And he dropped his head. And his hunters dumb until now, at last came to, and snatched up their knives. And they fought twenty against three, and the battle was a fearful one. But the three conquered the twenty and killed them.
And afterwards they strapped the corpses and the wounded, who were pitifully groaning, to their saddles and drove off the horses, and the horses hastened off in a straight line to the Giant's Gap.
But nobody had noticed that there was a spark of life yet in King Stach's body. The horses flew on into the night, and a faint moon lit up their long manes, and somewhere ahead of them blue lights skipped about among the mounds.
And from this wild herd came King Stach's voice:
“To the devil with my soul, if God doesn't help. Hold Raman! Our horsemen are coming at a gallop to you! Tremble, Raman, and shiver, our eternal enemy. We shall come! We shall avenge!”
And nobody knew that these words were true words, that King Stach had become a weapon in the hands of the devil for revenge and punishment. No murder whatever deserves such vengeance as fratricide.
Not long was their stay on this earth. The beater-in, Varona, was the first to see the ghosts of Stach and his followers within two weeks. The Wild Hunt raced on heedlessly, onward it flew across the most terrible quagmire, across the forest, across the rivers.
No tinkling of bits, no ringing of swords. Silent were the horsemen on their horses, and ahead of the phantom King Stach's Wild Hunt were the swamp lights skipping across the quagmire.
Varona went mad. And Dubatoŭk perished afterwards. The Lithuanian hetman dispersed peasant armies who were left without a leader; Jaraš Štamiet was killed in battle. But Raman Janoŭski was alive and laughed.
But once after hunting, he was returning home alone through the heather wasteland, the moon hardly lighting the way for him. Suddenly from somewhere behind him the marsh lights came skipping. And the sound of bugles reached him, and the stamping of hoofs which was heard but faintly. Later, vague apparitions of horsemen were seen. The horses' manes waved with the wind, an unleashed cheetah ran ahead of the phantom Wild Hunt. And noiseless was their flight across the heather and the quagmire. And silent were the horsemen, while the hunting sounds came flying from somewhere on the other side. And ahead of all, dimly lit by the moon, galloped the enormous King Stach. And brightly burned the eyes of the horses, the people and the cheetah.
And Raman raced on, and they silently and quickly flew after him; the horses sometimes pawed the ground in their flight, and the wild heather sang, and the moon looked at the chase with indifference.
And Raman did thrice shout: “The Wild Hunt!” So loud his voice that he was heard by people even in distant huts. And then the Wild Hunt caught up with him, and his heart failed him. That is how Raman perished.
From that time on many people saw King Stach's Wild Hunt in the peat-bogs. And although this Wild Hunt penalized not everybody, there were few people whose hearts did not fail them when they saw the dark shadows of the horsemen in the swamps.
In this way did Raman's son and the son of his son perish, after whose death I am writing about this for the sake of science and to frighten his descendants who, perhaps, by doing good deeds could deprive the ancient curse of its power over them.
People, beware of the quagmire, beware of the swamps at night, when the blue lights gather and begin dancing in the worst places. There you will see 20 horsemen, their chief racing ahead of all of them, the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes. No clanging of swords, no neighing of horses.
From somewhere, and only rarely, can be heard the song of a huntsman's bugle. Manes are flying, marsh lights are twinkling under the horses' hoofs.
Across the heather, across the fatal quagmire rides the Wild Hunt, it will ride as long as the world lasts. It is our land, a land we do not love, a terrible land. May God forgive us!..
I tore myself away from the papers and shook my head, desiring to rid myself of the wild images. Bierman looked at me biding his time.
“Well, I beg your pardon, but what does the gentleman think of this?”
“What an awful, a beautiful and fantastic legend!” I exclaimed. “It just begs for the brush of a great artist. There is nothing one's imagination cannot invent!”
“Oh! If this were, I beg your pardon, but a legend… You must know I am a free-thinker, an atheist, as is every person who lives in the spirit of our highly-educated age. But I believe in King Stach's Wild Hunt. And, indeed, it would be strange not to believe in it. It is due to the Wild Hunt that Raman's descendants have perished and the Janoŭski family has almost become extinct.”
