This is episode five of season three, about the beautiful Vasilisa Mikulishna.

In a certain kingdom, in a certain land, during the reign of Prince Vladimir, sun of his people, there was a great feast on some great occasion, and all the assembled drank a great deal, and of course they ate a great deal. Everyone at this feast boasted about something. Everyone was very proud of himself. And one guest, well, one guest was a merchant from the city of Chernigov, and he sat there, completely dejected, drinking no mead, eating no swan or goose, no matter how roasted or stuffed with nuts they were.

So Prince Vladimir noticed, and he came up to him very courteously and said to him kindly, “Why do you not eat, not drink, my dear guest, Stavr Rodionovich? You sit here so cheerlessly. You are boasting of nothing. But truly you are not well-born and of course you have not performed any glorious military deeds. It’s true, you have nothing to boast about, ha ha!”

“It is true, Grand Prince. I have nothing to boast about. My father and my mother are long gone, otherwise perhaps I could perhaps praise them. I don’t feel like boasting of gold treasury, as I don’t myself know how much I have, and I would not be able to count it all before my death, you know, there’s so much of it. And of course it’s not worth boasting about your clothing. We’ve all come here to this feast in my clothing, from morning till evening wearing a kaftan, and then I’ll sell it to you. All my horses have golden manes; all my sheep have golden fleece. But then, I’ll sell them to you. I suppose I could also boast of my young wife, Vasilisa Mikulishna, the oldest daughter of Mikula Selianovich. There’s certainly not another like her on earth. Beneath her braid there shines a bright moon. And her brows are blacker than a sable pelt. Her eyes are brighter than a falcon’s. Oh, no, there is no one wiser than she in all Rus’. She could wind you all around her little finger. She would drive you out of your mind, O Prince.”

Oh, Prince Vladimir, he heard these brazen words. He was so offended! Everyone at the feast took fright and fell immediately silent. Princess Apraksiia was bitterly offended. She started to cry, and Prince Vladimir got even more angry. He shouted in a loud voice through the chamber, “Now then, my trusted servants, seize Stavr, drag him into a cold cellar for his offensive speech, and chain him to the stone wall. Give him spring water to drink and feed him on little oat wafers, nothing more. Let him sit there until he comes to his senses, and we shall see how his wife drives us all out of our minds and rescues Stavr from captivity.”

But putting Stavr into a cold and dank cellar was not all that Prince Vladimir did. He ordered a guard sent to Chernigov to steal the boundless riches of the merchant Stavr Rodionovich and to bring his wife to Kiev in chains. “We’ll see what sort of wise woman she is!”

While the messengers were getting all their supplies ready and their horses shod and saddled, news had already flown to the city of Chernigov, to his wife, Vasilisa Mikulishna. Vasilisa wept bitterly, having lost her dear husband, or so she thought. But then she shook herself and said, “You can’t do much with tears, silly woman; you have to act. How can I rescue my dear husband? I can’t ransom with money, I can’t take him by force, but if I can’t take him by force, I will have to take him by trickery.”

She went out into a hallway with bars over the windows. “My trusty servants!” she shouted in a loud voice to her nannies, to the beautiful maidens, “Do a trusty service for me. I am going to the city of Kiev to rescue my dear husband. Saddle my horse, the best one; bring me some Tatar men’s clothing; and then chop off my russet braids. I am going to Prince Vladimir.”

Oh, her nannies, they wept; even more bitterly wept the beautiful maidens. While they were cutting off Vasilisa’s russet, beautiful braids, the long hair covered the entire floor, and the bright moon fell upon her braids. Vasilisa put on the Tatar men’s clothing, took her bow and arrows, and galloped to the city of Kiev. No one would believe that she was a woman. The young warrior, as now she styled herself, galloped over the steppe, and halfway there she encountered the messengers of the prince.

“Well, warrior, where does your journey take you?” said one of them.

“I am going to Prince Vladimir as a messenger from the Golden Horde to collect the tribute for the last twelve years. And you, my lads, where are you headed?”

“We are riding to the city of Chernigov to Vasilisa Mikulishna, to take her to the city of Kiev and hand her over, and her wealth, to the prince.”

“Oh, you are late, brothers! Her retainers have already carted away all her wealth, and they send Vasilisa Mikulishna directly to the Golden Horde!”

“Oh! Well, if that is so, we have no business in Chernigov. We will go back to Kiev.”

