Free King Stakh's Wild Hunt by Uladzimir Karatkevich Page B

Wednesdays and Fridays.”
    “Right... Strange ghosts. How about Sundays?” The desire to give this inert, weak-willed, porcelain fellow a good slap on the face was growing ever stronger within me, for such men as him are unable to perform any kind of deed, be it good or evil. They are not people, but grass-lice that choke the flower-beds. “On St. Philip’s Day, on St. Peter’s Day they do appear if they are such holy saints, don’t they!?”
    “God allows them to on Sundays, for, if you remember, it was on Sunday that Stakh was killed,” he answered quite seriously.
    “So what then is He, this God of yours?” I barked at him. “Has He then bumped into the devil? You mean to say that He takes the lives of innocent girls in whose blood there is perhaps but one drop of the forefather Roman’s blood?”
    Bierman was silent.
    “A four thousand and ninety-sixth part of Roman’s blood flows in her veins,” I counted up. “So what is He good for, anyway, this God of yours?”
    “Don’t blaspheme!” He groaned, frightened. “Whose part are you taking?”
    “Too much devilry is going on here, even for such a house...” I didn’t give in. “The Little Man, the Lady–in–Blue, and here, in addition, the Wild Hunt of King Stakh. The house has been surrounded from without and within. May it burn, this house!”
    “M-m, to be frank with you, Honourable Sir, I don’t believe in the Little Man or the Lady.”
    “Everybody has seen them.”
    “I haven’t seen them, I’ve heard them. And the nature of the sound is unknown to us. And add to that the fact that I am a nervous person.”
    “The mistress has seen him.”
    Bierman lowered his eyes modestly. He hesitated and said quietly:
    “I cannot believe everything she says... She... well, in a word, it seems to me that her poor head hasn’t been able to cope with all these horrors. She... m–m... she’s peculiar in her psychic condition, if not to say anything more.”
    The same had previously occurred to me, therefore I kept silent.
    “But I, too, heard steps.”
    “Wild fancy. Simply an acoustic illusion. Hallucinations, Honourable Sir.”
    We sat in silence. I felt that I myself was beginning to lose my sanity with that entire hullabaloo going on here.
    In my dream that night King Stakh’s Wild Hunt silently raced on. The horses neighed, their hoofs landed, and their engraved bridles rocked. Beneath their feet was the cold heather, bending forward, the grey shadows dashed on, marsh lights glittering on the horses’ foreheads. Above them a lonely star was burning, a star as sharp as a needle.
    Whenever I awoke that night I heard steps in the hall made by the Little Man, and at times his quiet pitiful moaning and groaning. On with the black abyss of the heavy sleep again; the Wild Hunt, as swift as an arrow, galloped across the heather and the quagmire.

CHAPTER FOUR
    The inhabitants of the Giant’s Gap were, evidently, not very fond of attending large balls, because it is a rare occurrence in such a corner for someone to inherit a large estate on coming of age. Nevertheless, within two days no less than forty persons arrived at Marsh Firs. I, too, was invited, although I agreed with great reluctance. I did not like the provincial gentry, and in addition, had done almost no work these days. I had made almost no new notes, and most important of all, had not advanced in unravelling the secret of this devilish den. An old 17th century plan of the castle didn’t contain any air vents for listening, while steps and moaning sounded with an enviable regularity each night.
    I wracked my brains over the entire devilry, but could not think of anything.
    So thus, for the first time, perhaps, in the last twenty years, the castle was meeting guests. The lampions above the entrance were lit, the covers on the chandeliers were removed, the watchman became the doorman for the occasion, three servants were taken from the surrounding farmsteads. The castle reminded one