“Listen,” I said, “I have already said this to one person, and now I shall say it to you. I can be carried away by an old legend, but what can make me believe it? Raman's descendants were killed by The Hunt 200 years ago. In those days the Mahiloŭ Chronicle seriously claimed that before the war there appeared on the Mahiloŭ stone walls (which a man cannot climb) bloody imprints left by the palms of hands.”
“Yes, I remember that,” the book-lover answered. “And a number of other examples might be given, but they…m-m… are somewhat frivolous. Our ancestors were such crude people.”
“So you see,” I said reproachfully. “And you believe in this Hunt.”
The doll-like man, it seemed to me, hesitated somewhat.
“Well, and what would you say, Honourable Sir, were I to declare that I had seen it?”
“A fable,” I cut him off harshly, “and aren't you ashamed of yourself to frighten a woman with such reports?”
“They are not fables,” Bierman turned pink, “this is serious. Not everyone can be a hero, and I, honestly speaking, am afraid. Now I do not even eat at the same table with the mistress, because King Stach's anger falls also on such as she. You remember, don't you? In the manuscripts?…”
“And how did you see the Wild Hunt?”
“As it is described here in the book. I was at Dubatoŭk's, a neighbour of the Janoŭskis. By the way, a descendant of that Dubatoŭk, and was returning home from his house. I was walking along the heather wasteland just past the enormous pile of boulders. And the night was rather bright. I didn't hear them appear! They rushed past me directly across the quagmire. Oh! It was frightening!”
A turbid look of confusion flashed in his eyes. And I thought that in this house, and probably, in the entire plain there was something wrong with the brains of the people.
“Isn't there at least one normal person here? Or all of them are mad?” I thought.
“Most important was that they tore along noiselessly. The horses, you must know, of such an ancient breed, they are nowhere to be found today for love or money — they are extinct now: genuine Paleśsie “drygants” with their tendons cut at the tails. The manes waved with the wind, their veleis capes were clasped at the right shoulder so that they did not interfere with the hand holding the sword.”
“Those capes were worn only over a coat of mail,” I told him disrespectfully. “But what coat of mail could there be when on the hunt?”
“That I know,” simply and very frankly did this doll-like man agree with me, fixing his big fawning eyes on me, eyes as tender as a deer's. “Believe me, if I had wished to lie, I could have invented something much better.”
“Then I beg your pardon.”
“These capes are blown about by the wind behind the riders' backs. Their lances extend upwards in the air, and they race, race like an invasion.”
“Again I must beg your pardon. But tell me, perhaps at supper at your neighbour's you had been treated to some mead?”
“I don't drink,” Bierman-Hacevič compressed his lips with dignity. “And I can tell you, they didn't even leave any imprints, and the horses' hoofs were hidden by the fog. And the face of the King was calm, lifelessly dull, dry and quite grey, like fog. What is most important is that they arrived at the Janoŭskis' castle that night. When I returned home I was told that at midnight the ring on the door thundered and a voice cr
ied: “Raman of the twelfth generation, come out!”
“Why Raman?”
“Because Nadzieja, the last of Raman's descendants, is exactly the twelfth generation.”
“I do not believe it.” I said again, resisting to the very end, because Bierman's face was really pale. “Give me the Janoŭski family register.”
Bierman readily dragged out and unrolled the parchment manuscript with the family tree. And indeed, eleven generations appeared in the list. From the time of Raman the Elder. Below the eleventh generation, again Raman, an entry was made in a small handwriting: “October 26th, 1870 my daughter, Nadzieja, was born. The last, our twelfth generation, my only child. Cruel fate, remove your curse from us, let only the eleventh generation perish. Have pity on this tiny bundle. Take me, if that is necessary, but let her live. She is the last of the Janoŭskis, I set my hopes on you.”
“This was written by her father?” I asked, deeply moved, and I thought that I was eight years old when this little girl was born.
