King Stakh's Wild Hunt

Chapter The Fifteenth

That evening Ryhor came dirty from head to foot, perspiring and tired out. He sat sullenly on a stump in front of the castle.

“Their hiding-place is in the forest,” he growled at last. “Today I tracked down a second path from the south, in addition to the path where I had watched them. Only it is up to the elbow in the quagmire. I got into the very thick of the virgin forest, but came across an impassable swamp. And I didn't find a path to cross it. I almost drowned twice… Climbed to the top of the tallest fir-tree and saw a large glade on the other side, and in it amongst bushes and trees the roof of a large structure. And smoke. Once a horse began to neigh on that side.”

“We will have to go there,” I said.

“No. No foolishness. My people will be there. And excuse me, sir, but if we catch this lousy bunch, we'll deal with them as with horse-thieves.”

He grinned, and the grin that I saw on his face from under his long hair, was not a pleasant one.

“Mužyks can suffer long, mužyks can forgive, our mužyks are holy people. But here I myself shall demand that with these… we should deal as with horse-thieves: to nail their hands and feet to the ground with aspen pegs, and then the same kind of peg, only a bigger one to stick into the anus up into the innards. And of their huts I won't leave one live coal, we will turn everything into ashes, this rotten riffraff should never be able to set foot here again.” He thought a moment and added: “And you beware. Perhaps some day something smelling of a landlord may creep into your soul. Then the same with you… sir.”

“You're a fool, Ryhor,” I uttered coldly. “Śvieciłovič also belonged to the gentry, and throughout all his short life he defended you, blockheads, defended you from greedy landowners and the conceited judges. You heard, didn't you, their lamentations, how they wailed over him? And I can lose my life in the same way… for you. Better if you'd kept quiet if God hasn't given you any sense.”

Ryhor grinned wryly, then took out from somewhere an envelope so crumpled as if it had been pulled out from a wolf's jaws.

“All right, don't take offence. Here's a letter. It lay at Śvieciłovič's three days, addressed to his house… The postman said that today he brought a second one to Marsh Firs for you. So long! I'll come tomorrow.”

Without leaving the place, I tore open the envelope. The letter was from the province from a well-known expert in local genealogy to whom I had written. And in it was the answer to one of the most important questions:

“My Highly Respected Mr. Biełarecki: I am sending you information about the person you are interested in. Nowhere in my genealogical lists, as well as in the books of old genealogical deeds did I find anything on the antiquity of the Bierman-Hacevič family. But in one old deed I came across a report not devoid of interest. It has come to light that in 1750 in the case of a certain Nemirich there is information about a Bierman-Hacevič who was sentenced to exile for dishonourable behaviour — banishment beyond borders of the former Polish Kingdom and he was deprived of his rights to aristocratic rank. This man was the step-brother of Jaraš Janoŭski nicknamed Schizmatic. You must know that with the change of power old sentences lost their force, and Bierman, if he is an heir of that Bierman, can pretend to the name of Janoŭski if the main branch of this family vanishes. Accept my assurance…” and so on and so forth.

I stood stunned, and although it was growing dark and the letters were running before my eyes, I kept on reading and re-reading the letter.

“Devilish doings! Now all's clear. This Bierman is a scoundrel and a refined criminal — and he is Janoŭskaja's heir.”

And suddenly it struck me:

“The hand… the hand?.. Aha! Looking at me through the window the Little Man רis hand was like Bierman's! The fingers as long as Bierman's, not the fingers of a human being.”

And I rushed off to the castle. On the way I looked into my room. But no letter there. The housekeeper said there had been a letter, it had to be there. She guiltily fawned upon me: after that night in the archive she had become very flattering and ingratiating.

