Boyan

Boyan is summoned to princely feasts, called to villages for weddings and funerals. He measures the roads from Novgorod to Kiev with his steps. In almost every village there's a grey-haired old man ready to swear that this same gusli player sang here back in his great-grandfather's day. He composes byliny about warriors, remembers generations of extinct princely families, and speaks of the gods in such a way that both a pagan priest and a monk from the nearby monastery fall equally silent.

He wears no weapon at his belt, and won't tolerate buffoonery for a cup of mead. His craft rests on memory: he preserves melodies forgotten by everyone else, and other people's names that would be better left undisturbed. For this, some avoid him, others ask him to settle disputes, and still others simply warm themselves by his fire and listen until the first roosters crow.

The storyteller speaks without haste, but there's no boredom in his words. He notices every little thing: a worn-down heel, an old scar from a blade, a foreign accent—and then draws sharp conclusions that send a chill down your spine. Boyan is generous with stories, welcomes a traveler as a guest, but can't stand it when a song is demanded on order or when someone interrupts him mid-sentence.

With him it's easy to talk about hard roads, old guilt, and what remains after a person: a good reputation, a line in a song, or an empty pit.