King Stakh's Wild Hunt

Chapter The Eleventh

That very night at about 11 o'clock, I was lying hidden in the lilac tree at the broken-down fence. I was in an uplifted mood, absolutely without fear (and in this state I remained until the very end of my stay at Marsh Firs). It seemed to me that crows could peck at somebody else's body, that had nothing at all to do with me; but they could not peck at mine that I loved, my strong and slender body. Whereas in the meantime the situation was a sad one. And the time, too, was sad.

It was almost quite dark. Over the smooth, gloomy expanse of the Gap, low black clouds had gathered, promising a pouring rain by nightfall (the autumn in general was a bad one and dreary, but with frequent, heavy showers, as in summer). A wind arose, in the blackish-green pyramids of the firs it became noisy, then again became quiet. The clouds swam slowly along, piled over the hopeless, level landscape. Somewhere, far, far away a light flashed and, having winked, went out. A feeling of loneliness crept over my heart. I was a stranger here. Śvieciłovič was really worthy of Nadzieja, while absolutely nobody had any need of me here. As of a hole in a fence.

Whether I lay there long or not — I cannot say. The clouds right overhead thinned out, but new ones arose.

A strange sound struck my ears: somewhere in the distance, and as it seemed to me, to my right, a hunter's horn sounded, and although I knew that was aside from the path the Wild Hunt was on, involuntarily I began to look more frequently in that direction. Yet another thing began to trouble me: white fragments of fog began to appear here and there in marshes. But with that everything ended. Suddenly another sound flew over towards me — the dry heather began to rustle somewhere. I glanced in that direction, looked until my eyes began to ache, and at last noticed some spots moving against the dark background of the distant forests.

For an instant I shut my eyes for them to “come to”, and when I opened them, straight ahead of me and not at all far away, the dim silhouettes of horsemen became visible. Again, as previously, they were flying across the air in great leaps. And complete silence, as if I had become deaf, enveloped them. The sharp tops of their cocked felt hats, their hair and capes waving with the wind, their lances — all this imprinted itself on my memory. I began to crawl back closer to the brick foundation of the fence. The Hunt swung around, then recklessly bunched together in confusion — and began to turn about. I took my revolver from my pocket.

They were few in number, less than ever, eight riders. Where have you put the rest, King Stach? Where have you sent them to? I placed the revolver on the bent elbow of my left arm and fired. I am not a bad shot and can hit the mark in almost complete darkness, but here something surprising happened: the horsemen galloped on as if nothing had disturbed them. I noticed the last one — a tall, strong man, and I fired: but he didn't even stagger.

The Wild Hunt, as if desiring to prove to me it was illusive, turned about and was already galloping sidewards of me, out of reach of my shots. I began to crawl on my back to the bushes and succeeded in coming nearer to them, when someone jumped on me and a terribly heavy weight pinned me to the ground. The last bit of air in my lungs escaped, I even moaned. And I immediately understood that this was a person it was not worth my while to measure either my weight or strength with.

But he attempted to twist my hands behind my back and whistled in a husky whisper:

“S-stand, S-s-satan, wait… W-won't run aw-way> y-you w-won't, you bandit, murderer… H-hold, you rotter…”

I understood that if I didn't employ all my adroitness I'd perish. I remember only that I thought with regret of the spectral Hunt that I had shot at, but hadn't harmed even one of its hairs. The next instant, feeling someone's paw stealing up to my throat, I used an ancient well-tested method to put it out of action. Something warm came running down my face: he had with his own hand smashed his nose. I grabbed him by the hand and twisted it under myself, rolling together with him on the ground. He groaned loudly and I understood that my second move had also been successful. But immediately after this, I received such a blow on the bridge of my nose that the bog began to swim before my eyes and my hair stood on end. Luckily, I had instinctively strained the muscles of my abdomen in time, and therefore the following blow below the belt did not harm me. His hairy hands had already reached my throat when I recalled my grandfather's advice in case of a fight with an opponent stronger than myself. With unbelieving strength I turned over on my back, pressed my hands hard against the heavy belly of the unknown man and drove my sharp, hard knee into the most sensitive spot. Involuntarily he gave way and fell on me with his face and chest. Gathering all my remaining forces, I thrust him up into the air as far as possible with my knee and outstretched arms. I had, evidently, thrust too hard, for, as it turned out, he made a half-circle in the air and his heavy body, — Oh! What a heavy body! — struck against the ground. Simultaneously I fainted.

