Zakhar Berkut/Chapter III

by Ivan Franko

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Chapter III

Just outside the village of Tukhlia, not far from the waterfall and in the center of an expansive plain, stood a huge linden tree. No one seemed to remember when it was planted nor when it grew to its deeply rooted giant proportions. The Tukholian settlement was not a very ancient one and the trees which grew in the valley were far younger, comparatively, than this immense linden. Therefore it was not surprising that the people of the community venerated it regarding it as a hoary witness of antiquity and the beginning of the history of their valley.

The Tukholians believed that this ancient linden was the gift of their everlasting benefactor, the king of the giants, who had planted it in the valley with his own hands, as a sign of his victory over Morsanna.

In some rocky recess beneath the roots of the giant linden a spring found its source and bubbled forth to wander away, merrily babbling along its pebbly path to join the mountain stream.

Here the people gathered in folk-mote,^[1] directed by their elders, to freely participate in the general deliberation and administration of all their affairs of local self-government.

The linden was encompassed by a wide, flat meadow. In rows facing the east, stood smooth, square blocks of stone, reserved seats for the elders of the community, the heads of its families. There were as many of these seats as there were elders. Beyond them was an open space. Under the spreading linden tree, directly over the spring, stood a square-cut stone with a hole drilled in its center, to hold the town banner which was raised there for the duration of each meeting. Beside it was a raised platform for the speaker. Any citizen who wished to express his viewpoint on the matter under discussion would come up from the audience and stand on the platform so that everybody in the gathering might hear what he had to say.

The day after the boyar’s hunting trip, a great crowd gathered on the “maydan” where the town meetings were held. The hum and clamor of their voices carried over all the valley. One by one, the elders left their village and hamlets and made their august, dignified way to take their places upon the reserved stone seats. Noisily the younger people assembled behind them, forming themselves in a broad semi-circle. There were women present also although there were not as many of them as men. Every citizen who was of age, whether male or female was obligated to attend these meetings. Although the deciding votes were cast only by the elders, everyone including the youth and women had a right to share in the discussion and thus influence the final decision of the elders.

The sun had risen high into the heavens when the standard bearers, who were the last to leave the village, came, carrying the district banner. Their appearance induced an excited whispering among the gathered citizenry, which died away when they neared the folk-mote. The three town criers bowed before the gathering and taking their stand in the center under the spreading linden tree, removed their hats. The rest of the men followed suit.

“Estimable assemblage!” spoke up one of the town criers, “Are you all prepared to hold a town meeting today?”

“We are prepared.”

“Then may God be with us!” the other two replied and raising the banner, they guided its staff into the hollow in the square stone block. This signified that the folk-mote was now in session.

Then from his place among the seated elders rose the oldest member of the community, Zakhar Berkut. Directing his slow but firm steps to the linden tree, he touched its bark and knelt down beside the spring bubbling forth from its source beneath the roots and dipping his finger tips into it, he passed them over his eyes and lips. This was the customary ritual, a very ancient one, considered to be necessary to clear the vision and purify the lips of those assuming the profound responsibility of deliberating upon matters vital to the welfare of the whole community.

Zakhar Berkut was over ninety years old, with hair as white as the wings of a dove, the eldest resident of the Tukholian valley and the father of eight sons, three of whom already occupied seats with him among the elders. Maxim was the youngest and like a stalwart young oak among the maples, already stood out from the crowd of youths, tall, commanding, clean-cut, rich in the experience of the life of the people, their character and their traditions.

Zakhar Berkut was the embodiment of those ancient patriarchs, the true fathers and leaders of their nation of whom sing the kobzars and about whom our earliest chronicles were written.^[2] Despite his advanced age, Zakhar Berkut was strong and hard as flint. True, he no longer labored in the fields, herded the sheep or went hunting wild animals in the depths of the forests, but he did not stop working altogether. The orchards, bee-hives, herb-gathering and the healing art now occupied his time. At the first sign of spring, Zakhar could be seen already at work in his orchard, pruning, trimming, cleaning, digging, planting and transplanting. The people of the community were amazed at the man’s knowledge of horticulture and most grateful to him because he did not hide that knowledge but shared it eagerly with them helping and encouraging those who showed an interest to learn. His beehives were located in the forest and every clear day he went there to look after them in spite of the bad roads, mud, snowdrifts and the distance.

But the Tukholian people came to love him best of all for his healing regarding him as their greatest benefactor because of his skill. When the proper time came, sometime between the seventh week after Easter and the holiday of John The Baptist (between the months of May and July) Zakhar, taking his youngest son Maxim, would leave for the hills to spend several weeks gathering herbs and medicinal roots.

