King Stakh's Wild Hunt

by Uladzimir Karatkevich

  “We know that,” I observed caustically. “By the way, Raman did give you away precisely after his death, although you didn't believe his cries. And some days ago you still didn't believe it when you were speaking with Pacuk after Bierman's murder.”

  Stachievič was so surprised his jaw fell. I ordered him to continue relating.

  “We inspired fear everywhere in the region. The farm-hands agreed to the price the owners gave. We began to live better. And we led Janoŭskaja to despair. And then you appeared. Dubatoŭk's bringing the portrait of Raman the Elder was no accident. If not for you, she would have gone mad within a week. Dubatoŭk saw that he had made a mistake. She was merry and carefree. You were dancing with her all the time; Dubatoŭk especially invited you when the guardian's report on affairs was to be made, and his guardianship handed over, so that you should become convinced she was poor. He conducted the estate well — it was, you see, to be his future estate. But Janoŭskaja's poverty had no effect on you, and then they decided to get you out of the way.”

  “By the way,” I said, “I never had any intention of marrying her.”

  Stachievič was totally surprised.

  “Well, never mind. All the same you interfered with us. She revived with you there. To be just, I must say that Dubatoŭk really loved Janoŭskaja. He did not want to kill her, and if he could have got along without doing that, he would have willingly agreed. He respected you. He always said to us that you were a real man, only it was a pity that you didn't agree to join us. In short, things became too complicated: we had to get rid of you and of Śvieciłovič who had the right to the inheritance and loved Janoŭskaja. Dubatoŭk invited you to his place, where Varona was to challenge you to a duel. He played his part so well that no one even suspected that it was Dubatoŭk, not Varona, who was the instigator, and we in the meantime studied you closely, because we had to remember your face.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  Stachievič hesitated, but Michał poked him with the pitchfork at the place from which our legs grow. Mark looked around sullenly.

  “The affair with the duel turned out stupidly. Dubatoŭk made you drink a lot, but you didn't get drunk. And you even turned out to be so smart that you put Varona to bed for five whole days.”

  “But how could you then be in the house and chase after me at one and the same time?”

  Stachievič continued reluctantly:

  “Behind Dubatoŭk's farmstead others were waiting, novices they were. At first we thought of sending them after Śvieciłovič, in case you were killed, but Śvieciłovič sat with us till the morning, while Varona was wounded. We set them off after you. Dubatoŭk still cannot forgive himself for setting these snivellers on your track. You'd never have escaped from us, the real Hunt. Then we thought you'd take the roadway, but you went over the waste land, and you even forced the Hunt to waste a whole hour in front of the swamp. Until the dogs fell on the scent — and it was already too late. We cannot, even now, understand how you had managed to escape from us then, you dodged us so well. But take my word for this: had we caught you, you'd have been out of luck.”

  “But why did the horn blow from the side? And where are the novices now?”

  Stachievič forced himself to speak:

  “One of us played the hunting-horn, he rode nearby. And the novices — here they are, lying on the ground. Previously we were fewer in number and took scarecrows with us on spare horses. We supposed that only you and Ryhor were lying in wait. But we did not think there'd be an army of you. And hard did we pay for that. Here they all are: Pacuk, Jan Styrovič, Paŭluk Babajed. And even Varona. You aren't worth even a finger-nail of his. A clever man was Varona, but he, too, has not escaped God's judgement.”

  “Why did you throw me that note saying that King Stach's Wild Hunt comes at night?”

  “What are you saying? Phantoms don't throw notes. We wouldn't have done such a stupid thing.”

  “Bierman must have done it,” I thought, but said:

  “But it was the note that convinced me you were not phantoms, at the very moment when I had begun to believe you were. Be thankful to the unknown well-wisher, for hardly would I have been brave enough to fight with phantoms.”

  Stachievič turned pale and with lips hardly moving, he said:

  “We'd have torn that person to pieces. As for you, I hate you in spite of the fact that it is beyond my power to do anything. And I'll keep silent.”

  Michał's hand grabbed the prisoner by the scruff of his neck and squeezed hard.

  “Speak. Otherwise all's up with you…”

  “The deuce take it, you're the powerful ones… You can be satisfied, you serfs… But we taught you a lesson, too. Let anyone try to learn what became of those who complained most in the village of Jarki and whom Antoś wiped off the face of the earth. You can ask anyone you like. It's a pity that Dubatoŭk didn't give the order to lie in wait for you in the daytime and shoot you. For that would've been easy to do, especially when you were on the way to the Kulšas, Biełarecki. I saw you. Even then we realized you had prepared the noose for us. Kulša, the old woman, even though mad, could still have blurted out something. She had begun to guess that she was a tool in our hands the day of Raman's murder. And we only had to threaten her once with the appearance of the Wild Hunt. Her head was weak, and she immediately went balmy.”

