Free King Stakh's Wild Hunt by Uladzimir Karatkevich

as a deer’s.
    “Believe me, if I had wished to lie, I could have invented something much better.”
    “Then I beg your pardon.”
    “These capes are blown about by the wind behind the riders’ backs. Their lances extend upwards in the air, and they race, race like an invasion.”
    “Again I must beg your pardon. But tell me, perhaps at supper at your neighbour’s you had been treated to some mead?”
    “I don’t drink,” Bierman–Hatsevich compressed his lips with dignity. “And I can tell you, they didn’t even leave any imprints, and the horses’ hoofs were hidden by the fog. The King’s face was calm, lifelessly dull, dry if you wish, and quite grey, like a fog. Most importantly, they arrived at the Yanovskys’ castle that night. When I returned home I was told that at midnight the ring on the door thundered and a voice cried: “Roman of the twelfth generation, come out!”
    “Why Roman?”
    “Because Nadzeya, the last of Roman’s descendants, is exactly the twelfth generation.”
    “I do not believe it.” I said again, resisting to the very end at seeing Bierman’s really pale face. “Give me the Yanovsky family register.”
    Bierman readily dragged out and unrolled the parchment manuscript with the family tree. And indeed, eleven generations appeared in the list. From the time of Roman the Old. Below the eleventh generation, again Roman, a handwritten entry was made in small letters: “October 26th, 1870 my daughter, Nadzeya, was born. She is the last one, our twelfth generation, and my only child. Cruel fate, remove your curse from us, let only the eleventh generation perish. Have pity on this tiny bundle. Take me, if that is necessary, but let her live. She is the last of the Yanovskys, I set my hopes on you.”
    “This was written by her father?” I asked, deeply moved, and I thought that I was eight years old when this little girl was born.
    “Yes, by him. You see, he had a presentiment about it... His fate is a proof of the truth of the legend about King Stakh. He knew it, they all knew it, for the curse hung over these unfortunate people like an axe. One will go mad, the other will be killed for his brother’s money, and another will perish while hunting. He knew and he made preparations for it. He provided the girl with an income, though a miserly one, it’s still an income. He found guardians in good time, drew up his will. By the way, I am afraid of this autumn, many of the Yanovskys did not live to see their coming of age. Her birthday will be in two days, and the Wild Hunt has already appeared twice at the walls of the castle. Roman never left the house at night. But two years ago Nadzeya went to visit Kulsha’s wife, a relative on her mother’s side. The girl stayed there till late. Roman was very nervous when she didn’t come home. The Kulsha’s house stood near the Giant’s Gap. He saddled his horse and rode off. The little girl returned home with Ryhor, the Kulsha’s watchman. But the master hadn’t come. He was searched for. It was autumn, however, the time when King Stakh’s Wild Hunt appeared particularly often. We followed in the tracks of the master’s horse, me being Ryhor and I. I was afraid, but Ryhor – not a bit. The tracks led along the road, then turned and began to make loops across the meadow. And Ryhor found other tracks on the side.
    He is a good hunter, this Ryhor. How horrible, sir! Those tracks were made by twenty horsemen! And the horseshoes were old ones, with tridents resembling forks. Their like has not been forged here since forever. At times the track disappeared, then within twenty or thirty steps they appeared again, as if the horses had flown across the air. Then we found a wad from the master’s gun, I’d have recognized it among hundreds. Ryhor recalled that when he was carrying the little girl home, someone had fired a shot near the Gap. We drove the horses faster, for about five hours had passed; the night had grown dark before the