King Stakh's Wild Hunt

"Kalinoŭski went to the gallows. Piaroŭskaja, a woman you would be willing to die for her on the scaffold… Such beauty — with a dirty rope round her neck. You know, Janoŭskaja resembles her somewhat. That's why I idolize her, although that's not quite exactly so. But she was an aristocrat. That means there is a way out for some of our people, too. Only you must follow their path, if you do not want to rot alive… They strangled her. You think all can be strangled? Our strength is growing. If I could hang with them, even by a rib from the hook, to prevent King Stach's Wild Hunt tearing across the land at a mad pace, to stop the horrors of the past, its apocalypse, death. I'll leave as soon as I finish with this. I can't stay here. You know what friends I have, what we have in mind to do? They shall tremble, those fat ones, they shall! We haven't all been strangled to death. This means a great fire. And the years, the years ahead! How much suffering, how much happiness! What a golden, magic expanse is ahead! What a future awaits us!”

Tears spurted from his eyes, uncontrollable tears. I don't remember how we parted. I remember only his fine slender figure visible at the top of the burial mound. He turned round towards me, waved his hat and shouted:

“Years and years are ahead of us! Great expanses! The sun!”

And he disappeared. I went home. I believed I could do anything now. Of what significance was the gloom of Marsh Firs, if ahead were great expanses, the sun and faith? I believed that I'd fulfil everything, that our nation was alive if it could give birth to such people.

The day was yet ahead, such a long one, shining, potent. My eyes looked to meet it and the sun which was hidden as yet behind the clouds.

Chapter The Eleventh

That very night at about 11 o'clock, I was lying hidden in the lilac tree at the broken-down fence. I was in an uplifted mood, absolutely without fear (and in this state I remained until the very end of my stay at Marsh Firs). It seemed to me that crows could peck at somebody else's body, that had nothing at all to do with me; but they could not peck at mine that I loved, my strong and slender body. Whereas in the meantime the situation was a sad one. And the time, too, was sad.

It was almost quite dark. Over the smooth, gloomy expanse of the Gap, low black clouds had gathered, promising a pouring rain by nightfall (the autumn in general was a bad one and dreary, but with frequent, heavy showers, as in summer). A wind arose, in the blackish-green pyramids of the firs it became noisy, then again became quiet. The clouds swam slowly along, piled over the hopeless, level landscape. Somewhere, far, far away a light flashed and, having winked, went out. A feeling of loneliness crept over my heart. I was a stranger here. Śvieciłovič was really worthy of Nadzieja, while absolutely nobody had any need of me here. As of a hole in a fence.

Whether I lay there long or not — I cannot say. The clouds right overhead thinned out, but new ones arose.

A strange sound struck my ears: somewhere in the distance, and as it seemed to me, to my right, a hunter's horn sounded, and although I knew that was aside from the path the Wild Hunt was on, involuntarily I began to look more frequently in that direction. Yet another thing began to trouble me: white fragments of fog began to appear here and there in marshes. But with that everything ended. Suddenly another sound flew over towards me — the dry heather began to rustle somewhere. I glanced in that direction, looked until my eyes began to ache, and at last noticed some spots moving against the dark background of the distant forests.

For an instant I shut my eyes for them to “come to”, and when I opened them, straight ahead of me and not at all far away, the dim silhouettes of horsemen became visible. Again, as previously, they were flying across the air in great leaps. And complete silence, as if I had become deaf, enveloped them. The sharp tops of their cocked felt hats, their hair and capes waving with the wind, their lances — all this imprinted itself on my memory. I began to crawl back closer to the brick foundation of the fence. The Hunt swung around, then recklessly bunched together in confusion — and began to turn about. I took my revolver from my pocket.

They were few in number, less than ever, eight riders. Where have you put the rest, King Stach? Where have you sent them to? I placed the revolver on the bent elbow of my left arm and fired. I am not a bad shot and can hit the mark in almost complete darkness, but here something surprising happened: the horsemen galloped on as if nothing had disturbed them. I noticed the last one — a tall, strong man, and I fired: but he didn't even stagger.