“No, sir, I don't know where the letter is. No, there was no post-mark on it… Most probably it was sent from the Janoŭski region or perhaps from a small district town. No, nobody was here, save perhaps Mr. Bierman who came in here thinking that you, sir, were at home…”

I didn't listen to her any more. I glanced at the table where papers were lying about scattered, among which someone had evidently been rummaging, and ran to the library. Nobody there, only books piled high on the table. They had evidently been left in a hurry for something else more important. Then I went to Bierman's room. And here marks of haste, the door wasn't even locked. A faint light from my match threw a circle of light on the table, and I noticed a glove on it and an envelope torn slantingly, an envelope just like the one that Śvieciłovič had received that awful evening:

“Mr. Biełarecki, My Most Respected Brother: I know little about the Wild Hunt, nevertheless I can tell you something of interest about it. And in addition, I can throw some light on a secret, and on the mystery of several dark events in your house. It may simply be a product of the imagination, but it seems to me that you are searching in the wrong place, dear brother. The danger lies in the very castle belonging to Miss Janoŭskaja. If you wish to know something about the Little Man at Marsh Firs, come today at nine o'clock in the evening to the place where Raman perished and his cross lies. There your unknown well-wisher will tell you wherein the root of the fatal events lies.”

Recalling Śvieciłovič's fate, I hesitated, but I had no time to lose, or to think long: the clock showed fifteen minutes before nine. If Bierman is the head of the Wild Hunt, and if the Little Man is his handiwork, then reading the perlustrated letter must have upset him terribly. Can it be he's gone instead of me to meet that stranger, to shut up his mouth for him? Quite possible. And in addition, the watchman, when I asked him about Bierman, pointed his hand northwest, in the direction of the road leading to Raman the Elder's cross.

That is where I ran to. Oh! How much I ran those days, and as people would say today, got in some good training. To the devil with such training together with Marsh Firs! The night was brighter than usual. The moon was rising over the heather waste land, a moon so large and crimson, shining so heavenly, our planet's colour so fiery and such a happy one, that a yearning for something bright and tender, bearing absolutely no resemblance to the bog or the waste land, wrung my heart. It was as if some unknown countries and cities made of molten gold had come floating to the earth and had burnt up over it, countries and cities whose life was entirely different, not at all like ours.

The moon, in the meantime having risen higher, became pale and grew smaller, and little white clouds, resembling sour milk, were covering the sky. And again all became cold, dark and mysterious: and there was nothing to be done about it, unless, perhaps, to sit down and write a ballad about an old woman on her horse with her sweetheart sitting in front of her.

Having somehow got through the park, I came onto a path and was already nearing Raman's cross. To the left the forest made a dark wall, and near Raman's cross loomed the figure of a man.

And then… I simply did not believe my eyes. From out of somewhere phantom horsemen appeared. They were slowly approaching that man. In complete silence. And a cold star was burning over their heads.

The next moment the loud shot of a pistol was heard. The horses began to gallop, stamping the man's figure with their hoofs. I was astounded. I thought I should meet scoundrels, but became the witness of a killing.

Everything became dark before my eyes, and when I came to, the horsemen had vanished.

Throughout the marshes spread a frightful, inhuman cry filled with terror, anger and despair — the devil knows what else. But I felt no fright. By the way, I have never ever been afraid of anything since that time. All the most awful things that I met with after those days seemed a mere trifle in comparison.

Carefully, as a snake, I crept up to the dead body darkening in the grass. I remember that I feared an ambush, was myself thirsting to kill, that I crept on, coiling, wriggling in the autumn grass, taking advantage of every hollow, every hillock. And I also remember to this very day, how tasty was the smell of the absinthe, how the thyme smelled, what transparent blue shadows lay on the earth. How good was life even in this awful place! But here a man had to wriggle and coil like a snake in the grass, instead of breathing freely this cold, invigorating air, watching the moon, chest straightened, walking on his hands out of sheer happiness, kissing the eyes of his beloved.

The moon was shining on the dead face of Bierman. His large meek eyes were bulging, on the distorted face an expression of inhuman suffering.