The simple, wholesome life of the times, well-built, roomy houses and continuous though not too strenuous toil, the fresh, rarified mountain air of Tukhlia, protected the people from iterative and infectious diseases. However, there were frequent accidents, broken bones, cuts and bruises which no other healer could fix and cure as rapidly and efficiently as Zakhar Berkut. But upon none of these superior accomplishments was Zakhar content to rest for the remainder of his life. “Life is worth while,” he was often heard to say, “only as long as a man can help others. As soon as he becomes a burden, cannot perform useful tasks, then he is no longer a man but a dead weight, not fit to be allowed to live. God forbid that I should ever become a burden to anyone or require their charity, no matter how well I might have earned my keep in the past years of service.” These words were the golden thread of which Zakhar’s ideal was spun and by which the moral grandeur of his life was led. Everything he did, said and everything he thought was always all for the benefit and good of others, and especially of the community. The community was his world.

While he was still a very young man, he had noticed how the wild beasts of the forests often crippled domestic animals and people for life and he determined to learn how to mend their bones and cure their wounds. Thus he left his father’s house and village and set out on the distant, unknown journey to find the famous sorcerer who, he had heard, knew how to heal wounds made by arrows. But the incantations of this sorcerer proved to be powerless. When Zakhar first came to his house, he had promised to give the man ten marten skins if he would teach him the magic incantations. The sorcerer agreed, but Zakhar was not satisfied just to learn the incantations, he wanted to make sure first that they really worked, so he drew out his hunting knife, made a deep gash in his thigh and said to the astounded sorcerer, “There, cure this!” But the incantations did no good.

“You see,” the healer excused himself, “they were ineffectual because you made the wound yourself, on purpose. Such a wound cannot be cured by my chants.”

“Then your incantations aren’t suitable for my purpose. I need the kind of incantation that will work all the time irregardless of whether the wounds are self-inflicted or not.” Thereupon Zakhar Berkut departed from the house of the sorcerer and went forth in search of a better master in the art of healing.

He wandered far and wide over the ranges, hills, canyons and valleys for a whole year until at last he was directed to the Scythian monasteries. Among their monks was an hundred-year-old ancient who had lived for many years with the Greek monks in the hills of Athens where he had read and studied many of the classic documents and manuscripts of the Greeks. This monk possessed miraculous powers of healing wounds and moreover was willing to teach all that he knew to anyone who would abide with him in congenial companionship for a year and who would prove himself to be sympathetic, sincere and pure of heart.

Many prospective students came to the thoughtfully absorbed, grave-faced monk, but he was not pleased with any of them, not one stayed with him the required year or carried away any of the secrets of his marvelous knowledge of healing. It was to this monk that Zakhar Berkut finally applied, determined to outlast his period of trial.

Thus, having arrived at the Scythian monasteries, he asked to be brought before the ancient monk Akenthia, to whom he frankly told the mission of his journey. The grey-bearded, morosely frowning old monk Akenthia, accepted Zakhar without comment. And Zakhar stayed, not just a year, but three. He emerged from the monasteries a new man, his love for his people increased to even greater proportions, his words flowing cogently, calmly, intelligently and to the point, self-assured in their knowledge, crystal-clear pearls of wisdom; but against deceit, untruth, biting sharp as a razor.

In the four years that he was away Zakhar had acquired some knowledge of the world. He had been to Halich and Kiev, seen the kings and learned about their system of government, made friends with the boyars and merchants. All that he heard, observed and experienced, his unspoiled, keen young intellect filed away into the treasure-store of memory as food for meditation and future use. He returned from his travels not merely a proficient healer, but a leader. His indomitable will, patient statesmanship, loftiness of aim, lifted him out of the petty incidents of his age. His life became one long mastery of difficulty after difficulty.

Observing how in the valleys beyond the Carpathians the kings and their boyars were striving to weaken and destroy the people’s democratic, cooperative self-government in their cities and villages, by setting up differentiations of class among them, so that in the ensuing chaos and disorder the people might be the more easily shorn of their power and turned into serfs, Zakhar Berkut became convinced that for the fellow citizens of his community there was no other means or hope for their salvation than in intelligent and efficient administration of their internal affairs and the development of the cooperative spirit within their own and other environing communities, to insure for all of them their continued cultural development and impregnability.^[3]

He had learned much from old Akenthia as well as from other learned men who came to the monastery about the merits and demerits of the various kinds of ruling governments in northern Rus, in the principality of Novgorod and other provinces; about the progress and development of civilization and the diverse practices of governments. All that he heard inspired him to make a firm resolve to devote his entire life to the betterment of community life in his beloved Tukhlia and the creation of a set of principles and workable laws which would bring about the closest possible cooperation among his people and their surrounding communities or townships.

