King Stakh's Wild Hunt

Chapter The Tenth

The following day Śvieciłovič and I were on our way to a rather small island near the Janoŭski Forest Reserve. Śvieciłovič was in a very merry mood, talked at length about love in general and about his own in particular. And how pure and sincere the look in his eyes, so naive and childish his love, that I mentally promised myself never to stand in his way, never to interfere with him, but to clear the way for him to this girl whom I, too, loved.

We Belarusians can rarely be in love without sacrificing something, and I was no exception to this rule. We usually torment her whom we love and even to a greater degree ourselves, because of conflicting thoughts, questions and deeds, which others easily manage to bring to a common denomination.

Śvieciłovič had received a letter from the city containing information about Bierman.

Oh, Bierman… Bierman. A fine bird he turned out to be. Comes of an old family, but now impoverished and strange. The letter states that all of them had an irresistable inclination for solitude, were quite noxious and unsociable. His father was deprived of a fortune; he had embezzled an enormous sum of money, and managed to save himself by losing a large sum of money to the inspector. His mother lived behind curtained windows almost all the time, went out for a walk at dusk only.

But the most surprising personality was Bierman himself. He was reputed as being an exceptionally fine authority on ancient wooden sculpture and glassware. Something unpleasant had occurred several years ago. He had been sent to Mnichavičy by the Amateur Antiquity Society which was headed by Count Tyškievič. The old Polish Roman-Catholic Church was being shut down there and, according to rumours, the sculptures in it were of great artistic value. Tyškievič had his own private museum and he wished to purchase these sculptures for it, for he was handing his museum over to the city as a gift. Bierman went to Mnichavičy, sent Tyškievič a statue of St. Christopher and a letter in which he wrote that the sculptures in the church were of no value whatsoever. He was taken at his word, but after some time had passed, it accidentally became known that Bierman had bought all the sculptures, all in all 107 figures, for a miserly sum of money and had sold them to another private collector for a large sum of money. Simultaneously a significant sum of money was found missing from the treasury of the Amateur Society. A search was begun for Bierman, but he had disappeared together with his mother and younger brother, who was being brought up at some private boarding-school and had arrived in the city only the previous year. His brother, in addition, was noted for being unsociable, in spite of the fact that he had lived at a boarding-school.

When their absence was noticed, it turned out that they had sold their house and had disappeared. The authorities became interested in them. And it became clear that these Biermans were in general not Biermans, but who they were — nobody knew.

“Well, yes… A little we have learned,” I said. “There is one interesting thing here: Bierman is a criminal. But he fooled a man who like himself was a thief, and it is not for me to judge him. He will receive his just deserts, but that will be later. What's curious here is something else. Firstly, where are his mother and brother? Secondly, who is he in reality? It's clear why he appeared here. He had to hide. But who he is, who his relatives are — that has yet to be cleared up. I shall without fail take up this question. But, Śvieciłovič, I have almost no news, except what I learned, and that from the mouth of a mad woman, that on that fatal night Raman was lured from his house by Garaboor-da. But I don't even remember what his mug is like, even though I must have seen him at Janoŭskaja's party.”

“That doesn't matter, we'll find out.”

We came up to the grove and went deep into it. It was the only grove in the district in which leaf-bearing trees predominated. And there in a glade, not a very large one, we saw Ryhor leaning against an enormous upturned root, holding a long hand-gun on his knees. Seeing us, he got up, looked sideways at us as a bear does and changed the position of the rifle-stock to hold it more conveniently.

“Be on your guard when walking in the swamp, be on your guard in the park and especially its southern and western, outskirts,” he muttered instead of a greeting.

“Why?” I asked, having introduced him to Śvieciłovič.

“This is why,” he growled. “They are not phantoms. Too well do they know the secret paths across the Giant's Gap. It surprises you that they can race where no roads are, but they know only too well all the secret hide-outs in the region and all the paths leading to them; they use very ancient horseshoes which are nailed onto the horses' hoofs with new calks. What's true is true. The horses step as bears do — at first with their left and then with their right feet, and their steps are wavy, much wider than those our horses make. And for phantoms they are too feeble. A phantom can pass through anything, while these only through the broken-down fence at the Gap… And I have learned something else too: there were no more than ten of them the last time, because only half of the horses rode as a horse rides with a person on his back. On the rest there was something lighter on their backs. The one rushing at their head is very hot-tempered: he tears at the lips with the bits. And what is more — one of them takes snuff. I found the dust of green tobacco at the place where they had stopped off before making their last race and had left many footprints, having trampled the ground there. It is the place where the large oak stands not far from the broken-down fence.”

