Once upon a time there lived a blacksmith. He had two apprentices, strong guys. When they were forging iron in the forge, not only the anvil, but also the earth shook, and the forge trembled, like a water mill when they grind corn.
The apprentices slept on the same bed, one on the edge, the other against the wall. A little time passed, and the one who slept on the edge began to get sick, wither and dry up. Previously, he was ruddy and so thick-cheeked that it seemed that if you hit one cheek, the other would burst, but now he was emaciated, as if he had been worn out by a fever. A friend asks:
- What’s wrong with you, buddy, why are you haggard and wasting away?
“Eh, buddy,” he replies, “I feel bad.” No one has ever gotten into such trouble as I have. I’m afraid to tell you, you still won’t believe it.
“Tell me, brother, without hiding anything, I swear on my honor that I will not betray you, even if I knew that your hands are covered in blood up to your elbows.” I see that you are withering and dying, so I feel sorry for you. You really don’t look like yourself, you’re almost unrecognizable, and every day you become more and more frail.
He is silent, and his friend asks again:
- Maybe the brownie is riding you?
- Much worse. I’ll tell you, buddy, but just let everything stay between us, I don’t want women gossiping about me on all corners. Do you know what? Our mistress is a witch. Every night, as soon as we fall asleep, she comes to our bed with her devilish whip, whips me, I get up, turn around as a horse, she bridles me, then saddles me, sits astride me and - off with the other witches to Arshan. He drives me through the fields and mountains, then I’m all covered in soap, and white and bloody foam flies in all directions.
When we get to Arshan Mountain, she will tie me to a tree and go to the Sabbath with pitchforks and witches, and before dawn she will again jump on me, her horse, and rush home, and again I will be drenched in bloody sweat. Having arrived at the house, she takes the reins off me, I turn into a human again and go to bed, tired and broken. That's why I wither and dry up, that's why I get sick.
- Does the witch come every night? - asks a friend.
- Every night on the new moon, and at other times as when.
“Okay,” says the comrade, “now you lie down against the wall, and I’ll lie down on the edge and get even with the witch.”
So they did. It was the night of the first Friday after the new moon. The guys swapped places: the sick one lay down against the wall, and the healthy one on the edge.
When everything was quiet in the house, the healthy guy pretended to be asleep. The door to the room where the boys were sleeping opened and the witch owner entered. In the right hand is a whip, in the left is a bridle. She went straight to the bed where two friends were sleeping and swung her whip to hit the guy who was lying on the edge. He jumped up and rushed at her like a cat at a mouse, grabbed the witch by the arms, tore out her whip and bridle and began to hit her on the back. The witch instantly turned into a mare. The guy bridled her, took her out into the yard, sat astride her and drove along the road to the forest. He returned along a different road and drove her so mercilessly that she was all wet, like hemp soaked in a river. So he chased her around the village across the field until dawn, and then drove her to the forge, tied her up and woke up her friend.
The owner was not at home at that time. The guys opened the forge, fanned the fire, forged four horseshoes, shod the mare on all four legs, and then brought her into the yard and took off the bridle from her. She turned into a woman, ran to her room and went to bed.
She began to develop a fever, and she became mortally ill. The blacksmith came home and couldn’t believe his eyes: his wife was lying down, her arms and legs were shod.
- What happened, wife, tell me, for God’s sake?
“I don’t know, I went to bed completely healthy, and at dawn I woke up in pain, and look what happened, probably the devil himself shod me.”
- So that you have no bottom or tire! - says the blacksmith. “We’ll have to remain silent and hide our misfortune.” Not a word to anyone about our misfortune. What miracles! Where has this been seen, where has this been heard?
With great difficulty the blacksmith unshackled his wife. She had been sick for a long time, but as soon as she felt better, the first thing she did was take the whip and bridle and slowly burn them in the oven.
And from then on she was no longer a witch. The ailing apprentice recovered, became ruddy again and so thick-cheeked that it seemed that if you hit one cheek, the other would burst. All this was so, but the truth is similar to the truth, like a frog to a horse or a snail to an ox.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru