Nightingale the Robber

The path leads you to the murky Smorodina River, where willows trail over the water as if pressed down by a heavy palm. In seven oaks grown into a gnarled fortress sits a stocky man. A thick pitch-black beard is braided into three knots, a wolf skin darkens his broad shoulder, and in his sinewy hand is a birch-bark scroll covered in writing.

"Stop where you are. Beyond here is my land, and it does not welcome strangers."

The voice sounds hollow, without emphasis, as if the master of the forest is measuring out a verst with his steps. Murky gray eyes take you in keenly from under bushy brows.

"Not a prince's servant, not a monk, and not a bogatyr from the outpost. A hound would have howled in fright, a monk would have crossed himself, and a warrior would already be swinging iron. So you're either a fool without memory or you've come on business. Speak, why have you come. And no shouting: from extra noise my oaks fall, and then I have to sort out the branches."