours,

Tatiana Edel

Contents

– The Buried Treasure ………………………………………………….

– The Tale of the Varangians …………………………………………

– The Waterfall’s Song ………………………………………………….

– The Life-Giving Spring…………………………………………………

– The Flying Carpet ……………………………………………………….

– The Guardians of the Desert ……………………………………….

– Buddha the Victor……………………………………………………….

– The Legend of the Maid of Orléans……………………………….

– The Tale of Geser Khan ……………………………………………….

– The Bear Groom ………………………………………………………….

– The Legend of Atlantis …………………………………………………

– The Emperor’s Love …………………………………………………….

– The Fire Enchanter ………………………………………………………

– The Lonely Wanderer ………………………………………………….

– The Messenger of the White Burkhan ……………………………..

– Sacred Shambhala…………………………………………………………

– The Hidden Treasure …………………………………………………..

– The Mountain of Gems ……………………………………………………

– The Legend of the Book of Life …………………………………………

– Above the Mountains ………………………………………………………

– Beyond the Seas, Great Lands ………………………………………….

– Drops of Life …………………………………………………………………….

– Snezhana ……………………………………………………………………….

– Svyatogor ……………………………………………………………………….

– The Wise Woman …………………………………………………………….

– The Lord of the Night ………………………………………………………

– Nastasya Mikulichna ……………………………………………………….

– The Song of the Morning …………………………………………………….

– Ilya Muromets …………………………………………………………………

Buried treasure

In ancient times, people survived by what they could gather in the forest or the fields, in the mountains or the rivers. Centuries passed, and much changed in human life. People learned to tan leather and furs, build grand houses, craft machines, paint masterpieces, and sculpt statues. There was no limit to the skill of human hands.

But people valued these achievements differently: some admired and cherished the creations of great masters, while others bought and collected them merely for prestige and profit. And some cared nothing for them at all. Yet there was one thing that captivated everyone – gold, jewels, and wealth. The more people amassed, the stronger their hunger for riches grew. Wars began, not for honor or justice, but to plunder prosperous cities and nations. And in their greed, people cared little for preserving the treasures of art and culture. Palaces burned, taking with them the paintings of great artists, destroying the spiritual wealth of entire peoples.

One wise old man decided to bury a message for future generations. In it, he entrusted them with a truth – one hidden from the world. This treasure was a symbol of all human knowledge and the spiritual wealth of a true creator.

He took a boat and rowed to the center of a mountain lake. There, with great care, he lowered a small chest into the water, entrusting this legacy to those who would one day be ready to receive it.

That lake lay in a deep mountain gorge, guarded by an evil sorceress. She set many perilous traps for those who dared seek the hidden treasure. Yet, adventurers came, climbing treacherous mountain paths, hoping to claim the prize – only to find their final resting place instead.

Wars raged. Feuds forced people to flee their homes and take refuge in the mountains. And so it happened that one family found themselves in a new land. Life there was hard – nothing but cliffs surrounded them, and there was no land to sow grain. They survived on the fish from the lake, which was so plentiful that feeding the family required little effort. But their existence was dull. Cut off from the world, they knew nothing of the great land beyond the mountains – whether wars had ended, if peace had returned, or if the fires of hatred still burned. Often, they would sit together, gazing into the distance, hoping to see a traveler appear with news of the world.

Time passed, and the family’s son, Ivan, grew restless. He no longer wished to sit idly, sighing in uncertainty. He longed for adventure, for knowledge, for the vast world beyond. Seeing this, his father spoke to him:

“There are many hidden treasures in the Russian land. But the most important treasure does not contain silver or gold. No – within it lies the very essence of human life. Yet no one has ever found it. Only one with a pure heart may uncover this secret. A man of greed, who seeks riches only for himself, will never see it. Even if he stands in the right place, mysterious forces will lead him astray, leaving him lost forever.”

But Ivan was not afraid. His resolve only grew stronger. He wanted to uncover the meaning of life, to witness the unseen, and to bring happiness to all people. His father blessed him, placed him in a boat, and the family watched as he drifted away, hoping for his safe return and the good news he would bring. His mother, day and night, sat upon a rock, watching the horizon.

Ivan sailed for a long time. A gentle wind carried his boat forward, guiding him on his journey. He did not know where any treasure might be buried, nor which path would lead him there.

He crossed the lake, climbed the mountains, and wandered through valleys – but the treasure did not appear. Along the way, he performed good deeds, helping the weak and standing beside the strong to defend their land from invaders. He mastered many skills and trades, and at last, he decided it was time to return home. The mountains called to him – he knew his family had never stopped waiting for him.

At last, he reached his homeland. The lake lay before him, shimmering in the sun. But as he approached, a thick mist rose over the water, and from within it, a boat slowly emerged. In it sat a silent figure.

“Hey!” Ivan called. “Good health to you! Where are you headed?”

The stranger did not reply, and his boat did not move. Then, suddenly, a bright ray of light burst through the mountain peaks, tearing the mist apart. In an instant, the mysterious traveler vanished – and with him, the sorceress’s dark magic disappeared. The light had triumphed over darkness.

At first, Ivan was startled, but as the sun illuminated the mountain peaks, casting its golden glow upon the lake, a great joy filled his heart. He understood – this had been the Messenger of the Himalayas, the one the elders spoke of. It was a sign: he was on the right path.

Yet, something was wrong – his boat would not move. Had it snagged on something? He would have to dive in and find out.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the water. It was crystal clear, revealing the depths below. As he opened his eyes, he saw something resting on the lakebed – a small chest, glowing with a bright, ethereal blue light.

Ivan resurfaced, filled his lungs with air, and dove again, this time reaching for the chest. He grasped it and returned to the boat. Turning it over in his hands, he saw no keyhole, yet it would not open. No matter, he thought. I will open it at home. He set off toward the shore.

There, his family waited, as they always had. His mother wept with joy, his father beamed with pride – Ivan had returned, and he had brought a great gift with him. At a glance, his father understood: this was the buried treasure.

And then, as soon as Ivan stepped onto the shore, the chest let out a soft chime – and opened on its own.

A quiet melody flowed from within, seeping into their hearts. And with it came a great awakening. Their spirits were lifted, their strength renewed, and a deep, noble purpose filled their souls.

“No more sitting here in waiting,” Ivan declared. “It is time to return to the people. To build a new life and serve the Light.”

“Oh, my son,” his mother whispered, “last night, I had a dream. I saw us living in a grand house, adorned with carved wood. I saw the Prophet Elijah himself harvesting rye in our fields. Saint George tending our horses. Saint Nicholas watching over our herds. And a musician – a guslar – came to our home, singing of the highest wisdom, the kind that brings true joy. And we were given that joy because we worked with honest hands and a pure heart. Such a dream I had!”

“That,” Ivan said, “is how a person should live – if his soul serves the Light, bringing goodness and knowledge to his people.”

He helped his parents into the boat, and together, they set off toward the world. And all the while, the chest in their hands glowed softly, carrying forth its sacred Blessing.

The Tale of the Varangians

I will tell you of ancient times, of distant lands known as Scandinavia. When the calendar had only just marked the fifth century, a great misfortune befell the northern lands. Endless rains fell for days and nights, rivers overflowed their banks, and roads turned to impassable swamps. The sun ceased to shine with its bright, life-giving light. Instead, it glowed dimly, like the moon, its rays hidden. Even at midday, the sunlight was not golden but bluish, and objects cast no shadows.

A massive meteorite had struck the earth, and to make matters worse, a volcano erupted, spewing ash into the sky. A black dust swirled in the air, making it hard to breathe. A bitter cold gripped the land – so severe that even the northern folk, accustomed to harsh winters, shivered under its weight.

In fertile Sweden, vast plains stretched wide, perfect for growing grain and grazing livestock. But in neighboring Norway, a land of mountains and fjords, there were only narrow strips of arable land. Most people survived by fishing. Yet in those days, there were no modern nets or tools, and life was hard. Sons were born, but there was no land left for them to inherit. So, little by little, people abandoned their farms and set off into the unknown, searching for new lands where they might find a better life.

Three hundred years passed before the sun shone once more over Scandinavia. Fields bloomed again, villages thrived, and new generations were born and raised. But once again, there was not enough land for everyone. And so, the northern people turned their gaze to the south. There, fertile lands lay waiting – low-lying coasts with rich soil, where livestock could graze freely.

The Scandinavians had long been known for their skill in building ships. They crafted such magnificent longships that they belonged in a museum. Each ship was manned by twenty rowers, who took turns at the oars every hour. These ships were so well-built that they could cross both shallow waters and narrow rivers with ease. The men who sailed them were called Vikings.

Many rivers, seas, and new lands fell under their command. Their swift ships reached the shores of Greenland and North America five hundred years before Christopher Columbus opened the way for the rest of the world. Such were these men.

Of course, not all Norwegians set out to conquer new lands. Many remained peaceful farmers and merchants. Some expeditions were sent solely for trade, to exchange goods in distant lands. Their devoted wives would bid them farewell with tears in their eyes, never knowing if they would return – for the seas were treacherous, and battles in far-off lands were ruthless.