Seventy years had now passed since he had returned from his wanderings. Like an archaic, giant oak stood Zakhar Berkut amidst the younger generations and saw with his own eyes the results of his long years of labor. There is no doubt but that he must have looked upon his work with the greatest feeling of joy and satisfaction. The community stood indivisible, a strongly united, cooperative body, each individual member secure in the enjoyment of all his liberties and free customs, municipal privileges, the rights of justice, common deliberation and freedom from arbitrary taxes. The community held its own court, conducted its own trials and managed all its affairs of government entirely through the folk-mote. The municipal fields, downs and forests required no watchman for every member of the community was their owner and understood the need of conserving their natural resources. There were no poor in their township for the land produced enough food for all and the communal granaries and barns were always open to the needy. The kings and their boyars watched with jealous eyes this existence in which there was no room and no exigency for them. Once a year the king’s revenue officer visited Tukhlia and the community tried its best to get rid of this undesirable guest as quickly as possible. In a day or two he would ride out of Tukhlia his wagon piled high with produce, for the community paid most of its taxes in raw materials. However, the king’s revenue collector was never allowed to be the sole arbiter of the amount owed the king, as he was in many other communities. The Tukholians were very careful to give him the exact amount due the king and himself, but would not allow themselves to be overtaxed for his benefit.

Zakhar Berkut’s vital, inspiring influence extended not only to the hamlets outside of the village of Tukhlia but for many, many miles around, to the other side of the Carpathians and into the sub-Carpathian region. They knew him not merely as a marvelous healer of wounds and all kinds of ailments, but as a great and golden orator, a sage statesman and profound thinker, “who when he speaks it is like the voice of God entering your heart and when he advises, whether it be a single individual or a whole community, not even a meeting place packed full with elders could render a better judgment.”

Zakhar Berkut had long ago come to the conclusion that as in community life only the man who attempts to remain alone and aloof is weak so in a nation a single community must also lack strength unless it cooperates with other surrounding communities, thereby enabling each to preserve its right to self-rule, and so insure the continued independence of the entire region.

His mind was far from being prisoned within his own village. In his continuous efforts to institute new judicial and administrative reforms for the improvement of community life in his own district, he never forgot about the others. In his youth he often visited other communities, attended their municipal meetings and gatherings, doing his best to learn their needs and to understand their people, everywhere directing his energies in persuading them to form permanent, friendly associations among the people within their own communities as well as joining in cooperative alliances, trade agreements and defence pacts with other surrounding districts whom a common interest drew together.

Such fundamental confederations which realized this idea and the spirit of unity among their communities were still vital and vigorous in the earlier days. The insidious greed of kings and boyars had not yet served to completely dissolve the natural brotherhood of peoples, that is why it was not surprising that under Zakhar Berkut’s much beloved, enlightened, devoted and statesman-like leadership, this consolidation and this cooperative spirit was readily strengthened and revived.

Especially valuable were the trade agreements made with the Rus communities on the other side of the Carpathians, not only to the Tukholian community alone but to the entire Carpathian region which was rich in wool products but poor in grain of which the Rus communities on the Hungarian side of the Carpathians had a surplus. Therefore, one of Zakhar’s chief ambitions was to make as direct and safe a trade route as possible up to and over the crest of the Carpathians. For many years he carried the idea for such a route in his head, roaming the length and breadth of the Tukholian region, surveying and scheming how the shortest, safest and least costly route might be cut through, at the same time ceaselessly striving to induce the various communities on each side of the Beskid to agree to give their support to the project. At every opportunity which presented itself and at every folk-mote, he never failed to point out the advantages and the need of such a trade route until he had obtained their promise for fullest cooperation.

More than ten environing townships sent their representatives to the final conference held in Tukhlia at which they were to discuss and make plans for the construction of the new route. This was a day of great rejoicing for Zakhar. He not only assumed the full responsibility for its surveying and planning but also undertook, for sometime before it was begun, the task of organizing the work for its construction. In addition he set five of his own sons to work on it one of whom with his portable blacksmith shop was to be constantly present at the scene of the project to give the necessary assistance.

Each community supplied several workmen with tools and provisions. Under the critically discerning direction of Zakhar Berkut, this trade route was completed within a year. Its advantages at once became apparent to everyone. Trade connections with all of the rich mountain country and the valleys below it made the entire Carpathian region come alive and there began a brisk, profitable exchange of produce. Sheep-skin coats, cheese, herds of cattle and sheep went out of Tukhlia and wheat, rye and linens came in return.