Those stupid runners from Kiev galloped back to the prince and told him everything they heard, that there was a messenger, coming direct from the awesome and horrible Golden Horde. And the prince became sad. There was no way he could collect the tribute for the entire twelve years. Vladimir thought little thoughts together with his wife, Apraksiia; he couldn’t do much more than that, poor man. They would have to pacify him, the messenger. So they began to lay the tables and to throw fir boughs into the courtyard, to put out all the best food and meat and wine that they had. They put watchmen in the courtyard and waited for the runner from the Golden Horde.

The messenger, that is, Vasilisa, having ridden just short of Kiev, set up her tent in the steppe, left her men, and rode on to Prince Vladimir alone. This messenger was handsome. He had a fine bearing. He was mighty but not fierce of face. He was courteous. He rode up to the palace of Prince Vladimir, jumped from his horse, and tied his horse up himself to the golden porch. He went—stomped, even—into the reception room, bowed to all four sides, bowed to the prince and to the princess especially. And he bowed lowest of all to their daughter, Zabava Putiaishna.

The prince said to the messenger, “Greetings, awesome messenger from the Golden Horde! Sit! Sit at the table. Rest, eat and drink something after your long journey.”

“We’ve no time to spend sitting, we messengers,” said Vasilisa. “The khan would not forgive us. Give me the tribute for the last twelve years, and give me Zabava Putiaishna to marry. Then I’ll gallop back to the Horde—and only then!”

“Oh! Permit me, messenger, to consult with my daughter.” The prince led Zabava out of the reception room and asked her, “Will you marry the Horde’s messenger, Zabava?”

Zabava said to him, very quietly, “Father, would you make me the laughingstock of all Rus’? That’s no warrior; that’s a woman!”

The prince was angry that she had long hair but a short wit. “No, this is the awesome messenger from the Golden Horde, a young warrior. His name is Vasilii.”

“That’s no warrior!” said Zabava. “That’s a woman. He goes through the reception room like a duck swimming without knocking his heels. He sits at the bench with his knees held together. His voice is all silver. His hands and feet are small. His fingers are thin. On his fingers, you can see the traces of the rings.”

The prince thought deeply. “Oh, I’ve got to test that messenger.” He summoned his best Kievan young wrestlers: the five brothers Pritchenkov and two Khopilovs. He went out to the messenger and asked, “Dear guest, wouldn’t you like to amuse yourself with our wrestlers? You could fight in this broad courtyard and stretch your bones out after your ride?”

“Why should I not stretch out my bones?” said Vasilisa. “I’ve liked wrestling since my childhood.”

So they went out into the broad courtyard. The young messenger went into the circle, grabbed three fighters with one hand and with the other hand three more, while the seventh he threw into the middle. And he banged all their heads together such that they all fell to the ground at once and lay there and couldn’t get up.

Prince Vladimir spat and went off. “Oh, that foolish Zabava, that silly girl! Calling that warrior a woman!? You never see such messengers as he!”

But Zabava insisted, “That’s a woman, not a warrior!” Somehow she convinced Prince Vladimir, and he decided to test the messenger once again. He led out twelve archers. “Would you not have a desire, messenger, to amuse yourself shooting arrows from your bow?”

“Why should I not amuse myself?” said Vasilisa. “I’ve been shooting with a bow since childhood.”

So the twelve archers came out and let fly their arrows into a high oak. The oak shook as if a whirlwind were going through the forest. So then Messenger Vasilii, as he was known, took an arrow and drew the bowstring taut. The silk bowstring whined and went off. The tempered arrow fell to earth. The mighty warriors couldn’t stand on their feet, and even Prince Vladimir bowed low with the warriors. The arrow bored his way through the oak, which flew apart into fine chips.

“Oh, I’m sorry for the oak,” the messenger said, “but I’m even sorrier for my well-tempered arrow. You won’t find it now anywhere in all of Rus’!”

So Vladimir went to his daughter, and she kept on stating firmly, “He’s a woman! Yes, a woman!” So the prince thought that he himself would contest with her. In Rus’, you see, women don’t play chess. Vladimir ordered them to bring his golden chess set, and he said to the messenger, “Vasilii, would you like to play some chess with me?”

“Huh! I’ve been able to beat all the lads in checkers and chess since I was very young—and what are we going to play for, prince?”