When I came to, I heard someone groaning somewhere behind my head. My opponent could not move from his place, while I was making a great effort to stand up on my feet. I decided to give him a hard kick under his heart so he shouldn't be able to breathe, but at first I took a glance at the swamp where the Wild Hunt had disappeared. And suddenly I heard a very familiar voice, the voice of the one who was moaning and groaning.

“Oh, damn it, where is this blockhead from? What a skunk! Our holy martyrs!”

I burst out laughing. The same voice answered:

“It's you, Mr. Biełarecki! I doubt whether I can be a desireable guest with the ladies after today. Why did you crawl away from the fence? That only made it worse. While those devils are now, fa-ar away, to the devil with you… excuse me.”

“Mr. Dubatoŭk!” I exclaimed in surprise.

“The devil take you, Mr. Biełarecki… Oh! Excuse me!” The very large shadow sat down, holding on to its belly. “You see, I was lying in wait. I got worried. Rumours had reached me that some nasty events had been taking place at my niece's. O-Oh! And you, too, were on the look-out? Damn you on the day of Christ's birth.”

I picked up the revolver from the ground.

“And why did you throw yourself on me like that, Mr. Dubatoŭk?”

“The devil alone knows! Some worm was creeping, I thought, so I grabbed at it. May your parents meet you in the next world as you have met me in this one. However, you skunk, how terribly you fight!”

It turned out that the old man had learned without us about the visits of the Wild Hunt and he had decided to lie in wait for it, “since the young ones are such weak ones — the wind swings them, and they are such cowards that they cannot defend a woman.” The end of this unexpected meeting you know. Hardly able to keep from laughing, which might have seemed disrespectful, I helped the groaning Dubatoŭk onto his freezing horse standing not far away. He mounted him groaning and swearing, sat sidewise, muttered something like “the devil tugged me to fight ghosts — ran up against a fool with sharp knees” and rode off.

His pinched face, his crooked one-sided figure were so pitiful, that I choked with laughter. He rode off to his house, groaning, moaning, casting curses on all my kin until the twelfth generation.

Dubatoŭk disappeared in the darkness, and here an indescribable, an inexplicable alarm pierced my heart. A kind of fearful guess stirred in my subconscious, but would not come to light. “Hands?” No, I could not recollect why this word worried me. Here there was something different… Why had there been so few horsemen? Why had only eight ghosts appeared today near the broken-down fence? What had happened to the rest? And suddenly an alarming thought struck me:

“Śvieciłovič! His meeting with a person at Cold Hollow. His foolish joke about the Wild Hunt that might be interpreted as meaning that he suspected someone or had discovered the participants in this dark affair. My God! If that person is indeed a bandit, he will inevitably make an attempt to kill Śvieciłovič even today. Why so few of them? Probably the second half made its way to my new friend, and these to Marsh Firs. Maybe they even saw us talking, after all, we, like fools, were standing in view of everybody over the precipice. Oh! If all is really so, what a mistake you made today, Andrej Śvieciłovič, when you did not tell us who that man is!”

