Long, long ago, beneath the city of Murom, in the village of Karacharovo, there lived a peasant named Ivan Timofeyevich with his wife, Yefrosinya Yakovlevna.
They had one son, Ilya. His father and mother loved him, but they could only weep as they looked at him: Ilya had lain on the stove for thirty years, unable to move either hand or foot. Ilya was a giant in stature and bright of mind, with keen eyes, but his legs would not carry him; they lay motionless, like logs.
As he lay on the stove, Ilya heard his mother weeping, his father sighing, and the Russian people complaining: enemies were attacking Rus', trampling the fields, killing people, and leaving children orphaned. Robbers roamed the roads and paths, allowing people neither to pass on foot nor to travel by carriage. Zmey Gorynych descended upon Rus' and carried young women away to his lair.
Hearing all this, Ilya grieved and complained about his fate:
— Ah, my useless legs, ah, my powerless arms! If only I were healthy, I would not let enemies and robbers abuse my native Rus'!
And so the days passed, and the months rolled by...
One day, his father and mother went into the forest to pull out stumps and roots, preparing a field for plowing. Ilya lay alone on the stove, looking out the window.
Suddenly, he saw three wandering beggars approaching his hut.
They stood by the gate, knocked with an iron ring, and said:
— Get up, Ilya, and open the little gate.
— You are making cruel jokes, wanderers: I have been sitting helplessly on the stove for thirty years and cannot get up.
— Just lift yourself up, little Ilyushenka.
Ilya strained—and jumped down from the stove. He stood on the floor, unable to believe his own happiness.
— Now, walk a little, Ilya.
Ilya took one step, then another—and his legs held him firmly and carried him with ease.
Ilya was overjoyed and could not utter a word. Then the wandering pilgrims said to him:
— Bring us some cold water, Ilyusha. Ilya brought a bucket of cold water. One of the wanderers poured some water into a ladle.
— Drink, Ilya. This ladle contains the water of all the rivers and lakes of Mother Rus'.
Ilya drank and felt heroic strength within himself. The wandering pilgrims asked him:
— How much strength do you feel in yourself?
— A great deal, wanderers. If I had a shovel, I would plow the whole earth.
— Drink the rest, Ilya. In that remainder is the dew of the whole earth—from green meadows, tall forests, and fertile fields. Drink.
Ilya drank the rest as well.
— And now, how much strength do you have?
— Oh, wandering pilgrims, I have so much strength that, if there were a ring in the heavens, I could seize it and turn the whole Russian land upside down.
— You have too much strength; it must be reduced, or the earth will no longer be able to bear you. Bring some more water.
Ilya went for water, but the earth truly could not bear him: his foot sank into the ground as into a swamp; when he grabbed an oak sapling, the oak came out by the roots; the well chain tore into pieces like a thread.
Now Ilya walked very quietly, yet the floorboards broke beneath him. Now Ilya spoke in a whisper, yet the doors flew off their hinges.
Ilya brought the water, and the wanderers poured him another ladleful.
— Drink, Ilya!
Ilya drank the well water.
— How much strength do you have in you now?
— I have half as much strength.
— Well, that will do for you, fine fellow. You, Ilya, will be a great hero
