King Stakh's Wild Hunt (19 page)

I sat down at the fireplace to watch the flames. Yes, the danger was a terrible one. Three persons against all those dark forces, against the unknown. But enough of sentimentality! They came into the park near the Giant’s Gap. Tomorrow I am going on a stake out, to wait for them there. My hands were shaking and my nerves were strung to the utmost. In general my state was worse than a dog’s.

“Perhaps I should leave this place?” Stirred a belated thought, an echo of that night of mine, that “night of frights”, and it died under the pressure of despair, under an iron determination and the desire to fight.

Enough!
Victory
or
the
Giant’s
Gap
–
it’s
all
the
same.
Leave?
Certainly
not!

I could not leave this loathsome, cold house because she lived here, she whom I had fallen in love with. Yes, fallen in love with. I wasn’t afraid to acknowledge my feelings nor was I ashamed of them. Up till now, in my relations with women, there were equality and comradeship, sometimes there was an admixture of some incomprehensible aversion, as is the case with any man, morally uncorrupted, lacking excessive sensuality. That’s how it is with many men, probably until the real thing comes. Now it came.
Go
away?
Here I was at her side, big and strong – my inner hesitation did not concern her – she depended on me, she was sleeping peacefully now, probably for the first time in many nights.

The moment when I held her in my arms was a decisive one. It decided everything for me that had been accumulating in my heart ever since the time when she rose in defence of the poor, there on the upper floor, at the fireplace. With what joy would I take her away from here, take her somewhere far away, kiss these eyes which were red with weeping, these little hands, take her under my warm, dependable wing, forgive the world its roughness.

But what am I to her? No matter how bitter the thought, but she will never be mine. I have nothing to my name. She is also poor, but she belongs to one of the oldest families, she is blue blood, backed by that “proud glory of endless generations”.
Proud
glory?
I knew it now, this proud glory that had come to a wild end, but that did not make things any the easier for me. I am a plebeian. Yes, I’ll keep silent about this. Nobody shall ever reproach me, nor ever say that I had for the sake of money married into an ancient family, for whom perhaps some antecedent of mine had died somewhere on the battlefield. Nor shall anybody say that I married her taking advantage of her helplessness. The only thing that I can do for her sake is to lie down in the grave, give up my soul for her sake and somehow, to some extent, repay for the radiance of the untold happiness that has brightened my soul on this gloomy evening at this large, unfriendly fireplace. I shall help her to escape – that’s all.

I shall be true, forever be true, to this joy mixed with pain, to the bitter beauty of her eyes, and shall repay her with kindness for her thinking well of me. And then will be the end of it all. I shall leave this place forever, and the roads of my country shall be before me in an endless chain, and the sun shall rise in iridescent circles made by the tears quivering on her eyelashes.

The following day Svetsilovich and I were on our way to a rather small island near the Yanovsky Forest Reserve. Svetsilovich was in a very merry mood, talked at length about love in general and about his own in particular. And how pure and sincere the look in his eyes, so naive and childish his love, that I mentally promised myself never to stand in his way, never to interfere with him, but to clear the way for him to this girl whom I, too, loved.

We Belarusians can rarely be in love without sacrificing something, and I was no exception to this rule. We usually torment her whom we love and even to a greater degree ourselves, because of conflicting thoughts, questions and deeds, which others easily manage to bring to a common denomination.

Svetsilovich had received a letter from the city containing information about Bierman.

Oh, Bierman... Bierman. A fine bird he turned out to be. Comes of an old family, but now impoverished and estranged. The letter states that all of them had an irresistible inclination for solitude, were quite noxious and unsociable. His father was deprived of a fortune; he had embezzled an enormous sum of money, and managed to save himself by losing a large sum of money to the inspector. His mother lived behind curtained windows almost all the time, would go out for a walk at dusk only.

