I am Nicholas Kotar, and you’re listening to In A Certain Kingdom. This is a podcast where I tell famous—and not-so-famous—Slavic fairy tales and myths, and where I share my fascination and love for the stories that help us better see and live in the real world. This is Episode 1: The Tale of Prince Ivan and the Grey Wolf.

In a certain land, there lived a king named Berendei. He had three sons. The youngest was named Ivan. The king also had an unparalleled treasure—a wondrous garden, in which grew an apple tree with golden apples.

One night, someone began to sneak into the king’s garden, to steal the golden apples. The king mourned the loss bitterly. He sent warriors to stand guard, but no one could find the thief. And yet, the apples continued to disappear. The king stopped eating and drinking. His sons, worried, comforted him. “Don’t worry, dear father. We will stand guard ourselves.”

The eldest said, “Tonight is my turn. I will catch this thief and bring him to your swift justice.” And so he went. Back and forth he walked for an hour. Two hours. Finally he sat down on the soft grass. Before he knew it, he was asleep. In the morning, the king asked him, “Well, my eldest! Will you bring me tidings of joy? Did you catch the thief?” “No, dear father,” he answered. “All night I walked back and forth, never closing an eye. I saw no one.”

The next night, the middle son did the same. Back and forth he walked for an hour. Two hours. Finally, he sat down on the soft grass, and before he knew it, he was asleep. In the morning, he said he saw no one.

Then came Ivan’s turn. Ivan walked back and forth, not even daring to sit down, much less lie down, for fear of falling asleep. No sooner did his eyelids droop than he washed his face in the fresh dew from the grass. Half the night passed. Then, it seemed as though he saw a dream—the garden was alight!

Brighter and brighter grew this light. The whole garden shone as in the middle of a sunny day. Then he saw it! A firebird landed on the apple tree and started to peck at the golden apples. Quietly, stealthily, Ivan the Prince crept up to the bird. Jumping up, he reached for it. The firebird flew up faster than he thought possible and away, away beyond the garden wall. All that was left in his hand was a single, brilliant feather from her tail.

In the morning, Ivan came to his father. “Well, my dear Vaniusha, did you see the thief?”

“My dear father, catch him I could not. But I saw who it was. Father, it was a firebird.” The king took the feather, and joy returned to his heart. He ate and drank and made merry again.

But the feather, brilliant as it was, started to eat away at his thoughts. And so, one fine morning, he called his sons into his presence. “My dear children, who of you will saddle your fine horse, ride across the wide world, and find me the firebird?” All three sons bowed to their father and rushed to the stables. The eldest rode in one direction, the second in another, and Ivan the Prince chose yet a third.

Whether a long time or a short time, Ivan the Prince rode and rode. On a hot summer day, he grew tired of his long ride. Getting off his horse, he hobbled it, then he lay down in the shade of an oak and fell asleep. Whether a long time or a short time, Ivan slept and slept. When he woke up, there was no sign of the horse. Jumping up, he went to find it. Finally he found it—nothing was left but bones. Ivan the Prince grew sad. But what is a prince to do? He continued on foot. All day he walked, and the next day after that. Tired he was, almost to death. Finally he sat down on a log and started to weep.

Out of nowhere, a grey wolf appeared before him and started to speak. “Well there, Ivan the Prince, why are you sitting there with your head lying low?”

“How can I fail to weep, grey wolf?” answered the prince. “I have lost my fine horse.”

“Ah, that was me, Ivan,” said the wolf. “I was hungry, and such is the nature of the wolf. But I do feel sorry for you. Tell me, where were you going, and what were you seeking?”

“My father sent me to ride across the wide world and to find the firebird.”

“Ha ha! On your horse it would take you more than three years to find it. Only I alone know where she lives. Well, fair’s fair. I ate your horse, and so I will be a mount for you and serve you well. Sit on me and hold on tight.”

Ivan the Prince sat astride the grey wolf. The wolf jumped, and entire forests passed below them, lakes and rivers as though brushed aside by the wolf’s tail. Soon they stood at the foot of a tall fortress.