“You put up the tribute for twelve years,” said Prince Vladimir, “and I’ll put up the city of Kiev.”

“Good,” said the Messenger Vasilii, who was actually Vasilisa. “Let’s play.”

So they began moving about the board with their chess pieces, and Prince Vladimir played very well. The messenger led once and then he led a second time, but by the tenth move the prince was done. Check and mate and that was it. Prince Vladimir, oh, he was very sad. “You’ve taken away the city of Kiev, and now I am in your power. Go ahead, messenger, take my head!”

“I do not need your head, and I do not need the city of Kiev. Just give me your daughter, Zabava Putiaishna.” The prince rejoiced, and in his joy he didn’t even bother to ask Zabava. He just ordered them to prepare the wedding celebrations: “Right now!”

They feasted a day, they feasted another, and even a third. All the guests were quite happy, but the bride and the groom, they were not. The groom held his head lower than his shoulders, and Vladimir asked him, “Why are you so unhappy, Vasiliushka? Could it be you don’t like our rich feast?”

“I don’t know. For some reason, I’m saddened; I’m unhappy. Maybe something’s happened at my house. Perhaps a misfortune lies in my path. Order them to summon the gusli players. Let them entertain me, singing of olden times, or even of nowadays.” And they did. Those who played the gusli sang, and their strings rang out, but none of this was to the liking of Vasilii. “Oh no, it’s not the players and it’s not the singers. My old father told me that you have here a Chernigov merchant, Stavr Rodionovich. Why, he knows how to play and sing songs like the wolves howl in the steppe. I would like to hear him play.”

What could Prince Vladimir do? If he let him out, he would never see him again, but if he didn’t let him out, he would rile this messenger and groom. Vladimir didn’t dare rile him, as the tribute still hadn’t been collected! So he ordered them to lead out Stavr. They let him out, but he could scarcely stand on his two feet, let alone sing any songs. He was exhausted by hunger; he was weak.

The groom, Vasilii, said to Vladimir, “You must entertain him! Feed him, give him drink!” And that is exactly what they did. Once Stavr had been given all he required, the groom and messenger came out from behind the table, took Stavr by the hands and sat him down alongside. And then he asked him to play something cheerful, to sing. Stavr tuned up his gusli and began playing, singing the old songs of Chernigov. All the guests at the table listened to him, and the messenger sat, not taking his eyes off Stavr.

Stavr finished playing and singing, and the messenger said to Prince Vladimir, “Listen, Prince Vladimir of Kiev, give me Stavr, and I’ll forgive you the tribute for twelve years, and I’ll return to the Golden Horde.” Vladimir had no desire to hand Stavr over to him. There was nothing he could do. The groom, the messenger, he had asked for him, and Vladimir still hadn’t collected the tribute. How could he refuse?

“Oh, son-in-law, take him, take him! Take Stavr, but where will you take him? Will you take him to the Golden Horde?”

Then the groom did not await the end of the feast. He took leave of his bride and agreed with Prince Vladimir to take Stavr into his tent. “You go on feasting,” said Vasilii, “and I’ll soon return.” So the groom—the so-called Vasilii—jumped onto his horse, sat Stavr behind him, and galloped into the steppe to his own tent. He said to Stavr, “You haven’t recognized me, Stavr Rodionovich, when you and I once learned our letters together.”

“Why, I’ve never seen you before, Tatar messenger!”

So the messenger entered the tent and left Stavr at the entrance. Then, with one quick movement, Vasilisa threw off her Tatar men’s clothes and put on women’s clothes, added some jewelry, and went out of the tent. “Greetings, Stavr Rodionovich. You boasted of your young wife, didn’t you? That she was the most clever, most daring, most beautiful Vasilisa Mikulishna? That she could wrap everyone around her finger? Hm. Do you recognize her now?”

“Oh my wife! My dear wife! My young and bright one, Vasilisa Mikulishna! Oh, thank you for saving me from captivity! Only, where are your braids?”

“I used them to pull you out of that cellar, that pit, my dear husband.”

Her husband, Stavr, bowed to her and said, “Well, let’s mount up our swift horses and go home. Let’s go to Chernigov.”

“There would be no honor in running away in secret,” said Vasilisa. “Let us go back to Prince Vladimir and finish the feast.”