“Yes, by him. You see, he had a presentiment about it… His fate is a proof of the truth of the legend about King Stach. He knew it, they all knew it, for the curse hung over these unfortunate people like an axe. One will go mad, one will be killed for his brother's money, one will perish while hunting. He knew and he made preparations for it: he provided the girl with an income, though a miserly one, still ah income, found guardians in good time, drew up his will (by the way, I am afraid of this autumn, many of the Janoŭskis did not live to see their coming of age, and her birthday will be in two days, and the Wild Hunt has already twice appeared at the walls of the castle). Raman never left the house at night. But two years ago Nadzieja went to visit Kulša's wife, a relative on her mother's side. The girl stayed there till late. Raman was very nervous when she didn't come home. And the Kulša's house stood near the Giant's Gap. He saddled his horse and rode off. The little girl returned home with Ryhor, the Kulša's watchman. But the master hadn't come. He was searched for. It was autumn, however, the time when King Stach's Wild Hunt appeared particularly often. We followed in the tracks of the master's horse, Ryhor and I. I was afraid, but Ryhor, not a bit. The tracks led along the road, then turned and began to make loops across the meadow. And Ryhor found other tracks on the side.
He is a good hunter, this Ryhor is. How horrible, sir! Those tracks were made by twenty horsemen! And the horseshoes were old ones, with tridents resembling forks. Their like has not been forged here for ever so long. And at times the track disappeared, then within 20–30 steps they appeared again, as if the horses had flown across the air. Then we found a wad from the master's gun, I'd have recognized it among hundred. Ryhor recalled that when he was carrying the little girl home, someone had fired a shot near the Gap. We drove the horses faster, for about five hours had passed, the night had grown dark before the dawn. Soon we heard a horse neighing somewhere. We came out onto a large glade overgrown with heather. Here we noticed that the horses of the Wild Hunt had begun to gallop faster. But the master's horse had stumbled several times, apparently tired.” Bierman's voice became wild, and broke off. “And at the end of the glade just where the Gap begins, we saw the horse still alive. He was lying with a broken leg, screaming as terribly as if he were a man. Ryhor said that the master had to be somewhere nearby. We found his footprints, they stretched from the quagmire. I moved on in their tracks which led to the horse and there disappeared. Here, in the damp earth were dents as if a person had fallen there. And nothing more. And no footprints nearby. The Hunt had turned about two metres or so from this pace. Either Raman had risen or else King Stach's horses had reached him by air and taken him away with them. We waited about half an hour, and in the darkness preceding the dawn Ryhor clapped himself on the forehead and ordered me to gather heather. I, a man of the gentry, obeyed this serf: at that time he had such authority over me as if he were a baron. When we had lit the heather he bent down over the footprints. ‘Well, what can you say, sir?’ he said with an air of apparent superiority. ‘I don't know why he had to go away from the quagmire, how he got there,’ I answered, perplexed. Then that boor burst out laughing… ‘He didn't even think of going away from the quagmire. He, Honourable Sir, he went towards it. And his feet weren't at all turned backwards forward, as you are probably thinking. He retreated to the quagmire, from something fearful. You see, right here he hit against the earth. The horse broke his leg, and Raman flew over its head. He sprained an ankle: you see the print of his right foot is bigger and deeper, that means that he sprained his left foot. He moved backwards towards the quagmire. Let's go there, there we shall probably see the end.’ And really, we did see the end. With his torch Ryhor lit the way for us to a precipice in the quagmire, and he said, ‘You see, here he slipped.’ I held him by the belt, and he bent over the odge of the precipice and then called to me: ‘Look!’ And here I saw Raman's head sticking out from the brown, oily, dung water of the Gap and I saw his twisted hand with which he had managed to catch at some rotten tree. We dragged him out with great difficulty, but we dragged out a dead man: in these marshes there are often springs in the depths of the pools, and he simply froze there. Besides that, his heart had failed him, the doctor told us afterwards. My god! The fear on his face was so terrible, a fear it was impossible to endure and remain alive! There was a kind of a bite on his hand, his collar was torn off. We tied the corpse to my saddle and rode off. Hardly had we ridden thirty paces than we saw through an opening in the forest vague shadows of floating horses. It was surprising that there were no sounds of hoofs. And then a horn began to blow somewhere from quite another direction, and so stifled, as if coming through cotton wool. We rode on with the corpse, greatly depressed, the horses were nervous, — they sensed the dead body. And the night was, oh! What a night! And somewhere there blew the horn of the Wild Hunt. Afterwards it appeared only from time to time. And now again… The hour of vengeance has come.”
