by Harold Lamb
"You speak like a Circassian—no, like something else, I don't know what," growled the warrior. "Do you mean to say that you swam the Donetz in flood?"
"Aye, uncle, and the Volga too. But my horse is a good one."
Ayub was silent, thinking of his own horse, and wondering whence the young minstrel had come. Beyond the Volga were the plains and deserts of the Tatar khans. Beyond that, he vaguely imagined vast mountains barring the way to Cathay and Ind—a part of the earth where no Cossack, save one, had ever set foot. This one was an old ataman, Khlit by name, who had taken it into his head to wander into the world under the rising sun, and had never been heard from again.
"I, too," he said reflectively, "once swam a great river. It was the Dnieper, and such a flood you never saw because your mother had not brought you into the world then. At night, too, and no one could see the other bank. My Kabarda jumped in when I lifted the reins, and when we were out in midstream a new wall of water as high as this tavern came rushing down."
The villagers who harkened attentively to every word of the Zaporo-gian, now gazed at him, open-mouthed.
"It was impossible to get across, impossible to go back," continued Ayub, emptying his glass and stroking his mustaches. "But my Kabarda was a fine nag. He turned and began to swim downstream, and after I had said a prayer to Saint Nikolas, I sat back and waited for what was to come. Ekh, my brothers, it was a fearful night—trees rushing past us, torn up by the flood, and boulders rumbling down underfoot. But my horse did not go down, and after a long, long while he brought me to safety."
"How?" demanded Kukubenko. "I thought you couldn't get out."
"No more we could," the warrior assented. "The stallion swam to something I couldn't see at all. It was a galley, anchored in the river. You see, before then, he had gone out to attack the galleys of the accursed Turks with me, and now he brought me to this one. As I live, good sirs, it was a Turkish craft."
"Then you were gone, sure enough," remarked the cobbler.
"Nay," Ayub assured him gravely, "it is well known, if you had come to the Dnieper, now, instead of this devil-infested place, you would have heard yourself, that I once brought a captured Turkish galley up the river. I and my horse."
The simple-minded villagers shook their heads in admiration, and Kirdy with half-closed eyes, swept his hand across the strings of the bandura.
They, who made me bow my head Their heads have I laid low with my sword.
So he sang under his breath, and Ayub, looking at him grimly, was not sure whether he jested or not.
"But, noble sir," objected Kukubenko, "were you not blown out of the water with a cannon?"
"Not then, uncle. Another time, when the knights of the siech were boarding a ship of the sultan, that was my lot. The ship had been firing off cannon like mad. Pouf-bong! For hours they had burned powder until they had not a shot or even a bit of chain left. The accursed Turks had fired off all their belt buckles and iron armor, and so they took the rings from their fingers and emptied their wallets of all sorts of spoil—gold crosses and fine jewels."
Ayub considered while Kukubenko filled his glass. Then he sighed and shook his head.
"For, look you, good sirs! Jewels and such-like would have been no use to those Turks after they had lost their heads. So they loaded one great cannon as I have said. And the cannon went off right in front of me. It blew me out of the skiff and I would have drowned if a brave Cossack—Demid, it was—had not fished me out by the scalp lock and put mud and powder on my wounds. The cuts closed up, but whenever I have needed a bit of coin or a jewel to give to a maid, I have taken a knife and cut them open again and taken out some of the charge of that Turkish cannon."
He ceased his boasting and grunted in astonishment. A girl had slipped into the tavern from the dark regions behind the stove.
"Galka!" cried Kukubenko, frowning because she had presumed to show herself to strange warriors.
"Nay, father—" the maiden seized his arm and whispered to him, her bright head with its tinsel circlet, and straw-hued curls pressed against his dark, shaggy locks. Ayub did not finish his story, and Kirdy ceased stroking his guitar, his fingers poised in midair. The dark eyes of the youth glowed for an instant and then he paid no attention to Galka as if fairfaced girls did not interest him in the least.
"Hmm!" said the Zaporogian to himself. "The young minstrel has not seen a lass like this before. That's strange, because girls always crowd around the bandura folk like ravens in a cornfield."