  The abomination this man was telling us about made my blood boil. It was only now that my eyes were opened to what depths the gentry had fallen. And within me I agreed with Ryhor that it was necessary to destroy this kind of people, that it had raised a stink across the whole world.

  “Go on, you skunk!”

  “When we learned that Ryhor had agreed to carry out the search together with you, we realized that things would be tough for us. For the first time I saw Dubatoŭk frightened. His face even turned yellow. We had to stop, and not for the sake of wealth, but in order to save our own hides. And we appeared at the castle.”

  “Who was it that yelled then?” I asked severely.

  “He who yelled is no more. Here he lies… Pacuk…”

  Stachievič was frankly amusing himself in relating everything arrogantly, with such a display of courage, as if he were about to begin to wail at any moment, alternately lowering and raising his voice. I heard the howling of the Wild Hunt for the last time: inhuman, frightening, demoniacal.

  “Raman!” he sobbed and wailed. “Raman! Revenge. We'll come. Raman of the last generation, out with you!”

  On and on rolled his voice across the Giant's Gap somewhere into the distance, his voice and its echo shouting to one another, completely filling the air. It made my flesh creep.

  But Stachievič laughed.

  “You didn't come out then, Biełarecki. No matter. Anyoue else in your place would have died of fright. At first we thought that you got frightened, but the next day something occurred that couldn't be remedied. Śvieciłovič ran up against Varona who was on his way to recruit new men for the Hunt and he was late. And Śvieciłovič was just near to the paths that lead to the Reserve where our hiding-place is. And afterwards, spying on him, we saw that he met you in the forest, Biełarecki. Although at that time he didn't tell you anything (that was clear from your behaviour), we realised that we had to put an end to him. Dubatoŭk sent Śvieciłovič a letter to lure him out of the house. Half of our people were directed to the three pines. The other half — three old hunters and the newcomers — rode off to Marsh Firs. Dubatoŭk himself hurried over to you, stealing up to you from behind. But you had already managed to make a couple of shots, and our raw fellows, unused to shooting, took to their heels. And yet another surprising thing: Dubatoŭk got such a hard beating from you that he can't ride a horse yet and he is staying in the house. And he is at home today, so you fellows, beware. But you, Biełarecki, he fooled nicely. No sooner had you come to yourself, than you were already helping him to mount his horse. But with Śvieciłovič we were in luck. Varona was waiting for him, and when he appeared, said t
o him: “You've exposed the Wild Hunt, have you?” He spit at Varona. Varona shot him. And at that moment you appeared, shot at us and hit one fellow in the hand. And then you beat up a district police-officer, and you were summoned, not without our help, to the district centre. You probably don't know that you were to be arrested and put an end to. But you, you devil, were lucky, you turned out to be too clever, and the governor's letter made the judge refuse us his help. On his knees he begged Dubatoŭk to hurry up and shoot you. By the way, when Varona shot Śvieciłovič, he applied such a ruse that you'll never guess.”

  “But why do you think so?” I said with indifference. “Dubatoŭk had torn out several pages from a journal at Janoŭskaja's, and he made wads from them. You thought that if I managed to escape alive from your paws, I'd suspect Bierman.”

  Stachievič was scratching away at his chest, his crooked fingers resembling claws.

  “You devil!” he cried hoarsely, choking. “We shouldn't have had anything to do with you. But who could have thought of that? Here they are, those who didn't think, lying here like sacks of excrement.”

  Then he went on:

  “And yet another mistake of ours. We kept a watch on you, but not on the serfs and Ryhor. While they found us out, got to our hide-out, our secret paths… And even at Raman's cross you were in luck, we killed a chick, letting you escape from our paws. We killed on the run, without stopping. And only later we returned to check. And even here we ran up against you like a bunch of fools. Then Haraburda disappeared, and we decided not to return home tonight until we caught you. So, here we have found you…”

  “That'll do,” I said. “It's disgusting to hear you. And although you deserve the noose, we won't kill you. We've given our word. Later we'll investigate, and if you are very much to blame, we'll hand you over to the provincial court and if not — we'll let you go free.”

  Hardly had I finished, when Stachievič suddenly pushed two of the mužyks away, tore off, and with exceptional swiftness made for the horses. With his foot he kicked in the belly the mužyk guarding the horses, threw himself into the saddle and started to gallop at full speed. He turned about on the way and shouted in a scathing tone.

  “Just you wait for the trial in the provincial court! I'm off to Dubatoŭk's, he'll have the gentry of the whole region rise against you, you skunks, and we'll put an end to all of you. And you, you cad from the capital, there'll be no life for you and that loose woman of yours. But you, you stupid Michał, let it be known to you that it was me who trampled your brother to death, and you'll get the same.”

  Michał turned the muzzle of his long gun and without taking aim pulled the trigger. Stachievič silently turned a somersault out of the saddle, rolled over several times on the ground and fell silent.

