Ivan had ploughed all the fallow but one strip, and he went to finish
that. His stomach ached, yet he had to plough. He undid the harness
ropes, turned over the plough and set out to the fields. He drove one
furrow, but coming back, the ploughshares caught on something that
seemed like a root.
“What a strange thing!” Ivan thought. “There were no roots here, yet
here’s a root!”
He put his hand into the furrow and clutched hold of something soft. He
pulled it out. It was a thing as black as a root and it moved. He looked
closely and saw that it was a live Devilkin.
“You horrid little wretch, you!”
Ivan raised his hand to dash its head against the plough, but the
Devilkin squealed, “Don’t kill me, and I’ll do whatever you want me to.”
“What can you do?”
“Tell me what you want.”
Ivan scratched his head.
“My stomach aches,” he said; “can you make it well?”
“I can.”
“Do it, then.”
The Devilkin bent down, rummaged about with his nails in the furrow and
pulled out three little roots, grown together.
“There,” he said; “if any one swallows a single one of these roots all
pain will pass away from him.”
Ivan took the three roots, separated them and swallowed one. His
stomach-ache instantly left him.
“Let me go now,” the Devilkin begged once more. “I will dive through the
earth and never bother you again.”
“Very well,” Ivan said; “go, in God’s name.”
At the mention of God the Devilkin plunged into the ground like a stone
thrown into water, and there was nothing but the hole left. Ivan thrust
the two remaining little roots into his cap and went on with his
ploughing. He finished the strip, turned over his plough and set off
home. He unharnessed and went into the house, and there was his brother,
Simon the Warrior, sitting at table with his wife, having supper. His
estate had been taken from him; he had escaped from prison and come back
to live with his father.
As soon as Simon the Warrior saw Ivan, he said to him, “I have come with
my wife to live with you; will you keep us both until I find another
place?”
“Very well,” Ivan said, “you can live here.”
When Ivan sat down by the table, the smell of him was displeasing to the
lady and she said to her husband, “I cannot sup together with a
stinking peasant.”
And Simon the Warrior said, “My lady says you do not smell sweet; you
had better eat in the passage.”
“Very well,” Ivan said. “It is time for bed anyway, and I must feed the
mare.”
Ivan took some bread and his coat and went out for the night.