In one village, there lived a farmer named Ari with his family. When hard times came, he decided to prepare a ship and sail beyond the seas – to trade his goods and see the lands beyond. Two of his closest friends chose to join him, loading their own wares onto the vessel.

But none of them knew that, along with their cargo, something sinister had found its way aboard – the seeds of an evil, enchanted weed. These cursed plants grew at an unnatural speed, sprouting massive, living vines. They longed for a new home, despising the rocky shores of Norway. They sought soft, fertile soil where they could spread endlessly, choking out all life with their tangled roots.

On the first day, the ships sailed smoothly. On the second day, Ari noticed something strange – a faint creaking sound from the hull. He mentioned it to his companions. They listened carefully, and indeed; a deep, eerie crackling echoed through the wooden planks.

They went below deck to inspect their cargo, and there, twisted, gnarled roots had already spread their tendrils across the sacks of trade goods. Worse still, the vines hissed when they approached, as if guarding their domain.

The sailors gathered for counsel. They knew that wood could not sink, but fire was the only thing that could destroy these cursed roots. Yet, if they set them ablaze, they would burn their own ship along with them.

By the third day, the roots had grown even more, strangling the ship’s hull until it groaned under the pressure. Just as despair crept into their hearts, a great rock formation appeared ahead.

Ari suggested sending a scout to the rocky island. Perhaps there was a place to land and rid themselves of the cursed vines before it was too late. They chose the strongest swimmer, who dived into the water and set off toward the towering rock.

The great stone standing in the Vikings’ path was known to the people as Giantess Krimgerd. She loomed over the sea, her gray, craggy body rising from the depths like an ancient, watchful woman. Many ships had wrecked upon her cliffs, and countless whirlpools had swallowed brave sailor’s whole. But the Giantess Krimgerd was not without mercy. She did not harm merchant vessels. Instead, she allowed them to pass unharmed, silencing the whirlpools while they sailed by.

That day, Krimgerd saw two beautiful long ships, finely carved and richly adorned. She thought to herself, these must be merchants, come to trade. They mean no harm. She prepared to drift into a peaceful slumber – when suddenly, she noticed a lone swimmer approaching her shore. The giantess grew wary. She waited in silence.

The Viking scout reached the rocky coast, but the cliffs were too steep – he could not climb onto the land. Desperate, he called out:

“O noble Giantess Krimgerd! Help us rid ourselves of these terrible creatures! These cursed roots will sink our ships, leaving our children without fathers and our wives without husbands. They will perish in hunger and grief!”

Krimgerd pondered his plea. Then, with a whisper, she loosened a small piece of rock, creating a foothold for him to climb. Leaning in, she murmured, “On the leeward side of my cliffs, you will find a low shore, a wide plateau. There, you may cast out the roots and destroy them.” The scout rejoiced, leapt into the sea, and swam back to the ship.

When he returned, he shared Krimgerd’s advice with the crew. Overjoyed, the Vikings prepared for battle. They built sturdy gangplanks to disembark and gathered torches, knowing fire was their only weapon. As they approached the rock, they set their torches ablaze and burned the cursed roots.

The monstrous vines writhed and shrieked, twisting in agony, but after that, they no longer lashed out at the men. Their strength had been in their wicked tendrils, and once those were scorched, their power faded. The sailors dragged the remaining roots onto the plateau of the rock and set them alight. A terrible hissing and crackling filled the air, but soon, only ashes remained. Krimgerd felt nothing.

The sailors bowed low, thanking the giantess with all their hearts. They swore to pass down the tale of her kindness for generations to come. And so, the fathers told their sons, and the sons told their own children, until at last, the tale reached us. To this day, the Great Rock stands in silent watch, warning all would-be invaders that even the mountains themselves will rise to protect their people when the need arises.

The Song of the Waterfall

In a mountain village, there lived a beautiful girl named Jita, which means “Song.” She was so lovely that words could scarcely do her justice. Her hair was darker than the night, her eyes brighter than flames, her waist as slender as a wasp’s, and her hips curved as if sculpted by an artist. Jita loved listening to music, but she was different in that she heard it everywhere. While others might hear the melody of a stream or the rustle of the wind, Jita could hear the whispers of the grass and converse with the branches of the white birch. From all these sounds, she wove songs and sang them tirelessly. Her soul longed for beauty, and music nourished her heart, which would not have been able to strive toward the Light without the harmony of sound. The kind-hearted people who listened to her felt as if they were part of a magnificent performance. The symphony of humanity united hearts.