This trail was more than a valuable trade route, it was a vital means of communication, bringing together culturally the communities on either side of the Beskid, which were of one nationality but divided between two different ruling governments.

Of course the Tukholian trade route was not the first in the Carpathians. There was an older and far more famous one called the Duklan Pass. The kings of Halich and Rus did not like this route because it represented a connecting link between the communities on each side of the Beskid, encouraging them to continue their sturdy battle against oppression, their steady, ceaseless struggle for right and freedom; and chiefly because the Magyar princes and dukes often marched their armies over it to attack Red Rus. That was the reason why the princes of Halich and Premysl tried to block the route by erecting fortifications along it.

Because fortifications are constructed by political governments in order to preserve and extend their sovereign power, the results were bound to affect both the cultural development and the independent status of the communities involved. The kings of the provinces made grants to their boyars of vast tracts of lands belonging to the various townships along the Duklan route which they were assigned to guard with their armies, their ranks to be composed of men supplied by each community under the boyars’ jurisdiction. In addition, the route was to be strongly fortified by barricades of wood and of stone in order to render it impassable to hostile forces.

Of course the full brunt of these responsibilities was born by the villagers. They were deprived not only of a large portion of their own lands upon which the boyars had come to settle but in addition became their guardians and defenders supplying them with recruits for their armies, servants for their households, provisions of grain and munitions, while at the same time, during sieges of war, they were subject to martial law and the military dictatorship of the boyars. Needless to say, the boyar, conceded such a wide range of authority, naturally exerted a potent influence in the village, doing his utmost to increase this power and thereby ever strengthen his own position.

To augment their wealth the boyars constructed their own private toll gates on the highway even in times of peace and collected duties on all imports and exports of foodstuffs, which in consequence served to slacken the trade over the Duklan route, weakening the communications and the cultural link between the various communities and crushing all friendly relations in the regions along it.

At the same time the checking of this energetic trade by obstruction of the route resulted in he fatal severance of their cooperative pacts against a common enemy which threatened self-rule within their townships. The people, accustomed to governing themselves through folk-mote, did not take kindly to the dictatorial ways of the boyars and there began a long, intense struggle between the boyars and the people which in the end unfortunately was not won by the communities because a united resistance was made impossible.

During Zakhar Berkut’s time this struggle was by no means finished, as a matter of fact, in the isolated regions high up in the Carpathian ranges, it had not even begun and these, one can safely state, were the most fortunate in all of Rus during that period. The Tukholian region belonged to these fortunate few whose route, cresting over the Beskid, had contributed to its welfare for a long time. This route had not yet fallen into the hands of the boyars but belonged to everyone, the people on both sides of the Carpathians who, though they owed allegiance to two different kings, guarded it with equal zeal from attack by undesirable forces. Warning of an enemy’s advance spread like a flash of lightning to the communities along the route so that they were able to swiftly and effectively repell it by the combined efforts of all their armies.

It was not surprising that the Tukholian district, located in the center of this trade route extending to both sides of the Carpathian ranges, grew increasingly desirable as a habitat and that it continued to preserve its independent, democratic form of government. By its example it kept alive the tradition of liberty and consolidation within the entire Carpathian region and especially in those communities which the king’s boyars had taken over and in which the ruinous struggle had already begun between the old democratic system of self-rule and the new totalitarian one.

Zakhar Berkut’s dignity, his faculty of statesmanship and his convincing, passionate defence of the people’s common right to self-government, free speech, free assembly, equality and justice, were responsible in a large measure for their continued independence. As long as a majority of them kept on struggling to retain their freedom and solidarity, the boyars could not spread their authority as rapidly as they would like and were forced to live agreeably within the communities, peacefully abiding by the laws and rules set up at town-mote at which they also sat among the elders sharing equal rights with all.

But such a state of affairs was exceedingly unpleasant to the boyars. They looked forward to times of war with as much anxious anticipation as to the greatest of feast days for then fortune smiled upon them. At once invoking their royal grant to power, they would use it to the fullest extent to destroy the people’s democratic form of government so that once the authority had passed into their hands it would never again need to be handed back.

But there were no major wars. The king of Red Rus, Danilo Romanowich, though he was very kind to the boyars, but not as kind as his father had been, could not help them very much, for he was too occupied with the competitive elimination of provincial kings in his ambition to acquire the crown of the greater kingdom of Kiev than he was with the protection of his part of the country from the up to then unheard of Mongol hordes, which like a thunder cloud had appeared ten years before on the Eastern border of Rus in the Donets plateau region and slew the defending Rus kings in the fierce onset of the desperate, bloody battle at the river Kalka. Evidently scared by the dauntless heroism of the Rus soldiers who held them at bay, they had then disappeared beyond the Kalka river and nothing more was heard from them for ten years.

