King Stakh's Wild Hunt

by Uladzimir Karatkevich

  “And don't you know the local peasants? They are, so to say, sincere monarchists. But I promise you, if you banish me from here, — I shall go to them..”

  They grew green.

  “I think, however, that affairs won't take such a turn. Here is a paper from the governor himself, in which he orders the local authorities to give me all the support I need. And you know what can happen for insubordination to such an order.”

  Thunder at their ears would not have shaken them as did an ordinary sheet of paper with a familiar signature. And I, greatly resembling a general suppressing a mutiny, with teeth set, feeling that my affairs were improving, spoke slowly:

  “What's it you want? To be dismissed precipitately from your posts? That's your wish, is it? I shall do that! And for your indulgence towards some wild fanatics performing wild deeds, you shall also answer.”

  The judge's eyes began to shift from side to side.

  “So then,” I decided, “as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb.”

  I pointed to the door. The prosecutor and the advocate hurriedly left the room. Clear was the fear in the judge's eyes, the fear of a polecat brought to bay. I saw something else, something secret, wicked. Now I subconsciously felt certain that he was connected with the Wild Hunt, that only my death could save him, that now the Hunt would begin to hunt me, because it was a question of life or death for them, and I would probably even today receive a bullet in my back, but wild anger, fury and hatred gripped at my throat. I understood why our ancestors were called madmen and people said that they continued to fight even after death.

  I stepped forward, grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, dragged him out from behind the table and lifted him up in the air. Shook him.

  “Who?” I roared and myself felt how terrible I had become.

  It was surprising how correctly he understood my question. And to my surprise, he began to howl.

  “Oh! Oh! I don't know, don't know, sir. Oh! What shall I do?! They will kill me, they will!”

  “Who?”

  “Sir, sir. Your little hands, your little hands I'll kiss, but don't…”

  “Who?”

  “I don't know. He sent me a letter and 300 roubles in it, demanding that I do away with you because you are interfering. He only said that he was interested in Miss Janoŭskaja, that either her death or his marriage to her would benefit him. And also that he was young and strong, and if it were necessary he would shut up my mouth for me.”

  The resemblance of the judge to a weasel became greater because of the stench. I looked at the face of this skunk filled with tears, and although I suspected he knew more than he had told, I pushed him away, disgusted. I could not dirty my hands with this stinking thing. I just couldn't. Otherwise I'd have lost all respect for myself forever.

  “You'll answer for this yet,” I threw at him from the door. And it's upon such people that men's fates depend! Poor mužyks!

  Riding along the forest road, I was running over in my mind all that had happened. Everything seemed to begin to fit into its place. Of course it was not Dubatoŭk who had created the Hunt, he had nothing to gain, he was not Janoŭskaja's heir, nor was it the housekeeper, nor the insane Kulša. I thought of everybody, even of those whom it was impossible to imagine being involved, but I had become very distrustful. The criminal was young, Janoŭskaja's death or his marriage to her would benefit him. According to Śvieciłovič, this person was present at Janoŭskaja's ball, had some influence on Kulša.

  Only two persons fit in: Varona and Bierman. But then, why had Varona behaved so stupidly towards me? Yes, it was Bierman, most likely. He knows history, he could have incited some bandits to commit all those horrors. It's necessary to find out how Janoŭskaja's death could benefit him.

  But who are the Little Man and the Lady-in-Blue at Marsh Firs? These questions made my head swim, and all the time one and the same word running in my head.

  “Hands… Hands…” Why hands? I am just about to remember… No, it's again escaped my memory… Well then, I must search for the drygants and this entire masquerade. And the quicker the better!

  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 tha
t 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.”