For this, she was known in the village as the One Who Hears. She understood the language of birds as if it were human speech. But not everyone admired her. Especially envious were the young women whose suitors praised Jita’s beauty and talent. The jealous ones began spreading rumors, saying she was not of this world and should leave for the heavens. Let her sing with Orpheus there, they sneered. And deep down, they wished for Jita to go deaf forever, so she would never hear the songs of birds or the melodies of water again.

Far away in the mountains, on a copper peak, lived Mahakala, the Wrathful Guardian, as people called him. He was a fearsome deity that tested the strength of human spirits, ready to scorch all living things with his fire. One day, in a fiery rage, Mahakala unleashed a blaze so fierce that all sounds on earth fell silent. Completely silent.

For some, this was nothing – just silence. But for Jita, it was a tragedy. For her, the meaning of life was gone, and perhaps life itself. The girl grew despondent and stopped going outside. She sat by the window, listening intently until her ears ached, hoping for some sound to break the silence and bring joy to her heart. But nothing could be heard.

In that same village lived a young man named Dordje. He loved the One Who Hears with all his heart. Day and night, he pondered how to help his beloved and bring sound back to the earth. So he went to the old sage in the mountains to seek advice. The sage told him that for the wish to be granted, a brave man must face Mahakala, standing directly before his fierce eyes and fiery mouth, enduring for three days and three nights. If he stood firm and showed no fear, the power of the terrible giant would be broken, and the people would be freed from this fearsome deity forever.

“I’ll go,” said Dordje. “I’ll do anything for the happiness of the people.”

“Then take this sacred bell and this magical dagger. They are amulets, protective relics. With their help, you can approach the giant and quell his wrath, if you hold out until noon on the third day,” the sage said, handing him the protective items.

Dordje bowed to the wise man, took the dagger and bell, and set off on his long journey. He crossed many mountains – descending one only to find another blocking his path, with no way around. His faithful horse grew exhausted, so Dordje left him at the foot of the tallest copper mountain, to wait there in case his master returned alive.

With great effort, Dordje finally reached the summit and saw, in the distance, a red sea – it was Mahakala’s lair. Dordje chose a suitable ledge on the rock and rang the bell with all his might.

At that very moment, the sky and mountains turned orange and crimson. It grew so hot that it was as if a fire had been lit beneath Dordje’s feet. The brave young man endured it, holding the bell before him and using the dagger to cut away the tongues of flame that Mahakala, the fiery beast, sent his way. The giant appeared in all his terrifying glory – his head as large as a mountain, eyes like two flaming orbs, with a third eye burning on his forehead. His crown was adorned with human skulls, and flames burst from his mouth.

But Dordje stared straight into the giant’s eyes, without flinching. Mahakala spewed fire at him, but Dordje cut away the flames with his dagger. His faith in the Light held and protected him.

By the end of the second day, Mahakala grew restless; it seemed he had even shrunk in size. Still, he puffed and breathed fire. Though the heat was unbearable and Dordje’s clothes had begun to smolder, he stood his ground without moving.

As the sun reached its zenith on the third day, the flames died in Mahakala’s mouth, a thin wisp of smoke rose into the sky, and the giant faded away as if he had never existed.

In that instant, the world of sound was restored to the earth – birds sang, streams babbled, animals roared.

Dordje hurried down the mountain, where his loyal horse greeted him with a neigh and carried him home. Along the way, they stopped at the wise sage’s hut to return the sacred relics, in case they might be needed for another good deed.

Jita was waiting for him, and she greeted him with a song about the proud rider who had conquered a great evil. Then they had a grand, joyous wedding. The envious women finally settled down – let the One Who Hears sing her songs, she had a husband now, and their suitors were no longer in danger.

It is good when birds sing, when the music of the wind, waterfalls, and life itself can be heard! And it is good that there are brave heroes on this earth!

The Life-Giving Spring

“Listen, listen! And those who hear, pass the message on! Disaster has come upon our land – rivers have dried up, and the seas have shrunk. Not a single drop of rain has fallen from the clouds for six whole months. The world is ruled by a terrible old crone, and her name is Drought. The rulers of many kingdoms have gathered for counsel, and now we proclaim their decree: Whoever finds a well will be rewarded with a grand palace, two herds of buffalo, pastures, and gold equal to their own weight!”

The royal heralds shouted the decree and rode off to spread the news. But the people, weakened by hunger and thirst to the point where they could barely walk, only shook their heads. If anyone knew where to find a spring, wouldn’t they have already done so?