  Michał came up to him, took the horse by the bit, shot Stachievič straight in the forehead. Then said severely to me:

  “Go ahead, Chief. Your kindness to them was a bit too early. Away with kindness! The gypsy wedding will get along without marzipans. Go on, we'll catch up with you. Take the road to the Cold Hollow. And don't turn back to take a look.”

  I left… And indeed, what right had I to be sentimental? If this bandit got to Dubatoŭk — they would overflow the whole region with blood. And Dubatoŭk must be captured all the sooner. Today, this very night, we must take him.

  From behind I heard moaning and groaning. The wounded there were being finished off. I wanted to turn back, but couldn't. My throat was parched. But wouldn't they have done even worse with us?

  The mužyks caught up with me half way to the Hollow. They raced on the drygants with pitchforks in their hands.

  “Mount, Chief,” Michał said good-naturedly, pointing to a horse. “With these everything is over. And the Gap won't tell anybody.”

  I answered as calmly as I could:

  “Let bygones be bygones. But now as quickly as possible to Ryhor. Then together with him we'll go to Dubatoŭk's house.”

  We hastened to the Hollow, reaching it in the twinkling of an eye, and there we found the very end of the same tragedy. Ryhor kept his word, though they didn't deal with the participants of the Wild Hunt as they did with horse-thieves. Horse-thieves they simply killed outright. The last of the living hunters here lay on his back in front of Ryhor. He was quite a young fellow. And he, guessing from my clothes that I was not a peasant, suddenly began to scream:

  “Mother mine! Mother mine! They're killing me.”

  “Ryhor,” I begged. “You don't need to kill him, he's so young yet.”

  And I seized him by the shoulder, but my hands were caught from behind.

  “Away with you!” Ryhor shouted. “Take him away, this blockhead. Did they have any pity for our children in Jarki? They died of hunger — of hunger! A person, in your opinion, has no right to eat? This one has a mother dear! And haven't we mothers? Or didn't Michał have a mother? Haven't you got one, that you are so kind? You sniveller! And don't you know that this very ‘young fellow’ shot Symon, Zośka's brother, and killed him? Never mind, we'll commit such outrages as in the song “The Vampires' Night”.[9]

  And Ryhor, turning, struck his pitchfork into the man lying prostrate on the ground.

  I went aside and sat down.

  I was sick and didn't immediately hear Ryhor coming up to me and taking me by the shoulder when the dead were already being thrown into the quagmire.

  “You're a fool, you are! You think I'm not sorry? My heart is bleeding. It seems to me I'll never again in my life be able to sleep calmly, but suffering must be endured, and once we've begun, then on to the end. Not a single one to be left, only we alone by mutual guarantee should know… ‘A young one!’ You think this young one wouldn't have grown into an old skunk? He would, certainly! Especially when recalling this night. His ‘pity’ for our people, bondsmen, will be something only to marvel at. Let him go — and we'll have the law here. For me and you — the noose, for Michał and the rest — penal servitude. The region will overflow with blood, they'll beat so hard that the flesh from our backsides will come off in rags.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Not a single one of these must remain alive. I've just recalled Śvieciłovič. We must go to Dubatoŭk — to the last one left alive.”

  “Well,” Ryhor grumbled, though tenderly. “Lead the way.”

  With our detachment behind us, we moved on towards Dubatowsk's house.. We flew at a gallop, our horses raced as if wolves were after them. The moon dimly shone on our calvacade, on the mužyks' leather coats, the pitchforks, the dark faces, the scarecrows on some of the horses. We had to skirt the marsh round the Janoŭski Reserve. The road seemed a rather long one till we came to where we saw the linden tree-tops near Dubatoŭk's house. The moon flooded them with a deathly pale light; although it was very late, a light was burning in three windows.

  I ordered the people to dismount about fifty metres away from the house and surround it in a close circle. The torches to be held in readiness and to light them when the signal was given. The command was fulfilled in silence. I crept over a low fence and walked through rows of almost bare apple trees lit by a flickering uncertain moonlight.

  “Who's with the horses?” I asked Ryhor who was walking behind me.

  “One of the boys. In case anything should happen, he will signal us. He whistles very well.”

  We stole on farther, and our boots stepped softly on the wet earth. I came up to a window. Dubatoŭk was nervously walking from one corner of the room to another, glancing often at the clock on the wall.

  He was unrecognizable. This was an altogether different Dubatoŭk, and alone by himself, the real one, of course. What had become of his kindness, cordiality and tenderness? Where had that rosy face disappeared to, a face as healthy and merry as the face of Santa Claus? The face of this Dubatoŭk was yellow, the corners of his mouth were sharply lowered, near his nose were sharp wrinkles. His sunken eyes looked dead and dark. I was horrified on seeing him, as a person becomes horrified, when on awakening
in the morning after a night's sleep, he finds a snake in his bed, the snake having crept into it to warm itself, and then spent the night with him there.

  “How could I have been so careless?” I thought.