Miklós Bánffy - They Were Found Wanting

And so they had parted once again, agreeing to wait, as they had before. The parting was agony for both of them, for even though it was not a final goodbye, neither knew when or how they might meet again, if ever, nor whether there was still any hope for a future life together. All was uncertain. A promise lay between them; but could it ever be fulfilled?

‘I’ll write, as soon as I can. I’ll think of a way … I’ll do everything in my power,’ she promised.

And again her long dark lashes were wet with tears and there was despair in her eyes as she walked away.

Now the mists were fast disappearing, leaving only a few wisps to hide the tops of the very tallest trees. A light breeze stirred in the valley, so light that though the leaves began to rustle the men in the meadow could hardly feel it.

Balint was still wrapped in his dismal thoughts. Why, he asked himself, was it so impossible for Adrienne to breach the subject of divorce? He knew that she was not afraid for her own life or safety, nor especially for his, for had they not courted disaster night after night spent in each others’ arms in Uzdy’s house where Uzdy himself might at any hour suddenly and unexpectedly return from the country? Then they had played with death with no thoughts for their safety. What, therefore, could be this dreadful obstacle today?

No matter how hard he fretted he could not find any better answer than that Adrienne must be determined to have her daughter with her, which would be impossible if Uzdy disputed the divorce. It was those words ‘And then there’s my daughter!’ Didn’t they prove what was in her mind? Subconsciously he felt that this explanation was wrong, and yet he could find nothing better to replace it. There couldn’t be any other reason … There wasn’t any other reason…

Dusk began to fall and with it the sunset began to cast a faint rosy glow on the mist covering the distant mountains.

Balint, still wrapped in his own dismal thoughts, did not notice it, but the calm of the forest evening was suddenly broken by a deep booming sound. Immediately, from the log cabin where the foresters lodged, two men came out and made their way down to Abady’s tent. They were Honey Andras Zutor and old Zsukuczo, who guarded the forests on the slope of the Gyalu Botin and who, though now the head game-warden of the district, had once been a famous poacher.

Together they hurried towards the younger man.

‘A stag is calling,’ said Honey. The old man said the same thing in Romanian: ‘ Striga taur ’. And they both pointed to the right where the summit of the Munchel Mare would have been visible but for the mist which covered it.

Balint jumped up. Motionless, the three men listened. For a few minutes there was nothing to be heard. Then again the deep organ-like call boomed out, as powerful as a lion’s roar.

‘Raincoat! Telescope! A hat!’ said Abady, as he picked up his Mannlicher sporting rifle, not that he had any particular desire to shoot anything, but in those days no one walked the mountains without a gun on his shoulder. When all was ready they walked swiftly and noiselessly; the ground was so sodden that neither leaves nor fallen branches snapped beneath their feet. They followed the track that led to the high watershed of the range and there they stopped briefly until the stag called again. This time he called twice, bravely and boldly, and the sound seemed to come from the right of where they stood.

‘He’s going towards the Burnt Rock,’ whispered the old poacher who may have had poor sight and red-rimmed eyes from too high a consumption of brandy but whose hearing was as sharp as a lynx’s. ‘That’s where he’s going, for sure,’ and the stag, as if to confirm what he said, called again exactly from the direction the old man had indicated.

The little band moved off in that direction as quickly as they could. As in all forests that were well-maintained and well-guarded, the grass grew high on the tracks and the men were soon soaked to the waist. They pressed on, hoping to hear the call again, and, as the forest was now in almost total darkness they could run freely with no risk of startling the quarry and making him bolt. In half an hour they had arrived by the Burnt Rock and even in the dark they knew well where they were from the skeletal stunted trees and the gravel underfoot.

They stopped, and from the pine trees came a few lazy drops of rain. Far below they could hear the noise of a mountain stream now swollen from the persistent rain of the last few days. For some time they heard nothing else. At last, quite close, there came a loud call, abruptly rapped out like a word of command. It was imperious, but at the same time it held something of yearning in its timbre. It was the voice of the King of the Forest.

For some time the men stood there without moving … but they heard no more. Slowly, and walking carefully, they started to pick their way back to the campsite.

When they arrived Balint said, ‘We must be back before daybreak. Maybe he’ll stay until morning.’ Then he gave his orders: ‘Wake me at three!’

Everywhere there was thick fog and the little band could never have found their way if they hadn’t taken a powerful lamp. With it they advanced confidently, though with more care than they had needed the previous evening. When they were half-way there Honey stayed behind in the little meadow near the rushing stream that led into the Retyicel valley, because from there he would have a wide view of the surrounding country. Balint and the old gamekeeper picked their way carefully to the spot they had reached the day before. Thence they could command all three valleys that ran down from the mountain‚ the Retyicel, the Vale Arszna and the little one below that turned into the Vurvuras.

By now it was half-past four, but it was still night and they had to wait patiently, without moving, for dawn, for the stag might be anywhere amongst the trailing pine branches. It was possible that he had moved on in the night, but it was equally possible that he was standing there only a few paces away.

Zsukuczo squatted down on his heels and started murmuring something that might have been prayers but which was more likely to have been a jumble of by now meaningless words which, a thousand years before, had been some invocation to the forest gods.

They had to wait a long time before the dawn made it possible to see their surroundings. And it was not one of those sharp sparkling dawns when a triumphant nature set the world ablaze with a myriad soft tints of colour. Rather was it hesitant, almost apologetic, with the mountain forests swathed in an ambiguous foggy light such as lamps will throw when the shades are made of some milky sanded glass.

For most of this long wait Balint completely forgot where he was and why he had come, for his thoughts had turned once more to the bitter disillusion of the last few days. Then, out of the lightening forest came that deep booming call, deeper far than any human bass voice could achieve. It was the voice of the stag.

It seemed to come from further up, close perhaps to the summit, and a few moments later it came again.

‘He’s up there!’ whispered the old gornyik excitedly. ‘There! Up there! Follow me, Mariassa — my Lord!’ and, as nimbly as any youth, the old man jumped up and made for the dense undergrowth, not in the direction of the sound but diagonally across it, for he knew instinctively how a true hunter could cut off his quarry. His old hob-nailed boots made no sound either on stones or heather; and he went swiftly forward, crouching under low branches, sliding on wet pine needles, stepping over fallen logs, always avoiding any open spaces and never ever making a sound as he went.