The grey wolf said, “Hear me, Ivan the Prince, and listen well. Climb the wall, fear not! It is a good hour; the guards are all asleep. In the tower, you’ll see a window. In that window hangs a golden cage. In that cage sits the firebird. Take the bird, place her in your coat, but see that you do not touch the cage!”

Ivan the Prince climbed the wall, saw the tower. There in the window hung a golden cage, and in the cage sat the firebird. He took the bird, put it in his coat, but his eye lingered on the cage. His heart started to beat wildly: “Oh, how golden it is, how precious! How can I not take it?” And he forgot the wolf’s warning.

No sooner did he touch the cage than trumpets sounded, drumbeats rolled wildly, the guards woke up, seized Ivan the Prince and led him to King Aphron. King Aphron was angry. “Whose son are you? From where?” he asked.

“I am King Berendei’s son, Ivan the Prince.”

“Oh, what a shame! A king’s son turned thief.”

“And what of your own bird, that stole our golden apples?”

“And why did you not come to me, ask me with a good conscience? I would have given the firebird to your father, out of respect. Well, what’s done is done. If you do me a good service, I will forgive you. In the kingdom of Sultan Kusman there is a horse with a golden mane. Bring it to me, then I will give you the firebird as a gift.”

Ivan the Prince grew very sad. With his head hung low, he returned to the grey wolf.

“I told you,” said the wolf. “Don’t touch the cage! Why did you not listen to me?”

“Forgive me, grey wolf,” was all that Ivan could muster.

“Well, what’s done is done. Sit down on my back. I said I would serve you well, and serve you I will.”

Once again, the lands sped away underneath them as the wolf ran. Whether long their way or short, they arrived at another, even taller fortress.

“Climb the wall, Ivan the Prince,” said the wolf. “The guards are asleep. Go to the stables, take the horse, but take care! Do not touch the golden bridle!”

Ivan the Prince climbed the wall, found the stables, caught the horse with the golden mane, but then he glanced at the golden bridle. It glistened with fine jewels. How could he resist? Such a fine horse deserved only such a precious bridle. And he forgot all about the wolf’s warning.

No sooner did he touch the bridle than trumpets sounded, drumbeats rolled wildly, the guards woke up, seized Ivan the Prince and led him to Sultan Kusman. Sultan Kusman was angry. “Whose son are you? From where?” he asked.

“I am King Berendei’s son, Ivan the Prince.”

“Oh, what shame! A king’s son turned thief! Well, what’s done is done. However, if you do me a good service, I will forgive you. The king of the neighboring kingdom, Dalmat, has a daughter, Elena the Beautiful. Bring her to me, then I will give you the horse and the bridle.”

Ivan the Prince grew sad. With his head hung low, he returned to the grey wolf.

“I told you,” said the wolf. “Don’t touch the bridle! Why did you not listen to me?”

“Forgive me, grey wolf,” was all that Ivan could muster.

“Well, what’s done is done. Sit down on my back. I said I would serve you well, and serve you I will.”

Once again, the lands sped past them as the wolf ran. Whether long they rode or short, they arrived at yet a taller tower. On top was a walled garden. Inside it, Elena the Beautiful walked with her nurses and her maids.

The grey wolf said, “This time I won’t send you at all, Ivan the Prince. I’ll go myself. As for you, start your way back on foot. I’ll catch up with you.” Ivan the Prince hesitated, but he did as he was told.

The grey wolf jumped over the wall and into the garden. He sat behind a bush and waited. Soon, Elena the Beautiful came out with her nannies and her maids. She walked around for a time. Then she walked away from her chaperones, ever so slightly farther than she should. The grey wolf grabbed Elena the Beautiful, threw her over his back, and flew away.

Ivan the Prince walked on foot. Suddenly, the grey wolf caught up with him, and on his back sat Elena the Beautiful. Ivan the Prince was glad, but the grey wolf told him, “Hurry up! Sit on my back, or they’ll catch up with us!”