“Where can their meeting-place be?” I asked

“I know where to look,” Ryhor answered calmly. “It is somewhere in the Janoŭski Reserve. I determined that from the footprints. Look here.” — With a vine twig he began to draw on the earth. “Here is the virgin forest. At the time when Raman was killed, the footprints disappeared right here, almost at the bog surrounding the Reserve. When they were pursuing you after the evening at Dubatoŭk's, the footprints disappeared northwards, and after what took place near the Janoŭski castle, when they shouted, — slightly farther northward. You see, the paths almost coincide.”

“Really, that's so,” I agreed. “And if they are prolonged they will come together at one point, somewhere in the bog.”

“I've been there,” Ryhor slightly snorted, as if about some most usual thing. “The swamp there in that place is considered fatal, but I've seen bristle-grass growing there in some places. And wherever this grass grows, the horse belonging to a lousy fellow, can always put his foot, if that is what his lousy owner needs.”

“Where is this place?” Śvieciłovič asked, growing pale suddenly.

“At the Cold Hollow where the stone called the Witch's Mortar lies.”

Śvieciłovič grew even paler. Something had alarmed him, but he took himself in hand.

“And what else?” I asked.

“This is what else.” Ryhor gloomily muttered, “that you are on a false scent. Although it was Haraburda who lured Raman out of his house, he has no connection with the Wild Hunt. Those two nights when it appeared the last time, Haraburda was sitting in his lair as a rat in its hole. I know that because his place was well watched.”

“But he is interested in Janoŭskaja's dying or going mad. That would benefit him. It was he who persuaded Kulša to invite Janoŭskaja to his house that evening, it was he who sent his own daughter to the Kulša's too, and then detained everybody there till night-time.”

Ryhor became thoughtful. Then he muttered:

“Perhaps you are right. You are clever, and you must know. But Haraburda was not there, I stake my head on that. He rides a horse badly. He's a coward. And he keeps to his castle all the time. But he can talk others into doing dirty tricks.”

And here Śvieciłovič became even paler, staring into space, as if he were considering something extremely important. I did not disturb him. If he wanted to, he'd tell us himself. However, he didn't think long.

“Brothers, it seems I know this person. You understand, you have helped me to find an answer to a riddle. Firstly: at the ‘Witch's Mortar’. Yesterday evening I saw a man there whom I know very well. I'd never have suspected him, and that disturbs me. He was very tired, dirty, riding on horseback to the Gap. Seeing me, he came nearer: ‘What are you doing here, Mr. Śvieciłovič?’ I answered jokingly, ‘I'm in search of yesterday's day.’ And he burst into laughter and asked: ‘Does yesterday's day, then, the devil take it, come into today's?’ And I said to him: ‘Yesterday's day hangs round all our necks.’ Then he said: ‘However, it doesn't come, does it?’ Then I said: ‘But the Wild Hunt? Hasn't it come from the past?’ His countenance even changed. ‘To the devil with it! Don't even mention it.’ And he moved on northwards along the quagmire. I went on towards your house, Mr. Biełarecki, but when I turned round I saw that he had turned back and was letting himself down into the ravine. He went there and disappeared.”

“Who was it?” I asked. Śvieciłovič hesitated. Then he raised his bright eyes.

“Forgive me, Biełarecki, forgive me, Ryhor, I cannot tell you yet. It's too important, and I'm not a gossip. I cannot lay such a terrible accusation on the shoulders of a person who, perhaps, is not guilty. You know that for such a thing a person may be killed simply on suspicion. All that I can say is that he was among the guests at Janoŭskaja's. I'll think it over in the evening, will weigh everything, will recall in detail the story about the promissory notes and tomorrow I'll tell you. But for the present I cannot say anything more…”

Oh, of course! A dependable alibi. Oh, fools! And what dim thoughts! By analogy I recalled my own indefinite thoughts, too, the thoughts about “the hands”, which were to help me in investigating something important.