In an Indian village, there lived a young man named Sadhir. Every day, he wandered beyond the village, pickaxe in hand, searching the fields and meadows, hoping to find a stream with life-giving water.

One day, he overheard the elders saying that a snake charmer could summon the rain. He asked if they knew where such a man lived. “Beyond the mountain pass,” they told him.

And so, despite his exhaustion, the young man set out to seek the charmer’s help. His journey was slow – he was weak, barely able to walk. He would rest for a while, then continue on. By the second day, he finally reached his destination.

He was shown the charmer’s house. Knocking at the door, he heard the sound of music. Entering the courtyard, he saw an old man in a turban playing a flute. Before him, a cobra had risen from a basket, swaying to the rhythm. The charmer was summoning the rain.

But suddenly, the snake collapsed lifelessly before their eyes. Women wailed in grief, and men wept. “Woe to us! Woe!”

“Let me help you find another snake,” Sadhir offered. “Can you train a new one quickly?”

“No, dear traveler,” the charmer sighed. “It is impossible. The snakes have fled far away from the Drought. And even if we were to find one, it would not survive even a single strike.”

“Why would you strike it?” the young man asked in surprise.

“Snakes are clever creatures. If you hit it with the flute once, it will learn to dodge the second blow. That is how we train them. The charmer waves the flute from side to side, the snake evades, and people think it is dancing. That is the secret.”

“Be patient,” Sadhir said. “I will find water.” And he hurried away.

Once more, he walked the land, digging and searching, hoping to find moisture beneath the earth. Along the way, he saw people desperately trying to summon rain. In one village, they sacrificed a black ram as an offering. In another, men lashed themselves with branches until they bled.

An old man told him of a belief in Slavic lands – that rain clouds were stolen by wicked toads. To stop them, people would capture a toad, place it under a clay pot, and beat the pot with sticks, chanting: “You wretched, slimy beast! Why have you done this evil? Release the rain clouds at once!” Frightened, the toad would supposedly release the rain. Others believed that destroying a raven’s nest could stop a drought.

But the bony old Drought only laughed from the heavens, locking the rain clouds away. Sadhir thought deeply and stopped believing in omens. Instead, he devoted himself even more to his search for water, pouring all his strength into the task.

One day, he met a beautiful young woman who was also searching for a well. They rejoiced in finding one another, and together, their journey felt lighter. At last, Fortune recognized their determination and opened her arms to them.

“Look,” Sadhir exclaimed. “That raven is pecking at the ground and scratching it like a hen. It must sense water nearby!”

“Let’s help it,” the girl cried, and together, they began to dig. Before long, the soil grew damp – they had found water. The moment the first well appeared, the wicked Drought lost her power, and from the heavens, long-awaited rain poured down upon the earth.

For three days and three nights, the rain fell, quenching the thirst of the land and its people. And as promised, the king rewarded the young man and woman with a palace, pastures, buffalo, and mountains of gold. But more than wealth, they found love, and so they married and lived happily in their grand home.

Such is the power of unwavering faith and the efforts of two hearts – together, they can bring happiness to all of humanity.

The Flying Carpet

The endless hills stretched wide. The meadow grass lay like a soft carpet. Mountain rivers rang with crystal-clear water. In those lands stood a city. Many people lived there, and there was enough space and work for all. The city was sheltered by tall mountains, and there had been no wars in those parts for so long that even the elders could not remember one. Though guards were posted every night, few truly worried. Sometimes, the city watchman would even drift into sleep, especially in the early morning hours when slumber was the sweetest.

On one such quiet morning, when the whole city slept, the young guard dozed off, feeling no danger.

And at that moment, across the clear sky, a flying carpet appeared. Upon it rode a wicked sorcerer named Karidur. He surveyed the hills, searching for a place to land. He despised people, oh, how he hated them! They never left him in peace, so he did all he could to harm them. Now he had decided to find himself apprentices. That was why he roamed the skies, looking and choosing. He was growing old, and the world was too vast for him to manage alone.

Karidur spotted a mighty oak, taller than any other, its massive branches reaching the sky, its roots twisting like serpents above the ground. He landed upon the very top of the tree, hidden within its thick canopy, unseen from below. Resting for an hour, he then transformed – under the bright morning sun – into a stooped old traveler, appearing as if he had come from far away, weary from his journey. He sat upon a stone to rest, sipped some water, and gazed at the city as if admiring it.

Soon, a group of boys rushed into the streets, playing a lively game of tag. One of them, a quick and clever lad named Gridya, was so fast that no one could catch him.

Ah, thought Karidur, this is the one I need.