However, the memory of that onslaught remained with the people who lived in constant dread of its repetition by that fearful horde. Those least concerned seemed to be the kings of the various provinces and their thegns, the boyars. Immediately after the battle at Kalka, they settled down once more to their former series of petty conflicts, disputes over crowns and the undermining of the democratic system of self-rule in the various townships.

How senseless! They were trying to uproot the oak which fed them with its acorns. If on the other hand, they had applied their authority and power toward the strengthening instead of the eradication of this system in the communities and the voluntary associations and spirit of national unity which arose between the people as a result of it, Rus would probably have never fallen before the arrows and battle-axes of the Mongol hordes, but would have firmly stood its ground and defended itself like a deeply-rooted, giant oak which withstands the autumnal hurricanes.

The Tukholian region was fortunate indeed, for up to then it had escaped the despotic, acquisitive eyes of the princes and boyars. Whether this was because it lay tucked away from the rest of the world, high up amid the mountain ranges or whether it was because there was no great wealth within it, the fact remained that the boyars didn’t seem to be particularly desirous of crowding themselves into this secluded nook. But this good fortune did not last forever. One bright, clear day brought the boyar Tuhar Wolf into this valley section and without saying a word to anyone, he started to build himself a house some distance away from the Tukholian community but on property belonging to it on the top of a hill overlooking the Opir river. The people were so astounded that they did not at once object to this new development. But gradually they began to question him, who he was, where he was from and why he had come.

“I am the boyar of king Danilo,” explained Tuhar Wolf proudly. “For my services and heroism, the king has rewarded me with the lands and forests of this Tukholian region.”

“But these lands and forests belong to our community!” replied the Tukholians.

“That does not concern me in the least,” answered the boyar. “You will have to take your claims to the king! I have my grant from the king and that is all I need to consider.”

The people of Tukhlia just shook their heads at the words of the boyar and said nothing. In the meantime the boyar never once neglected to continue his boasting of the king’s gracious kindness and good-will towards him, although at first he neither pressed himself upon the people nor mixed in their community’s affairs.

At the outset the people, especially the younger generation, whether from curiosity or because of their natural hospitality, often visited the boyar and performed various services for him then just as suddenly ceased going there, completely neglecting him. This at first perplexed and then exasperated the boyar who began to retaliate by annoying the Tukholian residents in various ways.

His house stood on a hillock just above the Tukholian trail and he, following the examples of other boyars, erected a gateway upon it, demanding a toll of those who wished to pass through it. But the Tukholian people were not so easily imposed upon. They understood at once that a decisive struggle had now begun for them and they determined, upon Zakhar Berkut’s advice, to stand resolutely on their rights without yielding an inch of their ground.

Within a week after the toll gate had been put up, the people of Tukhlia sent their elected delegation to Tuhar Wolf. These delegates put their business before him in the form of two brief but pointed questions: “What are you up to, Boyarin?” and “Why are you closing off the highway?”

“Because I feel like it!” replied he. “If you don’t like it, go and complain to the king!”

“But this road does not belong to the king, it belongs to our community!”

“That does not concern me either.”

With this the delegation was dismissed.

However, immediateily following their return homeward came a whole troop of Tukholian youths equipped with hatchets who calmly but efficiently chopped down the offending toll gate and made a bonfire of it not far from the boyar’s manor. The boyar raged back and forth in his yard like a maddened animal, cursing the dirty peasant louts but he did not attempt to stop them and for sometime afterwards did not endeavor to put up another toll gate.

Thus the first violation of their democratic principles, encroaching on their right to personal freedom, had been successfully resisted, but the people did not rejoice prematurely over this victory. They realized that this was probably only the prelude to other such infringements and attacks. And they were right, for it was not long before their suspicions were fully realized. One day their sheep-herdsmen came running into the village bringing somber tidings, that the boyar’s serfs had driven their herds away from the best communal pastures. Hardly had the herdsmen time to explain what had happened in detail when the community’s foresters came running also to report that the boyar was measuring and fencing off for himself a large portion of their forest. Again the community sent its delegation of representatives to Tuhar Wolf.

“Why are you trying to harm the people by taking from them what is theirs?”

“I am taking only that which my king has granted me.”

“But these are not the king’s lands, they belong to us! The king had no right to give away that which he does not own.”