The grey wolf ran with Ivan the Prince and Elena the Beautiful on his back. The lands sped away underneath them as before. Whether long was their journey or short, they arrived at Sultan Kusman’s fortress. The grey wolf asked Ivan the Prince, “Why are you silent and sorrowful?”

“How can I not be, grey wolf? How will I part with such beauty? How can I trade Elena the Beautiful for a horse?”

The grey wolf answered, “I won’t separate you from such beauty. We’ll hide her somewhere, and I will turn into Elena the Beautiful. Lead me to the king.”

So they hid Elena the Beautiful in a forest hut. The grey wolf jumped over his own head and turned into an exact image of Elena the Beautiful. So Ivan brought the wolf to Sultan Kusman. The sultan was thrilled and began to shower Ivan with compliments.

“Thank you, Ivan the Prince, for bringing me such a bride. Receive as your reward my horse with the golden mane, along with the promised bridle.”

Ivan the Prince sat on the horse and rode straight to Elena the Beautiful. He put her on the horse and they rode on.

But Sultan Kusman immediately married the beautiful maid, feasted all day long until night, and as was proper, went to bed with his new wife. But no sooner did he lie on the bed than a wolf’s maw stared back at him on the bed! The sultan fell in terror, and the wolf ran away.

The grey wolf caught up with Ivan the Prince and asked him, “Why are you so silent and sorrowful, Ivan the Prince?”

“How can I not be sorrowful? I don’t wish to part with this treasure. How can I trade such a horse for the firebird?”

“Don’t be sad; I will help you.”

And so they arrived at the fortress of King Aphron. The grey wolf said, “Hide the horse and Elena the Beautiful. I will turn into a horse with a golden main. Lead me to King Aphron.”

They hid the horse and Elena the Beautiful in the forest. The grey wolf jumped over his own back, turned into a horse with a golden mane, and Ivan the Prince brought him to King Aphron. The king was thrilled, and immediately gave Ivan the firebird in its golden cage. Ivan the Prince returned to the forest on foot, sat Elena the beautiful on the horse with a golden mane, took the firebird and cage in hand, and walked the road home on foot.

King Aphron demanded that the horse be brought him. No sooner did he sit down on it than the horse turned back into the grey wolf. The king fell down from sheer terror, and the grey wolf ran away and back to Ivan the Prince.

“And now,” he said, “farewell, Ivan. I can go no further.” Ivan the Prince bowed three times to the earth before the wolf, thanking him with great respect. But the wolf said, ominously, “Do not say farewell, for you may still need me.”

But Ivan the Prince didn’t believe him. “How could he still be of use to me?” he thought. “All my desires have been fulfilled.” And so he sat on the horse with the golden mane, and both he and Elena the Beautiful rode on with the firebird in hand. Soon they grew tired from their journey. They ate a bit of bread, drank a bit of water, and lay down in the shadow of an oak to sleep.

No sooner did Ivan the Prince fall asleep than his brothers rode by. All that time they had traveled the wide world, seeking the firebird, but they came back empty-handed. They rode up and were surprised to see Ivan. And not only was he there, but he had found so many treasures! And so they made a bargain.

“Let’s kill our brother, and the treasure will be ours.” They cast lots, and one of them won the horse, the other one—Elena the Beautiful. And they killed Ivan the Prince. They took the horse, the firebird, and Elena the Beautiful. Her they warned to say nothing, or she would live to regret it.

Ivan the Prince lies at the foot of the oak tree, dead. Already the ravens are descending to feast on his remains. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the grey wolf appeared and grabbed a raven with its chick.  “Go, raven, go find the living and the dead water. Bring it to me, then I will release your chick.”

The raven—what could he do?—he flew away, while the wolf held the chick in his mouth. Whether he traveled a long time or short, the raven brought the living and the dead water back. The grey wolf sprinkled Ivan with the dead water—and all of his wounds closed up. Then he sprinkled him with living water, and the prince came back to life. He stood up and stretched, yawning: “Oh, what a wonderful sleep I had!”

