Владимир Короткевич - King Stach's Wild Hunt

“This is the end,” I thought.

But to await the end with folded arms was not among my rules. They will be here within fifteen minutes. The country here is rugged. Here and there are hillocks that I can run across, while horsemen are afraid to get stuck in the mud on their horses. In this way I can confuse the tracks. Although if they are apparitions, they can fly across the dangerous places through the air.

I removed my boots so that the noise of my steps should not attract the attention of the Hunt. At first I went stealthily, and then, when the hollow was hidden by the bushes, I jumped about more quickly in loops, running across the heather, wetting my feet in the dew.

At first I went along the hollow, then made a sharp turn in the bushes towards Marsh Firs. I rushed through water and dirt — how could I now pay attention to such trifles? I was soon again on a path and on turning about, I saw the Wild Hunt already on the other side of the swamp. It was moving in my tracks with a dull stubborness. The Hunt raced on, the manes and capes swirling in the air.

Since the bushes hid me and the path was downhill, my running was of a class that I had never shown before and most likely never did afterward. I tore down at such a speed that the wind whistled in my ears, burnt my lungs, and perspiration ate my eyes. And the chase behind my back was slowly but surely coming closer. Soon it seemed to me I was about to fall and would be unable to get up (I had in fact stumbled twice), but I ran and ran, on and on. Slowly, very slowly, the dark park was coming nearer, but the clatter of the horses' hoofs sounded ever closer.

Luckily, as people would say today, I got my second wind. I ran straight through holes and ravines, skirting hills on which I might be noticed. The horses' hoofs sounded now nearer, now farther, now to the left, now to the right. No time to look round, but nevertheless I looked through the bushes. The riders of the Wild Hunt were flying after me in a milky, low fog.

Their horses stretched out in the air, the horsemen sat motionless, the heather rang beneath their hoofs. And above them, in a strip of clear sky, burnt a lonely sharp star.

I rolled down a hill, crossed a wide path, jumped into a ditch and ran along its bottom. The ditch was not far.from the fence. I crept out from it and with one leap reached the fence. They were about 40 metres away from me, but they lingered a little, having lost my scent and it enabled me to creep through a hardly noticeable hole and hide in the lilac. The park was in complete darkness and therefore when they raced past me along the path I couldn't get a good look at them. But I distinctly heard the leader groan:

“To the Gap!”

On raced the Wild Hunt, and I sat down on the ground. My heart was beating like a lamb's tail, but I jumped up quickly, knowing that I must not sit after this race. I understood very well that I had only a minute's respite. They could reach the house in a roundabout way more quickly than I in a straight line. And again I ran on. My feet were bleeding, several times I caught my feet on roots, and fell down, pine-needles lashed against my face. The large castle grew up in front of me entirely unexpectedly, and simultaneously I heard the clattering of the horses' hoofs somewhere ahead of me. They sounded again, they thundered so often that my skin sensed: they were racing at an incredibly fast gallop.

I decided to put everything at stake. I could hide in the park, but in the castle was a girl who was now most likely dying of fright. I had to be there, and it was there that my weapon lay.

A few jumps and I landed on the porch. I began beating on the door.

“Nadzieja! Miss Nadzieja! Open the door!”

She might fall unconscious on hearing my screaming. But the hoofs were already beating near the castle. Again I began to thunder.

The doors opened unexpectedly. I jumped into the house, locked the doors and was about to rush off for my weapon, but through the eye in the door I saw the misty horses racing past and disappearing behind the turn in the lane.

I glanced at first at Janoŭskaja and then in the mirror. She was evidently shocked at my appearance: in rags, all in scratches, blood on my hands, my hair dishevelled. I looked at Janoŭskaja again: her face pale, grown stiff with fright, she shut her eyes and asked:

“Now you believe in King Stach's Wild Hunt?”

“Now I believe,” I answered darkly. “And weren't you afraid to open the door at such a moment?! Such a courageous little heart!”

In answer she burst into tears:

“Mr. Biełarecki... Mr. Andrej... Andrej. I was so afraid, I had such fear for you. My God... my God!... Let me alone be taken!”

I clenched my fists.

“Miss Nadzieja, I don't know whether they are apparitions or not. Apparitions couldn't be so real, and people couldn't be so transparent or blaze with such malice and rage. But I swear to you: for this your fright, for these your tears, they shall pay me, shall pay a high price. This I swear to you.”

Somewhere in the distance the fast clattering of horses' hoofs was dying away.

If my story has formerly been somewhat slow in its development, it will now, very likely be too swift. But that cannot be helped, the events which followed that dreadful night came so thick and fast that my head was in a whirl. The following morning Janoŭskaja went with me to the village where I wrote down some legends. All along the way I was trying to convince her that she needn't be in such fear of the Wild Hunt, told her how I had outwitted the hunters the day before, but one thought wracked my brain: “But what was it? What was it?”

Though my hostess became somewhat merrier, she was, nevertheless, still depressed: I hadn't seen her previously in such a mood. When I returned to the castle (Janoŭskaja had remained behind at one of the wings with the watchman), I noticed a dirty piece of paper stuck with a thorn onto the bark of a fir-tree in a conspicuous place. I tore it off:

“What's fated must die. You, a tramp, a newcomer, get out of the way. You are a stranger here: these cursed generations are no business of yours. King Stach's Hunt comes at midnight. Await it.”

I only shrugged my shoulders. After the apocalyptic fright I had experienced the previous night, this threat seemed to me a bad melodrama, a thoughtless move, and it convinced me that the devilry was of earthly origin.

I hid the note. And at night two events occurred simultaneously. I slept very badly now, nightmares tortured me. At midnight I was awakened by steps, but this time, a kind of incomprehensible certainty that they were not merely sounds, forced me to get up. I threw on my dressing-gown, carefully opened the door and went out into the corridor. The steps sounded at the far end and I saw the housekeeper with a candle in her hand. I followed her carefully, doing my best to keep in the dark. She entered one of the rooms. I was about to follow her, but she looked out of the door and I only just managed to press myself against the wall. And when I came up to the room I saw nothing in it except an old writing-table and a fretted closet. On the window-sill stood a candle. I entered the room, looked into the wardrobe carefully — it was empty. The room, too, was empty. To my regret, to remain in it was impossible: I might spoil everything. Therefore I returned very quietly to the turning in the corridor and stood there. In my dressing-gown it was cold, my feet were freezing, but I remained standing there. Perhaps about an hour had passed, when suddenly I was startled by another apparition. The figure of a woman in blue came moving along the corridor at its far end. I moved towards her, but stopped dead, startled. This woman's face was a copy of Nadzieja Janoŭskaja's, only surprisingly changed. It was majestic, calm and significantly older. Where had I seen this face? I had already guessed, but I didn't believe my own eyes. Of course, the portrait of the executed lady. The Lady-in-Blue!