But the most surprising personality was Bierman himself. He was reputed as being an exceptionally fine authority on ancient wooden sculpture and glassware. Something unpleasant had occurred several years ago. He had been sent to Mnichavitsy by the Amateur Antiquity Society which was headed by Count Tyshkievich. The old Polish Roman Catholic Church was being shut down there and, according to rumours, the sculptures in it were of great artistic value. Tyshkievich had his own private museum and he wished to purchase these sculptures for it, for he was handing his museum over to the city as a gift. Bierman went to Mnichavitsy, sent Tyshkievich a statue of St. Christopher and a letter in which he wrote that the sculptures in the church were of no value whatsoever. He was taken at his word, but after some time had passed, it accidentally became known that Bierman had bought all the sculptures, all in all 107 figures, for a miserly sum of money and had sold them to another private collector for a large sum of money. Simultaneously a significant sum of money was found missing from the treasury of the Amateur Society. A search was begun for Bierman, but he had disappeared together with his mother and younger brother, who was being brought up at some private boarding school and had arrived in the city only the previous year. His brother, in addition, was noted for being unsociable, in spite of the fact that he had lived at a boarding school.

When their absence was noticed, it turned out that they had sold their house and had disappeared. The authorities became interested in them. And it became clear that these Biermans were in general not Biermans at all, but who they were in truth – nobody knew.

“Well, yes... A little we have learned,” I said. “There is one interesting thing here – Bierman is a criminal. But he fooled a man who like himself was a thief, and it is not for me to judge him. He will receive his just deserts, but that will be later. What’s curious here is something else. Firstly, where are his mother and brother? Secondly, who is he in reality? It’s clear why he turned up here in the castle. He had to hide. But who he is, who his relatives are – that has yet to be cleared up. I shall without fail follow up this matter. But, Svetsilovich, I have almost no news, except what I learned, and that from the mouth of a mad woman, that on that fatal night Roman was lured from his house by Garaboorda somebody. But I don’t even remember what his mug is like, even though I must have seen him at Yanovsky’s party.”

“That doesn’t matter, we’ll find out.”

We came up to the grove and walked deep into it. It was the only grove in the district in which leaf bearing trees predominated. And there in a glade, not a very large one, we saw Ryhor leaning against an enormous upturned root, holding a long hand gun on his knees. Seeing us, he got up, looked sideways at us as a bear does and changed the position of the rifle stock to hold it more conveniently.

“Be on your guard when walking in the swamp, be on your guard in the park and especially at its southern and western, outskirts,” he muttered instead of a greeting.

“Why?” I asked, having introduced him to Svetsilovich.

“This is why,” he growled. “They are not phantoms. Too well do they know the secret paths across the Giant’s Gap. It surprises you that they can race where no roads are, but they know only too well all the secret hide outs in the region and all the paths leading to them; they use very ancient horseshoes which are nailed onto the horses’ hoofs with new calks. What’s true is true. The horses step as bears do – at first with their left and then with their right feet, and their steps are wavy, much wider than those our horses make. And for phantoms they are too feeble. A phantom can pass through anything, while these only through the broken down fence at the Gap... And I have learned something else too. There were no more than ten of them the last time, because only half of the horses rode as a horse rides with a person on his back. On the rest there was something lighter on their backs. The one rushing at their head is very hot tempered; he tears at the lips with the bits. And what is more – one of them takes snuff. I found the dust of green tobacco at the place where they had stopped off before making their last race and had left many footprints, having trampled the ground there. It is the place where the large oak stands not far from the torn fence.”

“Where can their meeting place be?” I asked

“I know where to look,” Ryhor answered calmly. “It is somewhere in the Yanovsky Reserve. I determined that from the footprints. Look here.” With a vine twig he began to draw on the ground. “Here is the virgin forest. At the time when Roman was killed, the footprints disappeared right here, almost at the bog surrounding the Reserve. When they were pursuing you after the evening at Dubatowk’s, the footprints disappeared northwards, and after what took place near the Yanovsky castle, when they shouted, slightly farther northward. You see, the paths almost coincide.”

“Really, that’s so,” I agreed. “And if they are prolonged they will come together at one point, somewhere in the bog.”

“I’ve been there,” Ryhor slightly snorted, as if about some most usual thing. “The swamp there in that place is considered fatal, but I’ve seen bristle grass growing there in some places. And wherever this grass grows, the horse belonging to a lousy fellow, can always put his foot, if that is what his lousy owner needs.”

