King Stakh's Wild Hunt (24 page)

I sat on the chair, pressed my lips hard, and hid my fingers between my knees so they shouldn’t betray my excited state.

“I will not leave,” I said after a silence, “until you find the criminals who conceal themselves in the form of apparitions. And afterwards I’ll disappear from here forever.”

The judge sighed:

“It seems to me that you’ll have to leave quicker than we can catch these... miph...miph”

“Mythical,” the lawyer prompted.

“That’s it, mythical criminals. And you’ll leave not of your own free will.”

All my blood rushed to my face. I felt my end had come, that they would do with me whatever they wished, but I staked everything, played my last card, for I was fighting for the happiness of her who was dearest to me of all.

With an unbelievable strength I stopped the trembling of my fingers, took out from my purse a large sheet of paper and threw it under noses. But my voice broke with fury:

“It seems you have forgotten that I am from the Academy of Sciences, that I am a member of the Imperial Geographic Society. And I promise you that as soon as I am free I shall complain to the Sovereign, and not a stone shall remain of your stinking hole. I think that the Sovereign will not spare the three villains who wish to remove me so that they may commit their dirty deeds.”

For the first and the last time did I name as my friend a person whom I was ashamed to call my country-man even. I had always tried to forget the fact that the ancestors of the Romanovs, Russian tsars, come from Belarus.

And these blockheads did not know that half the members of the Geographic Society would have given much for it not to be called an Imperial one.

But I almost screamed:

“He will intercede! He will defend!”

I think that they began to waver somewhat. The judge again stretched his neck and... nevertheless whispered:

“But will it be pleasant for the Sovereign that a member of such a respected society had dealings with a State criminal? Many honourable landed gentlemen will complain of this to that very Sovereign.”

They had edged me in like borzois, those Russian wolfhounds. I settled myself more comfortably in my seat, crossed my legs, put my hands on my chest and spoke calmly, I was calm, so calm that to drown would have been preferable.

“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 Yanovsky, 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 muzhyks!

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 Dubatowk who had created the Hunt, he had nothing to gain, he was not Yanovsky’s heir, nor was it the housekeeper, nor the insane Kulsha. 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, Yanovsky’s death or his marriage to her would benefit him. According to Svetsilovich, this person was present at Yanovsky’s ball, had some influence on Kulsha.

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 Yanovsky’s death could benefit him.

But who are the Little Man and the Lady-in-Blue at Marsh Firs? My head was spinning from these questions, 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
dr
y
g
a
nt
s
and this entire masquerade. And the quicker the better!

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.

“Muzhyks can suffer long, muzhyks can forgive, our muzhyks 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 someday something smelling of a landlord may creep into your soul. Then the same with you... sir.”

“You’re a fool, Ryhor,” I uttered coldly. “Svetsilovich 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, no hard feelings? Here’s the letter. It was at Svetsilovich’s all these 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.”

I tore the envelope open immediately. 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. Belaretsky, 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–Hatsevich family. 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–Hatsevich 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 Yarash Yanovsky nicknamed Schizmatic. You must know that with the change of power old sentences lost their force, and any Bierman, if yours is indeed an heir of that Bierman, can pretend to the name of Yanovsky 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 Yanovsky’s heir.”

And suddenly it struck me:

“The hand... the hand?.. Aha! When the Little Man was looking at me through the window, his hand was like Bierman’s! The fingers were just 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 found 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 postal stamp on it... Most probably it was sent from the Yanovsky 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 traces of haste – the room’s 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 a slantingly torn envelope, an envelope just like the one that Svetsilovich had received that awful evening:

“Mr. Belaretsky, 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 Yanovsky. 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 Roman perished and his cross lies. There your unknown well wisher will tell you wherein the root of the fatal events lies.”

Recalling Svetsilovich’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 him up? 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 the cross of Roman the Old’s.

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. 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 Roman’s cross. To the left the forest made a dark wall, and near Roman’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.