Andrus Kivirähk - The Man Who Spoke Snakish

“The sprites will punish you,” warned Ülgas.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Ülgas!” laughed Uncle. “You know yourself that that’s rubbish. Or if you don’t, you must really be feebleminded. Good night!”

He turned to go.

“Are you going to bring the wolves?” shouted Ülgas.

“I can’t be bothered debating with you anymore. I’m going home. If you have to kill some wolves tonight, why not hunt some in the forest? There are enough untamed animals wandering about there. Good hunting!”

“They are no use! I need that boy’s wolves, because he insulted the sprite. You must bring them!”

“I won’t. Go home, Ülgas, and drink some tea to calm yourself down.”

“Then I’ll take your blood!” growled the sage in a terrible voice, flinging himself upon Uncle. But Uncle was quicker, and dodged him. The next moment Ülgas screeched piercingly and dropped the knife, for Uncle had sunk his teeth into his arm and spat a little piece of bloody flesh onto the grass.

“You got what you wanted,” he hissed, and at that moment I didn’t recognize my calm and gentle uncle, for a wild red fire burned in his eyes, and the lines of his face were contorted with a terrible rage. “A pity that I haven’t inherited my father’s fangs, for then you would not see tomorrow. Keep away from me, Ülgas, and leave the boy alone too, if you don’t want me to tear you into little pieces!”

Ülgas did not reply; he had sunk to the grass, wailing as he stroked his arm and staring at Uncle Vootele in terror.

Some time passed in silence. The fire in Uncle’s eyes was slowly extinguished. He went to the lakeshore and washed his mouth clean of the sage’s blood.

“Go and rest for a couple of days in your own grove, then come back here, and you’ll see that the lake is still lapping in the same spot, and everything is nice and peaceful,” he said soothingly. “This lake has never risen above its shores. Don’t panic about the sprites! They won’t even make your feet wet, unless you go for a dip yourself.”

Ülgas did not respond in any way. We left him moping by the lake and set off for home. Uncle Vootele didn’t say a word, seemingly a bit embarrassed in front of me. I had really never seen him lose his self-control like that before. It was as if a wolf had awoken within him. But I felt proud of him. What an uncle he was! The Sage of the Grove had collapsed before his rage like a rotten tree stump.

I took my uncle by the hand. He squeezed my palm tenderly. Striding homeward through the nocturnal forest, I felt safe.

he next day we heard many interesting things. My friend Pärtel came and told me that Ülgas had explained at great length to his parents how my uncle Vootele had, because of his stubbornness and pride, almost drowned the whole forest. The lake-sprite had been enraged when he was deprived of the wolves’ blood he required. He had emerged from the lake in the shape of a black bull, raising the waters of the lake at his heels, rumbling and threatening like some gigantic subterranean cloud crawling out of its lair. But then Ülgas had demonstrated his true heroism and astounding wisdom. Thanks to some miraculous tricks, he had managed to pacify the sprite after all by throwing a thousand weasels into the lake, in place of the wolves’ blood. Thus the sprite was appeased and, at least for the moment, the forest spared from terrible danger.

I told Uncle Vootele the story I’d heard from Pärtel, and my uncle said that now Ülgas had proved that he was a complete liar and a phony.

“Up to now you could still think that he is just a simpleminded man who really does believe in fairies and is afraid of offending them, but this story of the black bull and the thousand weasels is obviously nonsense. Where would he find a thousand weasels at night? Not even with the strongest Snakish words could you summon up so many. He made up this story to explain away why the lake is still in place. Now he can brag that he saved the forest. I tell you I won’t be going to the grove anymore. And there’s nothing for you there either.”

I agreed completely with my uncle, not least because after what happened on the lakeshore that night I feared Ülgas like fire. I still had a fixed image of him roaring at my uncle on the shore. I wouldn’t just avoid the grove; I would keep out of Ülgas’s way completely from now on. And since I spent most of my time with Ints, who, like all adders, kept his distance from humans and could even tell exactly who it was approaching, it wasn’t hard for me to avoid the Sage of the Grove.

One day the three of us — Ints, Pärtel, and I — were together in the forest, when the adder suddenly stopped and listened, saying, “Someone’s coming.”

“Ülgas?” I asked, getting quickly to my feet to walk away.

“No, Tambet.”

That didn’t change things. Tambet was just as unwelcome as the sage. He had never liked me, but after the incident with the louse Tambet actually hated me. Ülgas must have told him the whole story, and quite naturally he did not have a good word to say about either me or Uncle Vootele. I had met Tambet once since then, and it was horrible. I was with my mother, and when Tambet saw me, his whole body trembled; he gesticulated and screamed, “You wretched brat! I knew it — everyone born in the village is rotten inside!”

“Don’t scream at my son!” bawled Mother. She was not at all afraid of Tambet and liked to tell the story about how Tambet had once made a pass at her many years ago. The young Tambet had wanted to make an impression on my young mother, so had climbed up a spruce tree and brought down several combs of wild bees’ honey. Then he called on my mother, but was ashamed to be carrying the honey in front of everyone, so he popped the combs inside his jacket, against his stomach. Having reached my mother’s place he wanted to proudly hand over the delicacy, but oh dear — the honey had become warm and started to melt, it had stuck to the hairs of the young man’s stomach and dripped down, so it wasn’t possible to take it out from under his coat. Young Tambet’s face went red and he tried to sit in such a way that no one would notice how uncomfortable he was, but my fanged grandfather noticed him squirming and bawled out: “What have you got there? Show me!” And when Tambet stammered something in response, Grandfather grabbed him by the collar and ripped the jacket open, revealing Tambet’s tummy and his willy all covered in honey. It was hilarious, said Mother, when Tambet tried to clean off the honey clinging to his lower body, puffing and panting, driven mad with shame. Finally they invited a bear in to lick Tambet clean, but when he saw what part of his body he actually had to lick, he refused, saying that he was a male. At this point in the story she usually stopped, laughing so much that she fell to the floor, and when I asked her later what became of Tambet and his honey-flavored willy, Mother just waved her hand and replied, “Well, he must have got it off himself somehow; he can’t still have honey on it. But then, I haven’t had the opportunity to look.”

Obviously, with memories like that, Mother didn’t regard Tambet with any reverence. She got angry when anyone shouted at her son, and she responded just as loudly: “Go and kill your own wolves if you want to! You have too many of them anyway. Do you swim in their milk, or what? Go and donate them to Ülgas. Then you both can chop them up, if you like. And by the way, you’re wearing your daughter out, having to look after your beasts like some little slave! You should be ashamed. Look at how small and weak she is!”