“A wonderful sleep?” echoed the wolf. “If not for me, it would have been permanent! Your own dear brothers killed you and carried away all your treasures. Sit on my back quickly!” They raced in the brothers’ wake, catching up with them just as the brothers rode into sight of hearth and home. The wolf attacked them, tearing them into pieces, scatting the bits all over the fields. Ivan the Prince bowed again to the grey wolf and parted with him for all time.

And so Ivan the Prince returned home on the horse with a golden mane. He brought his father the firebird, and Elena the Beautiful he took as his bride. King Berendei was glad, and asked his youngest son about his adventures. And so Ivan told him everything—how the grey wolf helped him, how his own brothers killed him while he slept, and how the grey wolf tore them into pieces. The king mourned, but only for a time. And Ivan the Prince married Elena the Beautiful. And they lived together, with no sorrow ever darkening their days.

Whatever shadow may fall on your life—maybe you’re worried about the fate of your country, or perhaps dark thoughts visit you concerning your own future, or maybe your entire life seems an unbearable wound—remember the fairy tale. Listen to her quiet, ancient, wise voice.

These perhaps surprising words were spoken by a Russian philosopher named Ivan Ilyin, speaking to an audience of Russians in Germany in 1934. Strange, it sounds a lot like something you might here now in our pandemic-ridden country. His world had fallen apart already. His country had been overwhelmed by Communists, and he was just about to witness the worst slaughter ever inflicted by man upon fellow man. And yet, where did he find his consolation? In the simple, some would say childish, fairy tale. He says:

Don’t think the fairy tale is a childish diversion, not worthy of the attention of a grown man. And don’t think that adults are smart and children are stupid. Don’t imagine that an adult has to stupefy himself to tell a story to a child. No (he continues), is it not perhaps the opposite? Aren’t our minds the source of most of our woes? And what is stupidity, anyway? Is all stupidity dangerous or shameful, or is there perhaps a kind of intelligent stupidity? Or better yet, let’s call it simplicity, something desirable and blessed, that begins in stupidity but ends in wisdom.

Socrates famously said, “All I know is that I know nothing.” And yet, even now so many of us are convinced, whether we realize it or not, that our own minds can contain the universe, that science can help us understand the mysteries of life, that a thorough training of our minds can make us masters of our own existence. Well, that hasn’t been happening these past few months as pandemic rages, and it seems to me that the more people read and the more science they seem to have on their side, the less they seem to understand what is actually happening. And yet the more we feed our minds, the less we think about our hearts. That’s the point. And the results are not good. Many of us have lost the ability to see the beautiful in the world completely, not only because of the pandemic—even before. Many of us were stuck in our own chosen ideologies, points of view. And how often have you seen people on social media or in person battering down those who disagree with them into submission to their own will? And it’s true, our world is no longer as enchanted as it was when we were children; the magic is simply gone. Have you noticed that for many of us, so has the joy? Well, Ilyin has something to say about that, too; here’s what he says:

Only he who worships at the altar of facts and has lost the ability to contemplate a state of being ignores fairy tales. Only he who wants to see with his physical eyes alone, plucking out his spiritual eyes in the process, considers the fairy tale to be dead. Fine, let’s call the fairy tale simplistic, but it is at least modest in its simplicity. And for its modesty, we forgive it its stupidity. After all, it takes courage to be simple. The fairy tale doesn’t even try to hide its inaccuracies. It’s not ashamed of its simplicity. It’s not afraid of strict questions or mocking smiles.

Ilyin continues; he says:

Fairy tales are not fabrications or tall tales, but they are poetic illumination, essential reality, maybe even the beginning of all philosophy (and, who knows, possibly even theology). Fairy tales won’t become obsolete if we lose the wisdom to live by them, no. We have perverted our emotional and spiritual culture, and we will dissipate and die off if we lose access to these tales.