From that time on there continued a ceaseless struggle between the people and the boyar. At one time the people would drive the boyar’s herds off their downs and at another his servants would drive theirs away. The forests taken over by the boyar were guarded both by the people’s and his foresters among whom there ensued frequent quarrels leading to fights. This so infuriated the boyar that he ordered his servants to kill any animals they found on the pastures he had taken as his own and one forester whom he found on his sectioned-off part of the forest he ordered to be tied to a tree and flayed with thorny switches until he almost died.

This was already too much for the community to bear. There were many voices raised in favor of dealing with the boyar according to their oldest precepts of apportioning punishment to an incorrigible and pernicious citizen who was a murderer and a thief, by driving him away from the vicinity of their land and tearing down his house. A large majority of the citizens favored this procedure and it is certain that matters would right then have come to a crucial point for the boyar, if it had not been for Zakhar Berkut who expressed the opinion that it was against democratic principles of justice to pass sentence upon an individual until he had been given an opportunity to present his side of the situation and that it was only fair the boyar be first called to their town meeting and tried by the folk-court, which after a proper and thorough deliberation would hand down a final decision in the matter. This sensible and sage advice was heeded by the Tukholians.

Certainly there was no one in all the gathering who was more aware than Zakhar Berkut of the full significance of this momentous occasion. He realized that the moment had arrived when the test of all that he had spent his life-time in teaching and establishing, would be revealed in the decision passed by the people’s court. Had it been purely a question of simple justice, he could rely upon the judgment of the folk-court without the slightest doubt or misgiving. But here was a need for weighty deliberation, the first time in the life of the Tukholian municipality, on alien but immensely important issues which threatened to entangle them inextricably.

Zakhar understood very well that the decision whether favorable or unfavorable to the boyar threatened the municipality with untold danger. A favorable decision would mean an acknowledgment once and for all time, not only of the boyar’s freedom from guilt, but his power to humble the community and his right to take permanent possession of the forests, pasturing downs and to assume a stranglehold on the entire township which would be the first obstruction to their independence and the hardest to bear, upon the restoration and strengthening of which he had worked ceaselessly for the past seventy years. An unfavorable decision, demanding the removal of the boyar from the municipality would also create a menacing risk for the community. What if the boyar should be able to diplomatically persuade his king by intimating that the people of the Tukholian region were disloyal subjects and so arouse his ire and enlist his aid? This might lead to dire consequences, perhaps spell complete ruin for their region as like decisions had brought on the ruin of several other communities which their kings had considered rebellious and handed over to the boyars and their kind to divide and despoil among themselves.

Both of these solutions pressed with onerous solemnity upon the heart of old Zakhar and before beginning the discussion, he sent a fervent prayer from deep within him, to the Sun-God Dayboh, asking him to illumine his intellect and that of the gathering in order that they might choose the right path to lead them out of their difficulties.

“Illustrious gathering!” he began his address. “I shall not attempt to conceal the weight and import of the deliberations, concerning what business you already know, facing today’s decision of the folk-court. When I turn my eyes upon what is going on around us and what is now also threatening our community, I somehow feel that the peaceful existence we have enjoyed so long will never return, that the time has now come to show by deed and strife whether our democratic form of government is durable and our cooperative spirit equal to the intense conflict which is approaching. You all know what struggle is advancing upon us, and not from only one direction, but you will hear more about this today, so I need not at this time go further into detail concerning it.”

“However, I would like to point out and impress indelibly upon your minds how great is our need to take a firm and unyielding stand upon matters encroaching on our liberty. But in this neither I nor anyone else has the right to dictate to you. If you wish, you will heed my advice, if not, the privilege is yours to reject it. The most I can say is that today we are at the cross roads and must choose the road we are to follow. It is fitting then that those of us who are old and wise should explain very carefully our choice and to what it will eventually lead us as well as where we stand right now.”

“Rest your eyes a moment, estimable citizens, upon our banner which for over fifty years now has listened to our words and observed our acts. Do any of you know the significance of this symbol? Our ancestors, the hallowed and time-honored forefathers, made the banner and passed the secret of its symbolism on to me, saying, ‘Zakhar, someday, at a transitional moment in the community’s history, when it needs the cool prudence, and the quick perception of what is possible, you must reveal to the populace the true significance of our ensign’s symbolism and explain to them that only in the strictest observance of our time-tested principles of cooperative democracy rests our spiritual salvation and our liberty, and that failure to conform to these principles, neglect of the precepts left by our ancestors, will bring the direst misfortune upon the municipality and cause its complete disintegration.’”