We decided Ryhor would sit this night at the Cold Hollow. It was not far from there to Sve-tilovich's house where he lived with an old attendant and a cook. In case of need we could find him.

“Nevertheless I don't believe that I'll be able to catch them when they leave. Śvieciłovič has put them on their guard,” Ryhor said hoarsely. “They'll find another road out of the dense forest onto the plain.”

“But another road into the park they won't find. I'll be lying in wait for them near the broken-down fence,” I decided.

“It's dangerous alone,” Ryhor lowered his eyes.

“But you, too, will be alone.”

“Me? No! I'm nobody's fool. I'm bold, but not so bold as to fight one against twenty.”

“But I tell you,” I said stubbornly, “that the mistress of Marsh Firs will not live through another appearance of the Wild Hunt at the walls of her house. I must not allow them to enter the park if they intend to come.”

“Today I cannot help you,” said Śvieciłovič sunk in a brown study. “What I must clear up is more important. Perhaps the Wild Hunt won't come today at all. An obstacle will stand in its way.”

“Well then,” I, rather dryly, interrupted him. “You should have expressed your views and not given us puzzles to answer. I'll go out alone today. They aren't expecting anybody, and on that I am laying my hopes. By the way, they don't know that I have a gun. Twice I met with the Hunt, and also with that man who shot me in the back, and I never used it. Well then, they will see yet… How slowly we are untying this knot! How lazily our brains are working!”

“Everything is cleared up easily and logically only in bad novels,” Śvieciłovič growled, offended. “In addition, we are not detectives from the provincial police. And thank the Lord for that!”

Frowning, Ryhor was digging the earth with a twig. “Enough!” he said with a sigh. “We must act. I'll make them hop about yet, the skunks! And, excuse me, after all you are aristocrats, gentlemen all. We are together now, following the same path, but if we find them, we mužyks shall not only kill these savage creatures, we will burn their nests, we will bring utter ruin on their offspring, and we'll perhaps put an end to their descendants.”

Śvieciłovič began to laugh:

“Biełarecki and I are very fi-ine gentlemen! As the saying has it: a gentleman all dressed up in a caftan made of grape vine, and sandals made of bast. Actually, we ought to annihilate them all and their like including their young ones, for with the passing of time, these young ones will grow up to be aristocrats.”

“If only it is not a phantom, this Wild Hunt, a vision seen in a dream when asleep. Well, there wasn't, there has never yet been a person who was able to hide his tracks from me, the best of hunters. But phantoms will be phantoms.”

We took our leave of Ryhor. I, too, agreed partially with his last words. There was something supernatural about this Hunt. This cry that turned one's heart to ice — it couldn't come from a human chest. The thundering hoofs heard from time to time. The drygants a breed already extinct, and even if they can still be found, who in such a remote corner as ours, is wealthy enough to have been able to buy these horses? Somehow this must be connected with King Stach's Wild Hunt. Who is this Lady-in-Blue whose ghost disappeared in the night, if her twin (a twin entirely unlike her) is peacefully sleeping in her room? To whom does this awful face belong, the face that looked at me through the window? My head was splitting. Yes, there was something unnatural going on here, something criminal and frightening, a kind of mixture of devilry and reality.

I looked at Śvieciłovič, walking at my side, merry and playful, as if these questions didn't exist as far as he was concerned. The morning was indeed a beautiful one: although the weather was cloudy and dull, the sun was not far away, and each little yellow leaf on the trees thrilled, and it even seemed that they were turning towards the dew in the warm autumn sun.

Through the glade we saw a level plain far ahead, and farther on — the boundless brown bog and the heather waste land. Marsh Firs was far behind them. And in all this there was a kind of sad, incomprehensible beauty, a beauty that made the heart in every son of these depressing places beat both painfully and sweetly.

“Look, a little aspen tree has run out into the field. It has become shy and begun to blush, reddening all over, poor thing,” Śvieciłovič said, deeply moved.

