A Terrible Vengeance

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Lovely is the Dnieper in tranquil weather when, freely and smoothly, its waters glide through forests and mountains. Not a sound, not a ripple is stirring. You look and cannot tell whether its majestic expanse moves or does not move; and it might be of molten crystal and like a blue road made of mirror, immeasurably broad, endlessly long, twining and twisting about the green world. Sweet it is then for the burning sun to peep at itself from the heights and to plunge its beams in the cool of its glassy waves, and for the forests on the banks to watch their bright reflections in the water. Wreathed in green, they press with the wild flowers close to the river’s edge, and bending over look in and are never tired of gazing and admiring their bright reflection, and smile and greet it with nodding branches. In mid-Dnieper they dare not look: none but the sun and the blue sky gaze into it; rarely a bird flies to the middle of the river. Glorious it is! No river like it in the world! Lovely too is the Dnieper on a warm summer night when all are sleeping— man, beast, and bird—while God alone majestically surveys earth and heaven and majestically shakes His robe, showering stars that glow and shine above the world and are all reflected together in the Dnieper. All of them the Dnieper holds in its dark bosom; not one escapes it till quenched in the sky. The black forests dotted with sleeping crows and the mountains cleft asunder in ages past strive, hanging over, to conceal the river in their long shadows, but in vain! There is nothing in the world that could hide the Dnieper. Deep, deep blue it flows, spreading its waters far and wide at midnight as at midday; it is seen far, far away, as far as the eye of man can see. Shrinking from the cold of night and huddling closer to the bank, it leaves behind a silver trail gleaming like the blade of a Damascus sword, while the deep blue water slumbers again. Lovely then, too, is the Dnieper, and no river is like it in the world! When dark blue storm clouds pile in masses over the sky, the dark forest totters to its roots, the oaks creak, and the lightning slashing through the storm clouds suddenly lights up the whole world—terrible then is the Dnieper! Then its mountainous billows roar, flinging themselves against the hillside, and flashing and moaning rush back and wail and lament in the distance. So the old mother laments as she lets her Cossack son go to the war. Bold and reckless, he rides his black stallion, arms akimbo and jaunty cap on one side, while she, sobbing, runs after him, seizes him by the stirrup, catches the bridle, and wrings her hands over him, bathed in bitter tears.

Strange and black are the burnt tree stumps and stones on the jutting bank between the warring waves. And the landing boat is beaten against the bank, thrown upward, and flung back again. What Cossack dared row out in a boat when the old Dnieper was raging? Surely he knew not that the river swallows men like flies.

The boat reached the bank; out of it stepped the sorcerer. He was in no happy mood: bitter to him was the funeral feast which the Cossacks had kept over their slain master. Heavily had the Poles paid for it: forty-four of them in all their harness and thirty-three servants were hacked to pieces, while the others were captured with their horses to be sold to the Tartars.

He went down stone steps between the burnt stumps to a place where he had a cave dug deep in the earth. He went in softly, not letting the door creak, put a pot on the table that was covered with a cloth, and began with his long hands strewing into it some strange herbs; he took a ladle made of some rare wood, scooped up some water with it, and poured it out, moving his lips and repeating an incantation. The cave was flooded with rosy light and his face was terrible to look upon: it seemed covered with blood, only the deep wrinkles showed up black upon it, and his eyes blazed as though they were on fire. Foul sinner! His beard was gray, his face was lined with wrinkles, he was shriveled with age, and still he persisted in his godless design. A white cloud began to hover in the cave and something like joy gleamed in his face; but why did he suddenly stand motionless with his mouth open, not daring to stir; why did his hair rise up on his head? The features of a strange face appeared to him from the cloud. Unbidden, uninvited it had come to visit him; it grew more distinct and fastened its eyes immovably upon him. The features, eyebrows, eyes, lips—all were unfamiliar; never in his life had he seen them. And there was nothing terrible, seemingly, about it, but he was overwhelmed with horror. The strange, marvelous face still looked fixedly at him from the cloud. Then the cloud vanished, but the unfamiliar face was more distinct than ever and the piercing eyes were still riveted on him. The sorcerer turned white as a sheet; he shrieked in a wild, unnatural voice and overturned the pot… The face disappeared.