Muttering an incantation under his breath, he disrupted the game, and then called the boy over.

.

“Oh, son, I have grown so old and weak. But you – so strong, so full of life! Will you help me reach that mighty oak? From there, I can manage on my own.”

Gridya had no wish to go anywhere, but his feet carried him forward against his will. He marveled at this but did not think much of it. Helping an old man was no great trouble. But as soon as they reached the tree, both of them vanished without a trace, as if they had never been there at all.

The other children gasped in horror and ran home to deliver the terrible news. Gridya’s mother screamed, and his father wept – where could they search, where could they find their son?

But Karidur had already flown to his gloomy fortress. His gray, menacing palace stood atop the highest blue mountain, where even the wind rarely reached. Wrapped in eternal mist, shrouded in half-light, it filled the earth below with dread.

At first, Gridya had enjoyed the flight on the magic carpet. But once they landed, all joy vanished. The palace was wretched – dark halls, bats flitting through the shadows. Karidur rubbed his hands together in glee, expecting praise from his guest. But Gridya was silent. He could not yet grasp where he had been taken.

The sorcerer decided to show off his tricks, the only thing he truly excelled at. With a wave of his hand, he transformed a bat into a piglet. The tiny creature ran in frantic circles, squealing in confusion.

Gridya burst into laughter, chasing the piglet around the hall, teasing it.

“Shall I show you more wonders?” Karidur asked. “Or do you believe I can do anything?”

“Then make a table appear, filled with every sweet in the world!” Gridya demanded.

The sorcerer smirked, whispered a spell, and – bam! – before them stood a massive table, stacked high with treats. Everything was there except living water.

Gridya grabbed the candies, devoured the honey by the spoonful, and stuffed his mouth with nuts and pastries. He could not stop – his belly was fit to burst.

Karidur chuckled. Good, he thought, the boy is greedy – he will make a fine villain.

At last, Gridya grew drowsy and asked to sleep. That was exactly what Karidur wanted. Let him sleep while I fly off to find another, he thought.

So, the sorcerer mounted his flying carpet once more. This time, he flew by night, knowing the guards would now watch the skies closely, ready to shoot down any intruder with a well-aimed arrow before he could cast a spell.

Karidur darkened the night, summoning thick gray clouds to cover the sky. “You will not see my carpet, no matter how hard you look,” he sneered. The watchmen failed to notice him. And so, Karidur stole another boy, this time disguised as an old woman.

This continued for five nights. The elders of the city gathered beneath the ancient oak tree. By old tradition, people had always held festivals and important councils around this very tree. They thought all day and into the evening before making a decision. They would go to Mikula Selyaninovich, the mighty hero, and beg for his help to find the villain and destroy him.

Mikula Selyaninovich was a giant of a man, plowing the hills and fields, sowing wheat, unaware of the terrible events unfolding. He was tall as a tower, broad-shouldered, his eyes sharper than a falcon’s, his hair curling in golden waves, his brows as dark as the night. And his strength? He handled his great plow with ease, as if it were a child’s toy.

The elders came to him, told him of their sorrow. The children must be saved, and the sorcerer’s fortress destroyed – who knew what greater evil he might unleash? Mikula Selyaninovich was not a man of many words. He furrowed his brow, sighed, bowed to the elders, and began preparing for battle. Though he did not know where to go, he trusted his steed to find the way. And so, it did.

Meanwhile, Karidur was busy. He trained the boys in sorcery and cruelty, molding them into his wicked apprentices. But one boy resisted – a thin, red-haired, quiet lad named Afanasiy. Karidur had seen him earlier, bullied by other children. He had assumed that Afanasiy, out of bitterness and a thirst for revenge, would be easy to turn. He was wrong. At first, Afanasiy refused to take part. Then he pretended to learn, outshining even the others in skill.

At night, while the boys lay down to sleep, he whispered old tales to his two closest friends – stories his grandmother had told him, where good always triumphed. He was building a secret alliance, planning their escape.

Karidur drugged the children with his “sleep-root tea,” making them forget their homes and love eternal darkness.

Afanasiy and his friends poured their tea away and warned the others, but Gridya refused to listen.

For three days and nights, the mighty warrior Mikula Selyaninovich rode tirelessly over mountains and hills without rest. Only by the evening of the third day did his faithful steed carry him to the sorcerer’s castle. He decided to wait for nightfall and assess the situation. He circled the castle from all sides – there was no way in. But hiding was no task for a warrior. At dawn, he mounted his loyal steed, donned his sturdy chainmail, took his steel sword in hand, and called out, challenging the sorcerer to an honest fight

Why would Karidur need an honest fight? He wasn’t used to putting his life in danger for nothing. Let me just turn him into a chick and eat him myself, he thought. He began to cast spells, hissing and chanting – but nothing happened. His magic had no effect on the Russian warrior.