So they got dressed and adorned themselves and returned to Kiev. They went to the prince’s chamber, and Prince Vladimir was amazed that Stavr came in with his young wife, Vasilisa Mikulishna! She asked the prince, “O Prince Vladimir, bright sun of your people, I am that awesome messenger: I, Stavr’s wife, returned to the wedding-feast—to my wedding-feast! Will you give your daughter to me in marriage?”

Princess Zabava jumped up. “I told you, Father! I told you you would be the laughingstock of all Rus’ if you married a woman to a woman!” The prince hung his head in shame, and the warriors, the boyars, they all laughed until their sides split, and everyone praised the woman Vasilisa Mikulishna.

Prince Vladimir shook his curls and started laughing himself, finally saying, “Ha! What a fine woman. You were right, Stavr Rodionovich, to boast of her. She is beautiful, and she wound us all around her little finger. She drove me quite out of my mind! Let it be said of you without offense that on account of your wife and on account of that unnecessary offenses I did to you, I will present to you all those expensive gifts that I promised.”

So Stavr Rodionovich and his lovely Vasilisa Mikulishna got ready to go home to Chernigov. They received gifts. The prince and princess came out to see them, and the warriors did, too, and the guests, and even the servants did. And they rode away from Kiev to Chernigov, where they began living again, in love and harmony, producing children and riches both. And they still sing songs together and tell tales to their children, of Vasilisa Mikulishna, that most clever, daring, and beautiful of women.

Every once in a while, or, in my case, every week or sometimes every day, life throws a wrench in the finely wrought works of my daily life. I like to think of my daily plan as something crafted, intricate, beautiful in its way, and I like to think that that small beauty can radiate out into the week, the month, and maybe even the year. Complete artistic control of the small things, so that I can create the big things that keep popping up in my head and in my heart. But then, I’m not a clockwork automaton, am I? I’m a human being, and that finely wrought daily plan that I think is perfect is… well, it’s probably only perfect for the machine version of me, the android doppelganger that, thank God, doesn’t exist.

No, God is good at reminding me that I’m not a machine, and he does it most often by means of humbling me, and even if I do complain about it—in loud tones, forgive me—I most often come around to remembering that he’s right, and that the flow of life is largely about being open to one’s neighbor and in responding to his or her needs first of all, and only then, on the edges of that life, a life of sacrifice, creative sacrifice hopefully—only on the edges of it will amazing opportunities of personal creativity occur. In my experience, those opportunities that come about on the edges are sometimes the most intense and the most wonderful, and they often happen in places and in margins that you think you didn’t have time for.

Sometimes those reminders are crying babies with toothache; sometimes they’re former pagans turned back to Christ. So instead of pontificating on the subject that I’ve been thinking a lot about—which is: how can a Christian best relate to his own imagination—I’m going to show you how it is exactly that the mythic imagination and the life of immersion in story can be the door through which a direct and very intense encounter with God can happen. The “how” is found in a wonderful conversation with Dr. Martin Shaw, a professional storyteller and writer and a lapsed Christian, until recently, who in his own words could never be argued back into Christianity. But then he had an experience—a wild experience—in the wilderness of Dartmoor in England. And then he started to see dreams of Christ. The rest of his story’s just riveting listening. I’m not going to share it here. I want you to go yourself to YouTube or any podcast app and put in the search: “The Mossy Face of Christ,” “mossy” as in “moss,” the green stuff. “The Mossy Face of Christ.” This conversation is absolutely fascinating. I will say that, of course, I don’t agree with everything that either of the two gentlemen say in their quite wide-reaching conversation, but it’s still an extremely worthy listen.

And next time I’m going to start a miniseries in exploring the idea—rather, exploring the art—of biblical narrative, specifically taken from a book by Robert Alter that really opened up some interesting ideas about the imagination and about writing specifically for me. I hope you will enjoy it.

Thank you for listening. If you’d like to find out more about the exciting and dangerous world of Slavic fairy tales, check out The Raven’s Son epic fantasy series, which is inspired by these stories, and is now available completely in audiobook format. If you find yourself moved by these fairy tales, consider becoming a patron of the podcast. Your contribution will go a long way toward supporting independent creators like me and Natalie, and we are eternally grateful to our community of story-lovers. They are a constant inspiration to me, and a joy to serve. Visit patreon.com/nicholaskotar for more information.

This show was edited and its beautiful music is originally composed by Natalie Wilson at nwcomposing.com. In a Certain Kingdom is a listener-supported presentation of Ancient Faith Radio.