It was clear that I had to make haste! Perhaps I could yet be in time. Our success in this affair and the life of a kind, young soul depended on the speed of my feet. And I ran off so fast, faster than I had run that night when King Stach's Wild Hunt raced after me. I dashed straight through the park, climbed over the fence and rushed to Śvieciłovič's house. I did not fly in a frenzy. I understood very well that I would not last all the way, therefore ran at a measured pace: 300 steps running as fast as I could, and 50 steps more slowly. And I kept to this pace, although after the first two versts my heart was ready to jump out of my chest. Then it became easier. I alternated running with walking almost mechanically and increased the running norm to 400 steps. Stamp-stamp-stamp… and so 400 times, tap-tap… 50 times. Misty, solitary fire swam past. A smarting pain in my chest, my consciousness almost not working, towards the finish my counting mechanical. I was so tired that I'd have gladly lain down on the ground or at least have increased by five the number of such calm and pleasant steps, but I honestly fought temptation.

In this way I came running up to Śvieciłovič's house — a white-washed building, not a large one, in the back of a stunted little garden. Straight across empty beds, crushing the last cabbages coming under my feet, I darted onto the porch decorated with four wooden columns and began to drum on the door.

In the last window a still, small light flickered, then a senile voice asked from behind the door:

“What's brought someone here?”

It was the old man, a former attendant, who was living with Śvieciłovič.

“Open the door, Kandrat. It's me, Biełarecki.”

“Oh, my God! What's happened? Why are you panting so?”

The door opened. Kandrat in a long shirt and in felt boots was standing before me, in one hand a gun, and in the other — a candle.

“Is the master at home?” I asked, breathing heavily.

“No, he's not,” he answered calmly.

“But where did he go?”

“How should I know? Is he a child, sir, he should tell me where he is going?”

“Lead into the house,” I screamed, stung by this coldness.

“What for?”

“Maybe he's left a note.”

We entered Śvieciłovič's room. The bed of an ascetic, covered with a grey blanket, the floor washed to a yellow colour and waxed, a carpet on the floor. On a plain pine table a few thick books, papers, pens thrown about. An engraved portrait of Marat in his bath, stabbed with a dagger, and above the table a pencil portrait of Kalinoŭski. On another wall a caricature: Muravyov with a whip in his hand standing over a heap of skulls. His face that of a bull-dog, a frightful one. Katkov, bending low, is licking his backside.

I turned over all the papers on the table, but in my excitement found nothing except a sheet on which in Śvieciłovič's handwriting was: “Can it really be he?” I seized the woven wastepaper basket and shook out all its contents on the floor: nothing interesting there except an envelope made of rough paper, on which was written: “For Andrej Śvieciłovič”.

“Were there any letters today for the gentleman?” I asked Kadrat, who was completely dumbfounded and perplexed.

“There was one, I found it under the door when I returned from the vegetable garden — of course I gave it to the owner.”

“It wasn't in this envelope, was it?”

“Just a minute… well yes, in this one.”

“And where is the letter itself?”

“The letter? The devil knows. Maybe in the stove.”

I rushed to the stove, opened the door — a whiff of warm air came out from it. I saw two cigarette butts at the very door and a small scrap of white paper. I grabbed it — the handwriting exactly the same as that on the envelope.

“Your luck, the devil take you,” I swore, “that you heated the stove early.”

But not quite good luck yet. The paper was folded in half, and the side closer to the corners, now covered already with grey ash, had become brown. Impossible to make out the letters there.

“Andrej! I learned… are intere… Wild Hunt… Ki… Nadzieja Ram… in danger… my da… (a large piece burnt out)…Today I spo… He agrees… left for town. Drygants… chie… When you receive this letter, go immediately… to… ain, where only three pines stand. Biełarecki and I will wait… ly ma… is going on on this ea… Come without fail. Burn this letter, because it is very dang… for me. You… fir… They are also in mortal danger which only you can ward off… (again much burnt out)…me.

Your well-wisher Likol…”

All was obvious: somebody had sent the letter to lure Śvieciłovič out of the house. He believed every word. He evidently knew very well the person who had written it. Something subtle had been planned here. He shouldn't come to me, they wrote they had spoken with me, that I had left for town, I would be awaiting him somewhere at “ain” where three pines stand alone. What is this “…ain”? At the plain?

Not a minute to be lost!