Zakhar paused a moment. The gathering was considerably stirred by these passionate words. All eyes were fixed upon the brilliant red banner, silver edges glinting in the sun, which floated in the breeze like a stream of live blood held by some magic within its proportioned bounds, suspended from the pole stuck in its groove in the square block of stone.

“Until now, I have never spoken to you about this,” Zakhar continued, “because we were secure in our peace and happiness, but it is time for me to break my silence. Turn your eyes once more upon our banner! You will note that the strong chain which holds it in place was fashioned out of one solid piece of timber each of whose rounded links is complete in itself, constructed to accept its responsibility as a unit and well able to hold its own. This chain then, represents our race, fashioned by the hands of a Benevolent Creator. Every single link within this chain represents a community, an integral, incontrovertible part of the whole and yet free within itself as if it were a link closed in upon itself, living its own life and fulfilling its obligations and responsibilities. Only the solidity of each unit assures the indivisibility and freedom of the whole. Should just one of these units weaken within itself and break, then the whole chain would be rendered useless and its united power broken. Therefore the disruption of democratic rule within one community creates a sore spot which brings on a disease infecting the whole sacred body of our nation, Rus. Woe to the community which willingly allows itself to become the focal point for such an infection without doing all in its power to resist it! It would be far better for such a community to disappear from the face of the earth and to lose itself within an abyss!”

These last words of Zakhar Berkut’s rose on a high menacing note, ringing in the ears of the listeners momentarily shutting out the sound of the waterfall which nearby thundered down against the rock and like a live column of crystal reflected all the prismatic colors of the sunshine in a shimmering ribbon above the heads of the gathering.

Zakhar continued, “Cast your eyes upon that banner again! You will further note that each link of the chain is encrusted with silver in various pleasing designs. These incrustations are not a burden upon the links but add to their general attractiveness and stoutness. Thus each community also has its invaluable customs and institutions of government, born of necessity and established by the wisdom and experience of our predecessors, which hold it together.”

“These institutions are sacred not because they are ancient and were established by our forefathers but because they are democratic, non-coercive and non-restraining to the honest and law-abiding individuals and repressive only to those who are evil and wish to harm the community. Nor do these institutions of government restrain or coerce the municipality but lend it the power and authority to preserve what it holds good and beneficial and to destroy that which is deemed harmful and evil.”

“If it were not for those silver incrustations the wooden links could easily crack and break and their union within the chain be destroyed. Therefore, if it were not for our sacred, well-established institutions of democratic government, our fundamental associations within and outside the township, which insure order and mutual protection for all the members, the community would fall apart.”

“Take heed, estimable citizens! The hand of a thief has stretched forth its talons to tear off the silver incrustations from our link, to weaken and then trample under-foot our liberty and our traditions of independent government under which we have so tranquilly and fortunately lived!”

“We will heed! We will not allow him to do it!” cried the chorus of voices from the gathered populace. “We will defend our liberty and our independence to the last drop of our blood!”

“Very good, my children!” replied Zakhar Berkut, deeply moved. “It is the only way! It seems to me as if the very spirit of our benevolent Giant Sentinel has entered your hearts today for you have rightly sensed the symbolic import of our banner. ‘Why is it red?’ It means blood! To the very last drop of their blood the people of our municipality and our country should defend their freedom and their inviolable right to a democratic form of government! You can take my word for it that the time is not far off when the shedding of your blood will be demanded of you. Let us make ready then to defend ourselves!”

That instant all eyes as if at a given signal turned towards the village. At the entrance to the trail which led by the waterfall and up towards the crest of the mountain ranges, appeared a group of proudly dressed, fully armed men. This was, in all his pomp and resplendence, the boyar Tuhar Wolf and his guard of mercenaries coming to the Tukholian meeting. Regardless of the heat on the late spring day, the boyar was in full military regalia, garbed in shining steel armor replete with palettes and knee-pieces and a shining steel helmet topped with a tuft of cock’s feathers fluttering in the wind. At his side, in its sheath, hung a heavy sword. Slung over his shoulder was a bow and a “saydak” filled with arrows and tucked behind his belt a battle axe, its sharp wide blade and bronze head gleaming in the sun. Over all this fearsome armor, to indicate his peaceful intentions, the boyar had draped a sheepskin, its mouth converted into a clasp on his chest and its paws with their sharp claws clasping his waist. Accompanying the boyar were ten archers and battle-axe carriers also dressed in sheepskins but without the armor. The gathering shuddered involuntarily at sight of the advancing company; they all realized that this was the enemy which menaced their freedom and independence.