But Galka was not like the dark-browed, warm-blooded maidens of the southland. She was too slender, as if wasted by illness or brooding— only lips and eyes vivid in a bloodless face. Nearly all the color had gone from her once-bright kerchief, what with many washings, and her neat beshmet, the long smock that all girls wore, was ornamented with many cross-stitchings where it had been torn. And her boots, instead of soft red or green leather, were of stiff horsehide—evidently the work of the cobbler in the corner.
Nevertheless, Ayub watched her, and a pleasant glow went through him. Ten years ago he would have had a lass like Galka out on the clear sand between the benches, dancing. He would have had Kirdy playing a gay tune, and Kukubenko drawing off all the mead in the place. He would have been gloriously drunk.
"-fly away with you, Kukubenko!" he bellowed, the wooden bench
creaking under his weight suddenly. "You don't laugh at a story; you hide your women like a Turk.1 What kind of a dog-kennel is this? Strike up, minstrel! Fill up the cups! We can't live forever."
Kirdy's white teeth flashed under his dark mustache and his fingers struck out the first, swift notes of a Gypsy song. And then they all heard the shuffling of steps outside, the clank of steel, and the spluttering of a torch. The door was thrust open and Durak entered, bending his head to clear the lintel. Behind him could be seen the steel caps of half a dozen men-at-arms.
Ayub rose, towering against the chimney piece, taking in his right hand the heavy scabbard that he had unshipped while he was drinking. To a man, the villagers bowed low and fastened their eyes on the giant Muscovite who strode over to the tavern-keeper.
One of the boyars, the same who had bandied words with Ayub about the river, followed Durak, accompanied by the servant with the torch.
"Ah, moi batyushka—little father mine—you have hidden your bright jewel all this weary way!"
So said the boyar, and Kukubenko fell to his knees, his head lowered between his hulking shoulders.
"Don't you know, you dolt," went on the boyar, "that it's a crime to hide things from your prince? If he had not seen her himself the other day, driving in the cattle—you kept her well hidden on the road in one of your wagons, old fox."
Kukubenko bent his head and managed to say hoarsely—"If it please His Illustriousness—"
"Well, it does please His Illustriousness, your master," interrupted the noble, "and so you'll get off with a whole back this time. Only make haste and send the girl up to the castle."
On his knees the tavern-keeper edged toward the boyar and caught in his scarred hands the folds of the soiled purple kaftan. Bending still lower, he kissed the other's muddy shoes. The noble stared down, his red eyelids twitching with the sting of the liquor in him, steam rising from his round crimson face.
"Pardon," said Kukubenko slowly, "it was no fault of mine that the lass was not seen by Your Excellencies. She was ill—you know young girls fall ill on a long journey like that. She's my daughter."
Perhaps the sight of his own rags made the stout Muscovite angry. His good nature vanished, and he shouted to Durak to take Galka along and have done.
"It's no fault of yours, you say, mujik! You peasants think you're landowners—when a cow drops a fine calf you hide it, and show a skeleton instead! I'll eat with the dogs if your old woman hasn't pieces of gold and silver tucked away in her stocking this minute. No, it isn't your fault at all! When we send for wine, you take a cask of mead up to the castle and save the gorilka to pour down your own stems."
<
br /> Going over to the table, he lifted Ayub's half-filled mug of corn brandy, sniffed at it, and drank it.
"It's as I said, you dog! And now-save us!"
Galka had remained perfectly quiet, her gray eyes fastened on her father, while the boyar was pronouncing judgment. But when Durak put his hand on her arm she wrenched free and darted at the sleepy servant with the torch. Snatching the blazing brand from him, she beat the stout boyar over the head with it, sending sparks and hot coals showering all over him.
With a barbed oath he jumped back, clawing at neck and shoulders. Running up to Durak, the girl struck at him, but the captain of the guards thrust out his shield and the brand was knocked from her hand.
Durak held her fast while he unbuckled his belt and proceeded to lash her wrists together behind her back. This was too much for Ayub, who had never before played the part of a spectator when a broil was in progress. A strong belief that the boyar would order him cut down or trussed up had kept him in the deep shadow by the chimney, where the wandering gaze of the Muscovite had not identified him. Now he was beginning to fidget and snort.