But why had they killed him? And why him? Wasn't he guilty? But I was certain that he was.

Oh! How bitter, how fragrant the smell of the thyme! Herbs, even dying, smell bitter and fragrant.

At that very moment I instinctively, not yet comprehending what was wrong, turned back. I had crept rather far away when I heard footsteps. Two persons were walking there. I was under a large weeping-willow. I got up on my feet (the men would not notice me as I had merged with the willow) and, pulling myself up with my hands, climbed into the tree and hid among its branches like an enormous tree-frog.

Two phantoms came up to the murdered man. The moon was shining directly on them, but their faces were hidden behind pieces of dark cloth. Strange figures they made: in very old-fashioned boots and coats, with long hair over which there was some kind of a head gear made of woven strips of leather such as could have been seen in the Vilnia museum. On their shoulders they wore long capes. They came up to the corpse and bent down over it. Frangments of their talk reached me:

“Both fell for one and the same bait… Likol… Ha, ha! How they believed this childish nickname. Both that brave young one and this pig. Likol… Likol's paid them.”

And suddenly one of them exclaimed in surprise:

“Look, Pacuk, this isn't him!”

“What do you mean, not him?”

“I am telling you that it's not him. This… this is that queer fish, the manager of Janoŭskaja's estate.”

“Oh! What the devil do you mean?.. Oh well, a trifling mistake.”

“For this mistake, boy,” said the second one darkly, “Likol will have our heads off. It's bad, brother. Two men dead — horrible! The authorities might become interested in this.”

“But why did he appear instead of the other one?”

The second man did not answer. They left the corpse under the tree in which I was sitting. Had I wished it, I could have let my feet down and stood on the head of each one of them, as I chose, or else, I could have shot twice from my revolver. At such a distance a child would have hit the mark. I shook with excitement, but the voice of cold reason told me that I must not do that — I would frighten away the rest. To put an end to the Hunt, one must do it with one blow! I had, as it was, already committed too many blunders, and should yet, in addition, Nadzieja Janoŭskaja perish — then the only thing left for me to do would be to go to the Giant's Gap, jump into it, and hear overhead the wild roar of the air escaping from out of the swamp.

“Why does he hate this Biełarecki so?” asked the one called Pacuk.

“I think because Biełarecki wants to marry Janoŭskaja. And then the castle will slip out of Likol's hands.”

“What does he need it for anyway? It's only a mouldering coffin, not a castle.”

“Come, don't say that. It's of no use to the Janoŭskis, it is a family estate, but for an outsider it has great value. And he is, in addition, in love with antiquity, in his sleep he dreams he is the owner of a tremendous castle, a castle like his ancestors had.”

They stooped talking, then a light flashed and curls of tobacco smoke began creeping up to me. It was already clear to me that aristocrats were standing there. Their crude local speech that had become coarse because of its Polish origin, cut my ear. The voices seemed familiar to me.

“It seems,” growled Pacuk after a lengthy silence, “that there is yet one more reason: the serfs.”

“Right you are. And if we kill this one, too, they'll quiet down, like mice under a broom. For they've become too impudent. The recent uprising, the murder of Haraburda's steward. Looks impudent. And they became particularly bold after the arrival of Śvieciłovič. He lived here, the skunk, one month, but had done more harm than a fire. Four serfs torn out of the hands of the court, they handed in a complaint against two aristocrats. And since this Biełarecki has appeared here, there's been no living at all. Sits in the serf's huts, writes down foolish stories. Well, no matter, they'll grow quiet, the boors will, if we also strangle this betrayer of the gentry… Only we'll have to find out who is the leader of these brazen fellows. I'll not forgive him my burnt haystacks.”

“And I think that I know who it is. It's Ryhor, the Kulša's watchman. What an ugly mug, like a wolf's. He has no respect for anybody.”

“Never mind, he'll belch too.”