Again, Mikula Selyaninovich called out, again he challenged him to battle. The sorcerer grew furious. What is this? Some peasant dares to yell at me? Just wait until I step outside – he’ll die of fright at the mere sight of me. I’ll give myself ten hands, each one holding a sword. And as for those boys, I won’t give them up! I’ll lock them in the deepest dungeon, where no one will hear them, no one will find them.

So, he did as he said. But when the warrior called for the sorcerer a third time, Karidur finally stepped into the bright light, ten swords in ten hands. Yet our warrior did not flinch. His mighty steed galloped straight at the wicked man. Mikula Selyaninovich swung his steel sword – four of the sorcerer’s hands vanished in an instant.

Karidur raged and transformed into a flying serpent, breathing fire, ready to burn the warrior to ash. They fought long and fiercely, battling not for life, but for death. The hero’s steed began to stumble, and the sorcerer’s voice grew hoarse, barely a whisper. Then Mikula Selyaninovich gathered all his strength, found an opening, and struck – cutting off the villain’s head. He sat down on his native land to catch his breath, his steed standing beside him, snorting from exhaustion.

Once they had rested, they set out to find the children. But they were nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be heard. They searched every corner of the palace – no trace of them, not even a footprint. The warrior called them by name, but no one answered.

“Well then, we’ll have to take this palace apart – they must be here somewhere,” said Mikula Selyaninovich. He pressed his hands against the high walls and threw them far aside, one after another. In less than an hour, they stood in an open field, all that remained of the palace now nothing but ruins. The warrior grew sorrowful, but his steed wouldn’t move, standing still as if sensing something.

Mikula Selyaninovich understood – he needed to search right there. He crafted a sturdy shovel and began digging, strip by strip, beneath the castle ruins. Soon, a hatch appeared, with a metal ring on the lid. He pressed his ear against it – was there another evil lurking below? But inside, there was only banging and shouting. The boys were trying to escape into the light of day! Mikula Selyaninovich beamed with joy. He opened the hatch and pulled them all out. Oh, what happiness it was!

And so they set off for home, bringing good news – no more evil sorcerer, and all the children were safe and sound, returned to their joyful parents. People later told stories that Athanasius grew up and became the one who invented the flying carpet. There would have been no happiness, if not for misfortune!

The Guardians of the Desert

In an Altai village, there once lived a greedy man. Whatever he saw, he dragged home. His house was already overflowing with things, yet still, he hoarded more. His wife scolded him, but he paid no heed.

One day, he brought home a stone woman – a great, ancient statue. He hitched up his horse, tied the statue with ropes, and dragged it all the way to his yard. He stood before it, pleased with himself. The stone woman gazed at him with silent reproach, as if saying, why have you moved me? I belong in the open fields, under the free wind.

But the foolish man had another idea. He began sharpening his knives against the statue, boasting to all: “Now I have a stone woman at home, holding a chalice and a sword. No one will dare touch me! She will guard my wealth and bring me even more riches!”

Yet soon, he noticed something strange. Each night, the statue seemed to move – just a little. Three days ago, she had been in the farthest corner of the yard. Today – look! – she was already near the gate. At first, he could not believe his eyes, but it was true. She was leaving. Then, one morning, she was gone entirely.

The man flew into a rage! “I’ll harness my strongest horse, drag her back, and chain her down so she never runs away again!” Just as he thought this wicked plan, an old traveler entered his yard, led by a young boy as his guide. “We beg you,” said the old man, “give us a little water.” But the greedy man shouted at them, chasing them away. Yet the old traveler did not move. He stood still, like the stone woman herself.

The wife took pity on them. She brought out a slice of bread and a cup of water. The old man drank, broke off a piece of bread, and spoke:

“I have heard what you have done. You took the stone woman from her place and offended her by grinding your knives upon her.

She was not placed in the steppe by you, nor was she meant for your selfish needs. She is the Sacred Guardian of the Chalice. For centuries, she granted strength and protection to warriors, and in return, they offered sacrifices – rams, and even human lives – to earn her favor. She has watched over the steppe for ages. Now… I do not know what will happen. But I fear a great disaster is coming. And you will be to blame. Look! The ravens have gathered, circling above your village. They wait for their sacrifice. If you have any sense, if you have any conscience left – go, find her, and beg for forgiveness!”

Having spoken, the old traveler continued on his way.