I’m talking not about physical death, but about something much worse; I’m talking about spiritual death.

What is this access to fairy tales? (continues Ilyin). What must we do to make the fairy tale like the house on chicken feet, turn its back to the forest and face us? How can we see it and live by it? How can we illuminate its prophetic death and make clear its true spiritual meaning?

But, really, Ivan Ilyin, are you serious? Spiritual meaning? Talking wolves, houses on chicken feet, and wimpy princes crying on tree stumps? What are you talking about? Well, Ilyin’s talking about an entirely different way of relating to the world. Here’s what he says; he says:

For this, we must not cling to the sober mind of the daylight consciousness with all its observations, its generalizations, its laws of nature. The fairy tale sees something other than this daylight consciousness; it sees other things in other ways. You see, the story itself is art. It conceals and reveals in its words an entire world of images, and these images symbolize profound spiritual states.

Spiritual realities transcend what we can see or express in words, and yet we know they exist. We know it in the relics that we see, in the myrrh-streaming icons we smell, and in the lives of men who transform everyone around them from beast to angel. I’m talking about the saints. These realities, before we can grow up spiritually to experience them for ourselves, they’re often best expressed in metaphors, in images, or in symbols—in other words, in stories. It’s a kind of art similar to myths and songs. Here’s what Ivan Ilyin says; he says:

It comes from the same places as dreams, premonitions, and prophecies. This is why the birth of a story is at the same time artistic and magical. It not only tells a story, but it sings it into being. And the more a fairy tale sings, the easier it enters into the soul, and the stronger is its magical force: to calm, to order, and then to illumine the soul. The fairy tale comes from the same sources as the songs of mages with their commanding power. This is why stories repeat phrases and images so often.

After all, think about it: Christ himself, reaching down to the low level of his fallen creation, told the most compelling truths in the most compelling way: through parables and through symbols. Here’s another quote for you. This is J.R.R. Tolkien, from Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics. He says:

The significance of a myth is not easily to be pinned down on paper by analytical reasoning. Its defender is thus at a disadvantage. Unless he is careful and speaks in parables, he will kill what he is studying by vivisection, and he will be left with the formal or mechanical allegory, and what is more, probably with one that will not work. For a myth is alive at once and in all its parts, and it dies before it can be dissected.

So let’s see what this simple yet profound adventure tale about the foolish Ivan and the wise grey wolf has to tell us. Well, we can start with the symbolism of fire, water, and the forest. It seems like the kingdom of Berendei is a rather ho-hum place, especially if we’re judging by the first two brothers. They’re not particularly moral, and the king himself is more willing to put off his responsibility on his sons than take care of it himself. And yet, there is this youngest son—we’ll talk about the youngest son in a future episode, but for now it’s enough to say that there’s an inkling, a little bit of something in Ivan that’s real, that’s authentic, and that’s moral, and we see that in his fervent desire to stop himself from falling asleep, because he knows that his brothers faked it, that they cheated. And it’s just that initial little moment, the desire to be vigilant over his own self, that gives him an illumination, because the firebird, a bird on fire, is a very clear symbol of spiritual illumination. It has been used often, even in the hymnology of the Church.

What about the forest? Well, Ivan, although he gets the initial moment of spiritual illumination when he sees and touches the firebird, he’s still young and he’s still like a child, spiritually, so he has to go through some difficult times. Entering into the forest is almost a universal image or symbol of entering into the darkness that resides in the spiritual realm. There can be beautiful things there, there can be terrifying things there, and the trick is to get through it to the other side, because you will never be the same. But, of course, you can die. That’s the reality of the spiritual. So Ivan has to lose his horse. It’s very important that he does, because Ivan is too dependent on external forces to do his work for him. He does have that initial push of the proper kind of attitude toward the spiritual, but still he’s dependent on his horse, or he needs to be tested, and that’s what happens: he walks for two days and doesn’t stop until he is completely left with nothing, and all he has left at that point is to sit and cry.