He stopped talking, burying his face in his hands, his white, artistic fingers about twice as long as the fingers of an ordinary person. I kept quiet, but suddenly I lost all patience:
“You should be ashamed of yourself. Men, grown-up men! And you are unable to defend your mistress. Were it even the devil himself — you should fight, damn it! And why doesn't this Hunt appear all the time? Why hasn't it been here since I've come?”
“Often though they appear, they don't ever come on the eve of holy days or on Wednesdays and Fridays.”
“Strange ghosts… And on Sundays?” The desire to give this inert, weak-willed, porcelain fellow a good slap on the face was growing ever stronger within me, for such as he are unable to perform any kind of deed, be it good or evil. They are not people, but grass-lice that choke the flower-beds. “But on St. Philip's Day, on St. Peter's Day they appear if they are such holy saints, don't they!”
“God allows them to on Sundays, for, if you remember, it was on Sunday that Stach was killed,” he answered quite seriously.
“So what then is He, this God of yours?” I barked at him. “Has He then bumped into the devil? You mean to say that He takes the lives of innocent girls in whose blood there is perhaps but one drop of Raman's blood?”
Bierman was silent.
“A four thousand and ninety-sixth part of Raman's blood flows in her veins,” I counted up. “So what is He good for, anyway, this God of yours?”
“Don't blaspheme!” he groaned, frightened. “Whose part are you taking?”
“Too much devilry is going on here, even for such a house…” I didn't give in. “The Little Man, the Lady-in-Blue, and here, in addition, the Wild Hunt of King Stach. The house has been surrounded from without and within. May it burn, this house!”
“M'm, to be frank with you, Honourable Sir, I don't believe in the Little Man or the Lady.”
“Everybody has seen them.”
“I haven't seen, I've heard them. And the nature of the sound is unknown to us. And add to that the fact that I am a nervous person.”
; “The mistress has seen him.”
Bierman lowered his eyes modestly. He hesitated and said quietly:
“I cannot believe everything she says… She… well, in a word, it seems to me that her poor head hasn't been able to cope with all these horrors. She… m-m… she's peculiar in her psychic condition, if not to say anything more.”
I had also thought of that, therefore I kept silent.
“But I, too, heard steps.”
“Wild fancy. Simply an acoustic illusion. Hallucinations, Honourable Sir.”
We sat silent, I felt that I myself was beginning to lose my reason, what with the adventures going on here.
In my dreams that night King Stach's Wild Hunt silently raced on: the horses silently neighed, their hoofs landed, and their engraved bridles rocked. Beneath their feet was the cold heather, bending forward, the grey shadows raced on, marsh lights glittering on the foreheads of the horses. And above them a lonely star was burning, a star as sharp as a needle.
Whenever I awoke I heard steps in the corridor made by the Little Man, and at times his quiet pitiful moaning and groaning. And then again the black abyss of heavy sleep, and again the Wild Hunt, as swift as an arrow, galloped across the heather and the quagmire.
Chapter The Fourth
The inhabitants of the Giant's Gap were, evidently, not very fond of attending large balls, because it is a rare occurrence in. such a corner for someone to inherit a large estate on coming of age. Nevertheless, within two days no less than forty persons arrived at Marsh Firs. I, too, was invited, although I agreed with great reluctance. I did not like the provincial gentry, and in addition, had done almost no work these days. I had made almost no new notes, and most important of all, had not advanced in unravelling the secret of this devilish den. In an old 17th century plan there weren't any air-vents for listening, while steps and moaning sounded with an enviable regularity each night.
King Stakh's Wild Hunt Page 6