“I won’t go anywhere,” the man muttered. “Nonsense! She’s just a statue – what can she do?” Still, he abandoned his plan to drag her home again.

The next morning, a terrible wind arose. A dust storm swept across the land, carrying sharp thorns from the steppe. The animals went blind, howling and bellowing in pain. The villagers wrapped their faces in cloth, desperately trying to lead their herds into the barns, but the gates were torn apart by the raging storm. They say, when trouble comes, throw open the gates.

Well, the gates had opened themselves. His wife wept. “Go to her! Beg for her forgiveness!” she pleaded. At last, fear took hold of him. He wrapped his face, took a staff for support, and walked into the storm. He wandered for hours, growing weak. The statue was nowhere to be seen. At last, he reached the mountains and began to climb, believing that a sacred force was guiding him.

The wind began to ease. The dust grew thinner.

He loosened his cloth slightly and saw the deepest blue sky, the snowy peaks, and – far in the distance – a man standing, releasing red paper horses into the wind. The man rejoiced, sensing that these horses would lead him to his path. He ran after them, as fast as he could. Before he knew it, he was back in the steppe. And there – the red paper horse landed directly in the stone woman’s chalice.

He fell to his knees before her. “Forgive me!” he begged. The stone woman said nothing. Did she forgive him? Or not?

“Enough of this,” he thought. “I won’t grovel before a lifeless rock.” He turned to leave. At that moment, a whirlwind of dust and darkness surrounded him. He fell to the ground, pleading again. The storm calmed.

For ten days, he remained by the statue’s side. He grew weaker and weaker. At last, the villagers came to his aid. They stood in a circle around the statue, offering prayers for protection, for blessing upon their land, and giving thanks for her strength and watchful gaze.

The Guardian of the Chalice released them in peace. And the greedy man? She taught him a lesson he would never forget:

Do not mock the sacred. And when you have sinned, learn to repent.

The Victorious Buddha

Do you know who Buddha is? Let me tell you about him.

Long ago, two and a half thousand years ago, a long-awaited son was born to an Indian raja and Queen Mahamaya – a noble heir to the Shakya clan. They named him Siddhartha Gautama. The royal couple’s joy knew no bounds. But on the seventh day after his birth, the queen passed away.

The king grieved deeply and feared for his son’s future. He summoned the most renowned astrologer to predict the child’s fate. The scholar studied the stars for a long time, drawing lines on paper, then finally spoke:

“The prince possesses extraordinary qualities. If he is allowed to grow freely and experience life in its fullness, he will become a great Enlightened One – a Teacher to millions.”

“But I need an heir – a protector of my kingdom, not a spiritual teacher!” the king retorted angrily.

“Then you must shield him for as long as possible from the realities and sufferings of human life,” the astrologer advised.

The king immediately issued a decree: “Until the prince turns twenty, he shall not leave the royal palace!” And so, Siddhartha grew up in luxury and peace, unaware of human sorrow or misfortune. When he turned twenty, the gates of the palace were finally opened so he could see the world in all its diversity.

Curious, the prince eagerly explored the unknown world, until he suddenly stopped in astonishment. A hunched old woman, wrapped in rags, hobbled toward him, leaning on a staff.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“That is old age,” they told him.

“Does it come to everyone?” the young man asked in horror.

“Yes, such is life,” his servant replied.

On the next street, they came across a man locked in a pen, sitting alone, his face disfigured.

“And who is this?” the prince asked. “Why is he imprisoned?”

“This man suffers from a terrible disease. He was isolated so he wouldn’t infect others. Leprosy is slowly eating away at his face,” they answered.

“What else do I not know?” the prince wondered.

As if in silent response, a funeral procession appeared at the end of the road.

“Where are these people going?” Siddhartha asked.

“They are taking the deceased to the cemetery for burial.”

“Does this fate await everyone?” the prince exclaimed in horror.

“Yes, such is life,” they answered again.

A great shadow seemed to fall over Siddhartha’s heart. He returned to the palace, locking himself away for many months, lost in thought. Fearing his son’s unpredictable actions, the king ordered his immediate marriage. Siddhartha obeyed his father’s will and married a beautiful woman. A few years later, they had a son.

But even as a husband and father, Siddhartha felt restless.

At twenty-nine, he left his home behind, setting out on a journey to find true, unending happiness. For the last time, he gazed upon his baby son, then dressed in simple robes, shaved his head, and left the palace forever. He wandered from city to city, from village to village, but Enlightenment did not come. He decided to fast – to abandon food completely. Soon, his body was nothing but skin and bones.