"Look here, brother," he lifted one of the kneeling villagers, "take up the benches, shout your war cry and we'll make crow's meat of these chaps."
The man twisted up a face pallid with fear.
"Oh, as you love Christ, do not lift a hand. The prince is our lord."
"How, your lord?"
"It would be sin to lift hand. Besides, he would take the cattle and hang some of us up. Then the old folks and the brats would starve."
"Well, your mother bore you once, you can't live forever," grumbled the Cossack who could not understand the other's fear, but realized now that these men would not take up weapons against Vladimir. He glanced at the minstrel, and then a second time, thoughtfully.
Kirdy had shouldered his guitar and was pouring water on the smoking head of the boyar. This accomplished, the boy put a hand on his hip, smiling.
"Good sir, is the noble prince out of humor? Does he toss on his bed, sleepless? I can sing of the deeds of the old heroes—aye, of the falcon-ship that sailed without a wind, or of Rurik the Fair who slew in his day a host of Moslem knights. I can relate the wonders of the court of the Moghul, or Prester John who lives in a gold tent beyond the roof of the world—"
The boyar grunted and chewed his lip.
"Vladimir cannot sleep that is true. Are you a koldun—a conjurer, to know that?"
"Nay, the bandura man must know all things."
"Come along then—put the prince to sleep. You'll wish yourself in purgatory if you cross him."
They filed out into the darkness, lacking a torch. Kukubenko did not rise. His shoulders heaved in a sigh, and presently he went to stir up the fire. His task half finished, he sat down heavily, his chin propped in his mighty fists. The cobbler put away his wooden last and his knife.
Ayub's merry-making had come to a sorry end. His broad, good-natured face was troubled as he watched the men who sat in the tavern without so much as a word between them. So might one of the massive ovtchai, the gray wolfhound, have sat on his haunches among sheep dogs, puzzled by the sights and smells around him, eager to be off on the trail again.
Such a fine little one, Galka was. Fire enough in her veins! How she had basted the boyar on the noodle with the torch! Ayub chuckled aloud and then sighed. Like a heavy mantle, the silence of the northern men enveloped and oppressed him.
A woman entered the room from behind the stove—a bent form, lean with the stoic strength of age and toil, her head hidden in a black kerchief. She crept over to Kukubenko and stooped to whisper to him, brushing back a gray lock of hair from her eyes. Then, kneeling by the tavern-keeper, she began to rock back and forth, groaning shrilly and clasping her hands against her wasted breast.
From time to time her bony fingers went up to her face, as if to claw it. The helpless bleating of this mother, aged before her time, was too much for the Zaporogian to endure.
"I can't stay here," he muttered to himself. "I'll go out on the plain, by-, and sleep."
Rising, he sought the kegs of spirits in the corner by the cobbler, sniffing them until his experienced nose identified the best gorilka. From this cask of corn brandy he filled a stone jug. Then he ripped the purse from his belt, tossing it into the lap of Kukubenko, who did not look up or cease stirring the dead ashes of the fire.
"God keep you, good folk," he said and drew a sigh of relief when the tavern lights were left behind.
He did not take the trail that led back to the castle, but struck out past the cattle-pens to the open steppe, going toward the moon that was sinking into the mist. Like an orange lantern, it hung in front of his eyes, lighting up the stems of tall grass, glinting on the surface of a hidden pool. When he stopped for a moment to choose his path, the myriad sounds of the night swelled louder in his ears—the pulsating rasp of grasshoppers, the buzzing of gnats and the distant crying of wild geese, startled by something or other.
A thousand glow-worms beaded the grass and the scent of the river with its forest of rushes filled his nostrils. Hearing and seeing all this, the warrior nodded to himself gravely.
"A good place, the steppe."
Then he drew in his breath sharply and rubbed his eyes. The moon, half full, was sinking behind a mound on the plain. The high grass was clearly to be seen, and, rising from it, the black outline of a man.
Ayub could not tell how far away the figure was. It loomed gigantic one instant and looked small as a dwarf the next, in that elusive glow from the sky. The figure wore no hat, but the orange rays gleamed on its head as if it had been polished steel. A long cloak concealed its limbs.