Moving forward, he stood at the precipice. His ascetic mouth softened, a timid, wandering smile appeared on his face. His eyes looked into the distance, and he himself, his entire body, seemed to have become weightless, impetuous, ready to soar upward above our dear, poor earth.

“This is how such as he ascend the cross,” I again thought. “A beautiful head under the filthy, rotten axe…”

And really, one sensed a kind of thirst for life and a readiness for self-sacrifice in this beautiful face, in these “lilywhite” hands, as our ancestor-poets would have put it, in the fine, slender neck, in the steady brown eyes with their long lashes, but with a metallic lustre in their depths.

“Ah, my land!” he sighed. “My dear, my only one! How cold your attitude towards the little aspens that run out into the field ahead of all the others, and into the light. They are the first to be broken by the wind. Don't be in such a hurry, you little fool… But it cannot help itself. It must.”

I put my hand on his shoulder, but I quickly removed it. I understood that he was not at all like me, that now he was soaring above the earth, that he was not here. He was not even ashamed of using high-faluting words which men usually avoid.

“Do you remember, Biełarecki, your preface to ‘Belarusian Songs, Ballads and Legends?’ I remember: ‘My Belarusian heart became embittered when I saw that our best, our golden words and deeds had fallen into oblivion.’ Wonderful words! For these words alone your sins will be forgiven you. So what then is there to be said, when not only my Belarusian, but my human heart, aches at the thought of our neglect and the human suffering, the useless tears of our unfortunate mothers. It is impossible, impossible to live like this, my dear Biełarecki. It is in man's nature to be kind, but he is turned into an animal. Nobody, nobody, wishes to let him be a human being. Simply to cry: ‘People, embrace one another!’ is, evidently, not enough. And there are people here who keep going to the rack. Not for the sake of glory, but for conscience' sake, to kill the torments of conscience — as a man does when he goes into a dense forest, although he doesn't know the way, to save a friend, because he knows that it is shameful, shameful to stop, to stand still. So they go on, stray, and perish.

They know only that a person mustn't be like that, that it is no good promising him pie in the sky, that he needs to have happiness under these ceilings so covered with smoke. And they are more courageous than Christ: they know that there is no resurrection after the crucifixion. Only crows will fly over them and women will bewail them. And chiefly, their saintly mothers.”

At this moment he seemed superhuman to me, so fine, so worthy, that I felt terrified and foresaw his death through the veiled future. Such as he do not live. Where will it be? On the rack in a torture-chamber? On the scaffold facing the people? In a hopeless battle of insurgents against the army? At a writing-desk hurriedly writing down his last fiery thoughts, breathing his last breath? In a prison corridor, shot in the back, not daring to look him in the eyes?

His eyes were shining.

"Kalinoŭski went to the gallows. Piaroŭskaja, a woman you would be willing to die for her on the scaffold… Such beauty — with a dirty rope round her neck. You know, Janoŭskaja resembles her somewhat. That's why I idolize her, although that's not quite exactly so. But she was an aristocrat. That means there is a way out for some of our people, too. Only you must follow their path, if you do not want to rot alive… They strangled her. You think all can be strangled? Our strength is growing. If I could hang with them, even by a rib from the hook, to prevent King Stach's Wild Hunt tearing across the land at a mad pace, to stop the horrors of the past, its apocalypse, death. I'll leave as soon as I finish with this. I can't stay here. You know what friends I have, what we have in mind to do? They shall tremble, those fat ones, they shall! We haven't all been strangled to death. This means a great fire. And the years, the years ahead! How much suffering, how much happiness! What a golden, magic expanse is ahead! What a future awaits us!”

Tears spurted from his eyes, uncontrollable tears. I don't remember how we parted. I remember only his fine slender figure visible at the top of the burial mound. He turned round towards me, waved his hat and shouted:

“Years and years are ahead of us! Great expanses! The sun!”

And he disappeared. I went home. I believed I could do anything now. Of what significance was the gloom of Marsh Firs, if ahead were great expanses, the sun and faith? I believed that I'd fulfil everything, that our nation was alive if it could give birth to such people.

The day was yet ahead, such a long one, shining, potent. My eyes looked to meet it and the sun which was hidden as yet behind the clouds.