Andrus Kivirähk - The Man Who Spoke Snakish

“Child, what you’re saying is a terrible sin!” said Johannes, his face turning white. “The devil is unable to protect anyone; he only knows how to bite and attack. You will see; today I’m going to the holy brothers and they will give me a potion to destroy this damned werewolf that brought death to our sheep.”

Magdaleena looked fearfully in my direction, evidently worried that the monks’ potion might really put an end to me, the werewolf. I grinned back at her and she seemed calmed. How stupid they were! Magdaleena was at least beautiful, but there was nothing to excuse Elder Johannes. Suddenly I was terribly tired of all this. How different this argument was to my conversations with Hiie! I felt on the verge of crying. But there was no way back. Here I sat now, in the middle of modern stupidity, and I had to stay here till the end of my life. I yearned for Magdaleena to give birth right then, wishing that the child might be born and grow at supernatural speed to the age when I could teach him Snakish. But I knew that in that hope I was as stupid as the village people were with their gods. Supernatural things don’t exist; everything proceeds according to the natural order, and births and deaths take place at their appointed time.

“Well?” I asked, annoyed. “How far have you got with your chattering? Can I stay here or must I go back to the forest? What do you say, Johannes?”

I looked at the village elder’s rage-reddened face, and suddenly a good idea passed through my head — to kill him and end all this ridiculous arguing, make a drinking goblet of his skull and live in peace with Magdaleena without having to put up with the idiotic old man. But I hadn’t come to the village to fight; I had come to bury myself. I was awaiting an answer and listened to Johannes panting with exasperation — but it was Magdaleena who started speaking.

“Of course you’ll stay here,” she said calmly. “You’re my husband and the father of my child, and you don’t have to become a Christian. There are many Christians here in the village; if I’d wanted to find a husband among them, I could have had one long ago. But I wanted you. Did you hear, Father? I want Leemet and my child — who is the child of a knight and in whose veins runs the blood of jesuses, don’t forget that! — wants Leemet too.”

“So be it,” said Johannes, though I thought I heard his teeth grinding. “Let him stay then. But I tell you, Magdaleena, God won’t forgive us for giving shelter to a pagan. He’ll punish us for it. One cannot serve two masters!”

“I won’t serve anyone,” I said. “I don’t need a master, and even less do I need to invent one.”

“So be it, but you know you are the only and the last pagan in our village!” declared Johannes.

I didn’t reply. What was there for me to say? I was used to the knowledge that I was the last. Everywhere and always.

n the evening Magdaleena invited me to the swing.

I no longer wore my old animal-skin jacket. Magdaleena had peeled that off me and instead given me some old rags of her father’s. They weren’t bad, but no better than my previous clothes — and it was quite clear that a lot of trouble had to be taken to make such clothes, whereas for us in the forest a proper animal skin was no more than the work of a lunchtime.

By the swings I met first of all my former friend Pärtel — now Peetrus — and his mates Jaakop and Andreas, whom I’d met that time by the monastery. There was also a large group of village boys and girls, swinging, sitting around the fire, and joking with each other behind the swings.

It was quite clear that Magdaleena was treated by this group with the greatest respect. If it was usual for the boys to pull the girls’ hair and try to pull their skirts over their heads, with Magdaleena no one was permitted any such behavior. The girls tried to stay close to her, hung on her every word with great attention, and from time to time put timid questions to her. They seemed to be most fearful of being embarrassed or saying anything foolish in front of her. For her part Magdaleena treated them with maternal sternness, and never lost an opportunity to emphasize the fact that she was carrying the child of a knight in her belly. Every time she reminded them of it, a hum of wonderment passed among the girls.

The boys, on the other hand, kept a respectful distance from Magdaleena and only glanced at her from the corners of their eyes, rather as a little weasel looks greedily at a lynx’s slaughtered prey, licking its lips, but not daring to go closer. I could feel great satisfaction in the fact that I was the only one who was allowed near such hallowed flesh.

My arrival by the swings was greeted with curious looks and quiet murmurs, but since Magdaleena held me proudly by the hand, all the girls at once reasoned that if the all-wise Magdaleena deemed it good to carry on with a man from the forest, this must be the last word in fashion, and they rushed to get to know me. Magdaleena scared them off with an icy look and a sharp word or two. Her whole being gave to understand that men from the forest were in vogue, but only selected women could possess them — those who had been bedded by a foreigner.

I left the girls and went to greet Pärtel, the sight of whom awakened happy childhood memories and nourished the deceptive dream that people who have vanished from one’s life are still around somewhere, even if changed and living by another name. Unfortunately I knew that this applied only to him, and actually even from Pärtel there was no joy to be had.

Pärtel greeted me fairly indifferently, though this wasn’t out of any special unfriendliness, but because Andreas had found a dented knight’s helmet from somewhere. This bit of junk was being passed around the group; they were trying it on and admiring it with extreme reverence.

“I know this is Spanish steel,” said Jaakop, tapping delicately with his fingernails on the helmet and smiling happily. “Ah, what workmanship! They know how to do it there!”

“That’s not Spanish steel,” objected some fat village man, taking the helmet in his arms and pressing it harshly between his coarse paws. “This is obviously the work of German smiths!” “Don’t twist it like that, Nigul!” snapped Andreas. “It’s mine. I found it. You’ll break it if you squeeze it.”

“Now,” laughed fat Nigul. “That’s a thing I’d like to see, a peasant like us with his bare hands being able to break the work of German smiths in half. A helmet like this can withstand a heavy blow from a sword if it has to.”

“All the same, you don’t have to mangle it so hard,” said Andreas, taking the helmet in his hands. “It’s beautiful, men; there’s no denying it. World-class quality. Ah, those knights have fine things.”

“No disputing it,” they all agreed. “Quite different to our headgear.”

“Why are you even comparing such a fine helmet to some old cap of ours?” cried Andreas. “This is gleaming and it’s made of metal. Well, in our village no man has anything to put against it. I’ll put it on and all the women will line their arses up for me!” They all laughed, except Pärtel, who asked doubtfully, “Do you dare to go around with that on? What if some knight sees you?”

They all fell silent, and even Andreas became thoughtful. But still he put on a brave face and with a swagger continued, “Well, why shouldn’t I? Obviously not in daylight and on the main road, but in the evening when it gets dark. Who will see me if I put the helmet on and bundle around with it? I’ll go behind the cowsheds; no knight will come snooping around that dunghill!”