King Stakh's Wild Hunt

And then the Polish landowner, Raman, took his lunge, holding it by the handle with both hands, come up to King Stach from behind, threw the lunge over his head, and lowered the lunge with its sharp end onto the back of King Stach's head. The drowsy King lifted his head, looked into Raman's eyes, and his face running with blood was like a terrible wail to God for vengeance.

“But what have you done? We are brothers, aren't we?” And attempting to rise, he shouted:

“Why have you sold your people, apostate? You have deprived many people of their happiness now.”

Raman struck him with his sword a second time, and Stach fell, but he had not yet lost the gift of speech:

“Now beware, you traitor! My curse on you and your evil kin! May the bread in your mouth turn to stone, may your wives remain childless, and your husbands choke in their own blood!”

And then, his voice weakening, he said cruelly:

“You've betrayed your land, my former brother! But we shall not die. We'll yet come to you and to your children, and to their heirs, my hunters and I. Unto the twelfth generation will we take revenge ruthlessly, nor shall you hide from us. You hear? Unto the twelfth generation! And each generation shall tremble with greater pain and more terribly than I now at your feet.”

And he dropped his head. And his hunters dumb until now, at last came to, and snatched up their knives. And they fought twenty against three, and the battle was a fearful one. But the three conquered the twenty and killed them.

And afterwards they strapped the corpses and the wounded, who were pitifully groaning, to their saddles and drove off the horses, and the horses hastened off in a straight line to the Giant's Gap.

But nobody had noticed that there was a spark of life yet in King Stach's body. The horses flew on into the night, and a faint moon lit up their long manes, and somewhere ahead of them blue lights skipped about among the mounds.

And from this wild herd came King Stach's voice:

“To the devil with my soul, if God doesn't help. Hold Raman! Our horsemen are coming at a gallop to you! Tremble, Raman, and shiver, our eternal enemy. We shall come! We shall avenge!”

And nobody knew that these words were true words, that King Stach had become a weapon in the hands of the devil for revenge and punishment. No murder whatever deserves such vengeance as fratricide.

Not long was their stay on this earth. The beater-in, Varona, was the first to see the ghosts of Stach and his followers within two weeks. The Wild Hunt raced on heedlessly, onward it flew across the most terrible quagmire, across the forest, across the rivers.

No tinkling of bits, no ringing of swords. Silent were the horsemen on their horses, and ahead of the phantom King Stach's Wild Hunt were the swamp lights skipping across the quagmire.

Varona went mad. And Dubatoŭk perished afterwards. The Lithuanian hetman dispersed peasant armies who were left without a leader; Jaraš Štamiet was killed in battle. But Raman Janoŭski was alive and laughed.

But once after hunting, he was returning home alone through the heather wasteland, the moon hardly lighting the way for him. Suddenly from somewhere behind him the marsh lights came skipping. And the sound of bugles reached him, and the stamping of hoofs which was heard but faintly. Later, vague apparitions of horsemen were seen. The horses' manes waved with the wind, an unleashed cheetah ran ahead of the phantom Wild Hunt. And noiseless was their flight across the heather and the quagmire. And silent were the horsemen, while the hunting sounds came flying from somewhere on the other side. And ahead of all, dimly lit by the moon, galloped the enormous King Stach. And brightly burned the eyes of the horses, the people and the cheetah.

And Raman raced on, and they silently and quickly flew after him; the horses sometimes pawed the ground in their flight, and the wild heather sang, and the moon looked at the chase with indifference.

And Raman did thrice shout: “The Wild Hunt!” So loud his voice that he was heard by people even in distant huts. And then the Wild Hunt caught up with him, and his heart failed him. That is how Raman perished.

From that time on many people saw King Stach's Wild Hunt in the peat-bogs. And although this Wild Hunt penalized not everybody, there were few people whose hearts did not fail them when they saw the dark shadows of the horsemen in the swamps.

In this way did Raman's son and the son of his son perish, after whose death I am writing about this for the sake of science and to frighten his descendants who, perhaps, by doing good deeds could deprive the ancient curse of its power over them.

People, beware of the quagmire, beware of the swamps at night, when the blue lights gather and begin dancing in the worst places. There you will see 20 horsemen, their chief racing ahead of all of them, the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes. No clanging of swords, no neighing of horses.