“Kandrat, where are there nearby three big pines on the plain?”

“The devil knows,” he thought awhile. “Unless it's those near the Giant's Gap. Three enormous pines stand there. It's there that King Stach's horses — so people say — flew into the quagmire. But what's happened?”

“This is what's happened: Mr. Andrej is threatened by great danger… He left long ago?”

“No, an hour ago, perhaps.”

I dragged him out onto the porch, and he, almost in tears, pointed out to me the way to the three pines. I ordered him to remain in the house, and I myself ran away. This time I did not alternate running with walking. I flew, I tore on as fast as I only could, as if I wanted to fall down dead there at the three pines. I threw off my jacket as I ran, and my cap, threw out of my pockets my gold cigarette-case, the pocket edition of Dante which I always carried with me. Running became a little easier. I would have removed my boots, if I could have done that without stopping. It was mad racing. As I timed it I should turn up at the pines some twenty minutes after my friend. Terror, despair, hatred gave me strength. Suddenly a wind arose behind me, pushing me ahead. I hadn't noticed the sky become completely covered with clouds, that something heavy, depressing was hanging over the earth: I kept tearing on madly…

The three great pines were already visible in the distance, and above them such dark clouds, such a pitch darkness, such a dim sky… I rushed into the bushes, trampling them under my feet. And here… ahead, a shot sounded, a shot from an old pistol.

Wildly I yelled, and as if in answer to my yell, the silence was broken by a mad stamping of horses' hoofs.

I jumped out into a clearing and saw the shadows of ten retreating horsemen who turned about in the bushes at a gallop. And under the pines I saw a human figure slowly settling down on the earth.

By the time I had run up to him, the man had fallen down face upward, with hands widely outstretched, as if wishing to protect his land from bullets with his body. I had time yet to send a few shots in the direction of the murderers, it even seemed to me that one of them had reeled in his saddle, but this unexpected woe made me throw myself down at once on my knees at the side of the body lying there.

“Brother! Brother mine! My brother!”

As if alive he lay there, and only a tiny little wound from which almost no blood flowed, told me of the truth, a cruel and irremediable truth.

The bullet had pierced his temple and left through the back of the head. I looked at him, at the ruthlessly ruined young life, I grasped him in my arms, called to him, pulled at him and howled like a wolf, as if that might help.

Then I sat up, put his head in my lap and began to smooth his hair.

“Andrej! Andrej! Wake up! Wake up, my dear friend!”

In death he was beautiful, unusually beautiful. With his face tnrown back, his head hanging down, his slender neck as if carved from marble, he lay in my lap. The long, light-coloured hair had become entangled with the dry yellow grass which caressed it. His mouth was smiling as if death had solved one of life's riddles for him, his eyes were closed peacefully, and his long eyelashes overshadowed them. His hands so beautiful and strong, hands which women might have kissed in moments of happiness, lay alongside his body, as if in rest.

As a mother grieving over her son did I sit there, on my knees my son who had undergone torture on the cross. I howled over him and cursed God who was merciless towards people, towards the best of His sons.

“God! God! All-Knowing, Ail-Powerful One! May You perish! You Apostate, having sold Your people!”

Overhead something thundered, and in the following instant an ocean of water, a terrible shower, came pouring down on the swamp and the waste land, so lost and forgotten in the forests of this territory. The firs, bent down under it to the earth, moaned and groaned. It beat against my back, slashed at the earth.

I sat as one having lost his senses, noticing nothing. Ringing in my ears were the words that I had heard uttered some hours ago by one of the best of people.

“My heart aches… they go on, stray, perish, because it is shameful to stand still… and there is no resurrection for them after the crucifixion… But do you think that all were strangled? Years and years are ahead! What a golden, magic expanse is ahead! The sun!”

I began to groan. The future, murdered and growing cold in the rain, was lying here in my lap.

I wept, the rain flooded my eyes, my mouth. And my hands continued stroking this youth's golden head.

“My country! Wretched mother! Weep!”