Its head was bent forward as if looking into the gloom or listening to the multitudinous sounds of the night. To Ayub's fancy it might have been the spirit of the steppe, incarnate—lord of waste places, ruler of darkness.
Or, he reasoned, it might be the spirit of some Tatar khan, arising from its age-old bed in the burial mound.
"Perhaps it is the arch-fiend himself," he muttered between his teeth, without feeling any fear.
He had had quite a bit of spirits down his throat, and after the dark deeds he had beheld in the settlement, what was more to be expected than that Satan should have come to look at his own?
"In the name of the Father and Son!" he shouted. "Away with you! Devil, you can't terrify the soul of a Cossack."
At once the figure vanished from the mound, and the moon was once more to be seen, glowing over the grass. Ayub uncorked the jug, and, following a custom of which he himself knew not the meaning or origin, lifted it to the four quarters of the earth.
"To the Faith—to all the sir brothers, Cossacks—wherever they may be in the world."
Then he stroked down his long mustaches, lifted the jug in both hands, and threw back his head. After a long moment he sighed and tossed the jug away, empty. Stretching himself out full length in the grass, he spread his coat over his chest, pushed his lambskin hat under his head and began to snore almost at once, oblivious of the evil wrought by a prince who was not at peace in his own soul, of the loss of his horse, and of the presence of a village in the wilderness where no village should be.
Nevertheless, his sleep was broken. Voices penetrated his hearing. The voices belonged to two good Zaporogians and were close to him and quiet. He turned over and was sure that he heard a Tatar war cry—gh ar—gh ar—gh ar!
1
Cossacks did not seclude their women, who were high-spirited and well able to take care of themselves; the Muscovites of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries did not allow their wives and daughters to be seen by anyone outside the household, as a rule.
III
Distance tries the horse’s strength—Time the strength of man.
Kirghiz proverb
The cry echoed in Ayub's ears until he roused himself, certain that Tatars were rushing on him. Instead, he beheld Kirdy squatting beside him, the rein of a piebald pony over his arm
. It was the hour before dawn and the whole eastern sky was alight. "The Tatars—"
"I am the Tatar. It was the only way to wake you, Uncle Ayub. I tried everything. Now you must listen to me because I have far to ride."
The high grass, waving under the fresh breeze that comes with sunrise, hemmed them in. The young minstrel's face was flushed, and his coat and kalpak glistened with dew. Ayub saw that his eyes were coal black and slanted at the corners—the eyes of a man with Mongol blood in him.
Another thing he noticed was that the glow in the sky flickered, and shot up as if the reeds by the river were afire.
"Did you sing the prince to sleep?" he yawned.
"Vladimir did not sleep last night. The Tatars came."
Ayub's jaws clicked together, and his drowsiness vanished. "-burn
this Muscovite drink! Then there was a fight—"
"Nay, there was only a little fight."
Getting up to his knees Ayub beheld dark clouds of smoke rising over the trees where the hamlet of Sirog was—or had been. The glare of flames beat into his eyes, and he heard now a far-off crackling that he had taken to be the wind in the reeds.
"We were near the river gate of the castle," went on the minstrel, "when a chambul of Tatars swept on us. They speared the boyar and three men, but Durak broke through with his ax and gained the gate. We heard other Tatars at work in the village—"
"And you—what were you doing?" growled the warrior.
Kirdy smiled and shook his dark head.
"I tried to carry off the maiden, when the Muscovites were cut down. What availed it? A lance raked my ribs and my sword blade snapped. They bore her off and I ran to seek my horse."
His green sharivar were stained with blood, but Ayub drew a long breath when he looked at the boy's side. A leather scabbard had been thrust through the black sash, a scabbard stamped with strange lettering and strengthened with bronze. From it projected a hilt, not of horn or of iron, but ivory inlaid with gold. It curved, Moslem-fashion. Such a weapon might be worn by the khan of the Golden Horde.1
Without a word the Cossack reached out and drew the sword from the scabbard. The blade was whole—an arc of blue steel, unstained and sharpened to a razor edge. The flicker of the distant flames ran along its length, illumining a line of writing, worked in gold. This writing was not Turkish, nor was it any Christian tongue.