Again they were silent. Then one said:

“But you know, I'm sorry for Janoŭskaja. To drive such a woman to madness or to kill her — a stupid thing. Formerly, people kissed the feet of such a woman. You remember, don't you how she danced at the ball in a very old-fashioned dress, floating along like a swan?”

“Yes, and our gentleman regrets it,” the other one said. “But it can't be helped.”

And he suddenly burst out laughing.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Finished off the wrong one! We are out of luck, but he is even more so. You remember how Raman screamed when he was driven into the bog? He said that he would give us away from the grave. But, as you see, he's keeping quiet.”

And they walked away from the tree.

I heard Pacuk pronouncing in his bass voice:

“Never mind, we'll soon visit this one, too.”

I slipped down from the tree without making any noise and moved on after them. My feet stepped noiselessly on the grass and here and there I again crept.

And, of course, again I turned out to be a fool, having lost sight of the fact that they had horses. They hid behind the crests of the shrubbery and I in fear of running up against them, slowed my steps. The following instant I heard the tramp of horses' hoofs.

When I came out onto the road, in the distance I saw two horsemen driving their horses madly southwestward away from Raman's cross.

My thoughts were sad ones: I had learned that they were hunting Janoŭskaja and me, that no mercy need be expected, that I had let two bandits make their escape, and also that I had been so cruelly mistaken as to Bierman. I was convinced that his was a suspicious character: he had opened a letter addressed to me, and for some reason or other went to this dreadful place where he met his death. In itself the fact of this death pushed into the background the rest of his sins from me. But I had learned a great deal from the conversation that I had overheard and, first and foremost, now I knew one of the Wild Hunt. The story about the burnt haysacks gave him away. The haystacks that had been burnt had belonged to Mark Stachievič. I had seen him at the drunken revel at Dubatoŭk's place. And it was this man who had been Varona's second. Well, let's say I had been mistaken as to Bierman, but there's no mistake, it seems to me, about Va-rona. And he shall be mine. Only now greater determination is necessary.

And late in the evening King Stach's Wild Hunt appeared again. Again it howled, wailed, cried, its voice an inmuhan voice:

“Raman of the last generation, come out! We have come. We shall put an end to all! Then we shall rest. Raman! Raman!”

And again, lying hidden in the bushes at the entrance, I shot at the flying shadows of horsemen that flashed by at the end of the lane lit up by a misty moon. When I shot the first time, the horses threw themselves into the thicket and disappeared, as if they had never even been. It resembled a horrible dream…

It was necessary to put an end to things. I recalled Mark Stachievič's words spoken beneath the tree, concerning Raman's promise that after his death he would give away the murderer, and I thought that Raman might have left some clue in the house or at the place of his death. A clue that even Ryhor's vigilant eye had overlooked.

And when Ryhor came we hurried together to the place where Raman had been murdered. I am not a bad walker, but I could hardly keep up with this leggy figure. It might have seemed, looking at him, that Ryhor was walking slowly, but his movements were measured, and his feet he placed not as ordinary people do, but with his toes turned inward: all born hunters walk that way. By the way, it has been observed that this makes every step approximately one inch longer. Along the way I told him about the conversation between Mark Stachievič and some Pacuk.

“Varona's men,” Ryhor angrily growled. And then added: “But we had thought that ‘Likol’ is the beginning of a surname. You, sir, hadn't asked the right way. ‘Likol’ is evidently a nickname. You must ask Miss Janoŭskaja who is called that. If Śvieciłovič knew this nickname and perhaps, even, Bierman, it means that she must also know it.”

“I asked her.”

“You asked her about a surname, said that it was its beginning, but not that it's a nickname.”

In this way we came to the well-known place which I have twice described, the place where Nadzieja Ramanaŭna's father had perished. We sought all over in the dry grass, although it was stupid to look for anything in it after two years. And finally we came up to a place where there was a precipice, not a large one, over the quagmire.