“Where is this darn place?” Svetsilovich demanded, suddenly growing pale.

“At the Cold Hollow where the stone called the Witch’s Mortar lies.”

Svetsilovich grew even paler. Something had alarmed him, but he managed to control himself.

“And what else?” I asked.

“This is what else.” Ryhor gloomily muttered. “You are on a false track. Although it was Haraburda who lured Roman out of his house, he has no connection with the Wild Hunt. Those two nights when it appeared the last time, Haraburda was sitting in his lair as a rat in its hole. I know that because his place was well watched.”

“But he is interested in Yanovsky’s dying or going mad. That would benefit him. It was he who persuaded Kulsha to invite Yanovsky to his house that evening, it was he who sent his own daughter to the Kulsha’s too, and then detained everybody there till night-time.”

Ryhor became thoughtful. Then he muttered:

“Perhaps you are right. You are clever, and you must know. But Haraburda was not there, I bet my head on that. He rides a horse badly. He’s a coward. And he keeps to his castle all the time. But he can talk others into doing dirty tricks.”

And here Svetsilovich became even paler, staring into space, as if he were considering something extremely important. I did not disturb him. If he wanted to, he’d tell us himself. However, he didn’t think long before opening up.

“Brothers, it seems I know this person. You understand, you have helped me to find an answer to a riddle. Firstly, at the ‘Witch’s Mortar’. Yesterday evening I saw a man there whom I know very well. I’d never have suspected him, and that disturbs me. He was very tired, dirty, riding on horseback to the Gap. Seeing me, he came nearer: ‘What are you doing here, Mr. Svetsilovich?’ I answered jokingly, ‘I’m in search of yesterday’s day.’ And he burst into laughter and asked: ‘Does yesterday’s day, then, the devil take it, come into today’s?’ And I said to him: ‘Yesterday’s day hangs around all our necks.’ Then he said: ‘However, it doesn’t come, does it?’ Then I said: ‘But the Wild Hunt? Hasn’t it come from the past?’ He changed in his face. ‘Damn it! Don’t even mention it.’ And he moved on northwards along the quagmire. I went on towards your house, Mr. Belaretsky, but when I turned around I saw that he had turned back and was letting himself down into the ravine. He went there and disappeared.”

“Who was it?” I asked. Svetsilovich hesitated. Then he raised his bright eyes.

“Forgive me, Belaretsky, forgive me, Ryhor, I cannot tell you yet. It’s too important, and I’m not a gossip. I cannot lay such a terrible accusation on the shoulders of a person who, perhaps, is not guilty. You know that for such a thing a person may be killed simply on suspicion. All that I can say is that he was among the guests at Yanovsky’s. I’ll think it over in the evening, will weigh everything, will recall in detail the story about the promissory notes and tomorrow I’ll tell you. But for the present I cannot say anything more...”

Oh, of course! A dependable alibi. Oh, fools! And what dim thoughts! By analogy I recalled my own indefinite thoughts, too, the thoughts about “the hands”, which were to help me in investigating something important.

We decided to have Ryhor sit this night through at the Cold Hollow. It was not far from there to Svetilovich’s house where he lived with an old attendant and a cook. In case of need we could find him.

“Nevertheless I don’t believe that I’ll be able to catch them when they leave. Svetsilovich has put them on their guard,” Ryhor said hoarsely. “They’ll find another road out of the dense forest onto the plain.”

“But another road into the park they won’t find. I’ll be lying in wait for them near the broken-down fence,” I decided.

“It’s dangerous alone,” Ryhor lowered his eyes.

“But you, too, will be alone.”

“Me? No! I’m nobody’s fool. I’m bold, but not so bold as to fight one against twenty.”

“But I tell you,” I said stubbornly, “that the mistress of Marsh Firs will not live through another appearance of the Wild Hunt at the walls of her house. I must not allow them to enter the park if they intend to come.”

“Today I cannot help you,” said Svetsilovich sunk in a brown study. “What I must clear up is more important. Perhaps the Wild Hunt won’t come today at all. An obstacle will stand in its way.”