I was wrong when I called him a wimpy, crying prince. The image of the prince sitting on the tree, crying, is an image of repentance; let’s be clear. It’s at that moment, when he doesn’t simply feel sorry for himself but acknowledges that he has nothing left, that the surprising help of the wolf comes. The wolf—why the wolf? Why is the wolf a force for good? The wolf is a spiritual force. He’s kind of ambivalent. In some cases he can be good; in some cases he can be bad. The important thing is that he comes from the other side, and that he is the one to carry Ivan through, because Ivan can’t do everything himself; he is everyman. And everyman is useless! Everyman has to become somebody; he cannot remain everyman.

This is why he keeps winning. In spite of his own uselessness, in spite of his inability to do anything according to the strict spiritual instructions of his director, the wolf, every time he fails, he comes back, and he asks forgiveness and that’s it. He doesn’t try to justify himself, doesn’t try to suggest that perhaps he was set up incorrectly—“It’s all the fault of the wolf!” so many of us answer that way when we go off the rails spiritually, isn’t that true? So he ultimately does win Elena the Beautiful.

Now, Elena the Beautiful is the really interesting character, I think. Some people listening to the story might think: Why is it that this character doesn’t speak a single time? And she is simply passed on from one man to another, and they do whatever they want with her. Isn’t this simply the old-world misogyny coming out? And why, Nicholas Kotar, are you sharing misogynistic fairy tales with us? No, actually that’s not what’s happening, and the fact that she doesn’t speak is very important, actually. If you know any other fairy tales from Russia—and if you don’t, you will very soon, hopefully—women characters are remarkably strong in most Russian fairy tales. In fact, they have far more agency than in a lot of other fairy tale traditions.

So why is Elena here such a passive character? Well, simple: it’s because she is not actually supposed to represent a woman at all! Elena the Beautiful is a symbolic image, a kind of icon, of the Beautiful with a capital B, of the things that we must strive for, of all the good in the world that we can attain. Yes, it’s a symbol. This is not a love story at all. So it’s necessary for Ivan to lose her. It’s necessary then for him to die. It’s necessary for him to be resurrected through an external force, through a eucatastrophe, as J.R.R. Tolkien will call it (something we’ll talk about in a later episode).

Because this is the purpose of all happy endings in Russian fairy tales, and that is to show us, the listeners, that ultimately, no matter what, our happiness is not dependent upon us. So the death of Ivan reveals something very profound about the nature of the fairy tale and the purpose of all happy endings. Ivan has to lose Elena the Beautiful, and he has to lose his life, because he cannot attain anything unless it is given to him from above. That is the truth of all happy endings; that is the truth of all eucatastrophes: our happiness does not depend on ourselves; it depends on God. And only by going down into the depth of total loss and death can we hope to be spiritually resurrected, which is exactly what happened to Ivan. And notice how when he wakes up he says, “What an interesting or beautiful dream I had.” It wasn’t real death; it was a kind of small death, an expectation of being awakened soon by a strong spiritual force like the wolf.

This is the point of the story. It’s to remind us that we cannot save ourselves, that no matter how much we know, no matter what we do, our life is not in our power at all. Our life is in the power of the One who made us and the One who saved us. So if we ever want to progress to the simplicity of the dove and not simply remain cunning as the serpent, we need to make our souls gentle and harmonious, because we are children, spiritually speaking. So why not listen when we hear the prophetic voice of the fairy tale? We might be surprised at how our lives change for the better.

Thank you for listening. If you’d like to find out more about the exciting and dangerous world of Slavic fairy tales, you might like to check out the Raven Son epic fantasy series, which is inspired by these stories. If you sign up for my mailing list, you will receive book one, The Song of the Sirin, for free. Just visit nicholaskotar.com to find out more. You might also be interested in my “Monthly Good Books for Great Lives” book club and other exclusive content available at patreon.com/nicholaskotar. This show was edited, and its original music was composed by Natalie Wilson at nwcomposing.com. In A Certain Kingdom is a listener-supported presentation of Ancient Faith Radio.