Over the abyss a rather small stump met our sight sticking out from the earth, the remnant of the trunk of a tree that had grown there long ago, roots spreading throughout the abyss like mighty snakes, roots reaching downwards into the quagmire, as if there to quench their thirst, roots simply hanging in the air.

I asked Ryhor to recall whether Raman's hands had been visible over the quagmire.

Ryhor's eyes lowering, he was remembering:

“Yes, they were. The right one was even stretched out, he must have wanted to catch hold of the roots, but couldn't reach them.”

“But perhaps he simply threw something there where a hole is visible under the roots?”

“Let's look.”

And holding onto the roots, and breaking our finger-nails, we let ourselves down almost into the very mire, hardly able to hold onto the small slippery ledges of the steep slope. A hole did indeed turn out to be under the roots, but there was nothing in it.

I was about to climb up to the top, but Ryhor stopped me:

“Stupid we are. If there really was something here, then it is already under a layer of silt. He could have thrown something, but you know, two years have passed, the earth there in the hole will have crumbled and buried it.”

We began scratching the caked silt with our fingers, emptying it out of the hole, and — believe it or not, — soon my fingers hit on something hard. In the palm of my hand lay a cigarette-case made of maple wood. There was nothing else in the hole.

We climbed out and carefully wiped off from the cigarette-case the reddish silt mixed with clay. In the cigarette-case lay a piece of white cloth which Raman had evidently torn out from his shirt with his teeth. And on this little rag hardly decipherable reddish letters: “Varona mur…”

I shrugged my shoulders. The devil knows what this meant! Either evidence that Varona killed Raman, or a request to Varona to kill someone. Ryhor was looking at me.

“Well, so now it's clear, Mr. Andrej. Varona drove him here. Tomorrow we shall take him.”

“Why tomorrow? He may come today even.”

“Today is Friday. You, sir, have forgotten this. People say: ‘Look for the cut-throat in the church.’ Really too holy and godly. They kill with the name of the Holy Trinity on their lips. They will come tomorrow because they've lost all patience. They have got to get rid of you.” He became silent, a harsh flame blazed in his eyes. “Tomorrow, at last, I'll bring the mužyks. With pitchforks. And we'll give you one, too. If you're with us, then you're with us to the end. We'll lie in wait at the broken-down cross. And all of them we'll finish off, all of them. To the very roots, the devil's seed.”

We went together to Marsh Firs and there we learned that Miss Nadzieja was not alone. Mr. Haraburda was with her. Janoŭskaja had been avoiding me lately, and when we met she would turn her eyes away, eyes that had grown dark and were as sad as autumn water.

Therefore I asked the housekeeper to call her out into the lower hall where Ryhor was somberly looking at St. Yuri, himself as powerful and tall as the statue. Janoŭskaja came and Ryhor, ashamed of his footprints all over the floor, was hiding his feet behind an armchair. But his voice when he addressed her was as formerly, rough, though somewhere deep down within him, something trembled.

“Listen, clever Miss. We have found King Stach. It's Varona. Give me a pair of guns. Tomorrow we'll put an end to him.”

“And by the way,” I said, “I was mistaken when I asked you whether you knew a person whose surname began with ‘Likol’. Now I want to ask you whether you know a person whose nickname is Likol, simply Likol. He is the most dangerous man in the gang, perhaps its leader even.”

“No!” she screamed suddenly, her hands clutching at her breast. Her eyes widened, frozen with horror. “No! No!”

“Who is he?” Ryhor asked darkly.

“Be merciful! Have pity on me! That's impossible… He is so kind-hearted and tender. He used to hold Śvieciłovič and me on his knees. Our childish tongues at that time couldn't pronounce his name, we distorted it and that gave birth to the nickname by which we called him only among ourselves. Few people knew this.”

“Who is he?” adamantly repeated Ryhor moving stone jaws.

And then she began to weep. Cried, sobbed like a child. And through her sobbing finally escaped:

“Mr. Likol… Mr. Ryhor Dubatoŭk.”

I was horror-stricken to the very heart. Dumbfounded!

“Impossible! Such a good man! And, most important, of what benefit is it to him? After all, he's not an heir!”

And my memory obligingly reminded me of the words of one of the scoundrels under the tree: “He's in love with antiquity.” And even the undeciphered “…ly ma…” in the letter to Śvieciłovič suddenly turned naturally into Dubatoŭk's favourite byword: “Holy martyrs! What's going on here in this world!”

I wiped my eyes driving off my confusion.

Like lightning the solution flashed through my mind.

“Wait here, Nadzieja Ramanaŭna. And Ryhor, you wait, too. I'll go to Mr. Haraburda. Then I'll have to look through Bierman's things.”

Up the stairs I ran, my mind working in two directions. Firstly: Dubatoŭk might have arranged matters with Bierman (why had he killed him?) Secondly: Haraburda also might have been dependent on Dubatoŭk.

When I opened the door, an elderly gentleman with Homeric haunches, got out from his armchair to meet me. He looked at my determined face in surprise. “Excuse me, Mr. Haraburda,” I flung at him sharply, “I must put a question to you concerning your relations with Mr. Dubatoŭk: why did you permit this man to order you about?”

He had the look of a thief caught in the act of committing a crime. His low forehead reddened, his eyes began to wander. However, from the look on my face, he probably understood that I was in no mood for joking.

“What can one do… Promissory notes…” he muttered.

“You gave Mr. Dubatoŭk promissory notes secured by Janoŭskaja's estate, which does not belong to you?”

And again I struck home aiming at the sky.

“It was such a miserly sum. Only 3,000 roubles. The kennel requires so much.”

Things were beginning to fall into their places. Dubatoŭk's monstrous plan gradually became clear.

“According to Raman Janoŭski's will,” he mumbled, removing something from his morning-coat with trembling fingers, “such a substitution was established. Janoŭskaja's children receive the inheritance…” and he looked at me pitifully in the eyes. “There won't be any. She'll die, you know… She'll die soon. After her — her husband. But she is mad, who will marry her?.. Then the next step — the last of the Janoŭskis. But there aren't any, after Śvieciłovič's death — none. I am Janoŭskaja's relative in the female line. If there aren't any children or a husband — the castle is mine.” And he began to whimper: “But how could I wait? I've so many promissory notes. I'm such an unfortunate person. Mr. Ryhor has bought up most of my notes. And in addition gave 3,000 roubles. Now he'll be the owner here.”

“Listen to me,” speaking through set teeth, “there was, is, and will be only one owner here, Miss Nadzieja Janoŭskaja.”

“I laid no hope on receiving an inheritance. Janoŭskaja could get married. So I gave him a promissory note, its security being the castle.”

“So! You lack both shame and a conscience. You probably do not even know what they are. But don't you really know that from the financial aspect this act is not valid? That it's criminal?”

“No, I don't. I was glad.”

“But you know, don't you, that you drove Dubatoŭk into committing a terrible crime, a crime for which there is no word even in man's language? Of what is the poor girl guilty that you decided to deprive her of her life?”

“I suspected that it was a crime,” he babbled, “but my kennel, my house…”

“You lousy thing! I don't want to dirty my hands on you. The provincial court will busy itself with you. And in the meantime, on my own authority, I'll put you in the dungeon of this house for a week, so you won't be able to warn the other rascals.”

He began to whimper and whine:

“That's coercion.”

“It's for you, is it, to speak of coercion? You villain! It's for you, is it, to appeal to the law?” I flung at him. “What do you know about that? You who lick people's boots!”

I called Ryhor, and he pushed Haraburda into the dungeon, under the central part of the building where there weren't any windows.

An iron door thundered behind him.