While they were still a distance away, Zakhar was finishing his speech: “Here comes the Boyarin, who boasts that his gracious king granted him our lands, our bodies, our liberty and our souls. See how insolently he proceeds in the knowledge of his king’s good graces and that he is the king’s servant and his slave! We do not need the graciously benign mercy of a boyar nor do we have need for becoming vassals! That is the reason why he hates us and calls us “stinkers”, louts. But we are fully aware that his supercilious posturings are silly and that an upright, free man cares nothing for arrogance but on the contrary, bases his nobility upon the tranquillity of his conscience and the power of his wisdom. Let us then display our superiority by our dignity and our wisdom that we should not humiliate him but that he, himself, within the depths of his own soul, should be humiliated! I have finished!”

A gentle stir of satisfaction and happy resolution swept over the gathering. Zakhar walked back to his seat. Momentarily complete silence reigned over the folk-mote, until Tuhar Wolf neared the gathering and greeted them, “Good day, Citizens!” touching his helmet with his hand but without removing it from his head.

“Good day to you, Boyarin!” answered the assemblage.

Tuhar Wolf, with disdainful, presumptuous strides took his stand on the platform under the linden tree and with a brief sweep of his glance over the gathered populace, began peremptorily, “You have called me before you and so I have come. What is it that you want of me?”

These words were spoken in a lofty, brisk tone, which evidently was meant by the boyar to manifest his preeminence over the town-mote. He did not look at the people directly but toyed with his battle-axe turning it about in his hands as if its shining blade and bronze head amused him, showing very plainly by this act his scornfully contemptuous attitude towards the entire populace and its folk-court.

“We called you here to appear before the folk-court so that before we pass judgment on your past conduct we might hear what you have to say in your own behalf. By what right and for what purpose are you trying to wrong the people of this community?”

“Tried before the folk-court?” repeated the boyar in mock surprise, turning his face towards Zakhar. “I am in the service of the king, a boyar. No one has the authority, outside the king or another boyar, to prosecute me.”

“As to whose servant you are, Boyarin, we shall not question you, that does not concern us. As to your rights we will discuss them later. For now, please be so good as to tell us from where you came to our village?”

“From the capital of the principality, Halich.”

“And who ordered you to come here?”

“Your master and my master, king Danilo Romanowich.”

“Speak for yourself and not for us, Boyarin! We are free people and acknowledge no master. And why did your master order you to come to our village?”

The boyar’s face flushed with anger at Zakhar’s sharply spoken words. He paused a moment undecided whether to go on answering his cross-examiner or not. Then checking his anger, he continued quickly, to cover up his untimely break, “He appointed me the guardian of his dominion and his subjects, the warlord, defender and chief of the Tukholian region and granted to me and my heirs forever, the right to settle on Tukholian soil as a reward for my many years of unfailing service.”

“Here is the deed of his grant with his seal and his signature upon it!” With these words the boyar withdrew his hand from inside his wide leather belt and magnanimously brought forth from one of its pockets the king’s deed, raising it high into the air so the whole gathering might see it.

“Hide your grant, Boyarin,” said Zakhar quietly, “We wouldn’t know how to read it and the seal of your king does not mean anything to us. Rather tell us yourself, who is this king of yours?”

“What!” exclaimed the amazed boyar, “You don’t know king Danilo Romanowich?”

“No, we acknowledge no king.”

“Ruler of all the lands, towns and cities from the river Scian (pron. Shon) to the Dnieper, from the Carpathians to the mouth of the river Buh?”

“We have never seen him and to us he is not a ruler. For instance, when a shepherd is the ruler of a herd, he protects it and defends it against wolves and other wild beasts, driving it at mid-day heat to a cool stream and in the chill of evening to a warm, safe pen. Does your king do all this for his subjects?”

“The king does even more for them,” replied the boyar. “He gives them wise laws, sage governors and sends them his faithful servants to defend them against enemies.”

“That is not true, Boyarin,” interrupted Zakhar. “You see, even the sun in the sky has hidden its bright face so as not to hear your deceitful statements. Just laws were handed down to us not by your king but our ancestors and forefathers. The king’s wise governors we have never seen and have lived in concord and peace governing ourselves by our own principles of cooperative self-rule. Our forefathers taught us long ago that a man alone is not sufficient unto himself any more than a single individual is wise enough to equitably dispense just judgment to all, but that the people’s government administered for their collective good is the only just and honest government. Without the king’s warlords lived our forefathers and we have lived up until now and as you can see our homes have not been plundered and our children have not been taken away to enemy camps.”

“That might have been true until now, but it will no longer be so in the future.”

“What it is going to be like from now on we do not know, nor do you either, Boyarin. But tell us one more thing, is your king a just man?”

“The whole world knows and sees his justice.”

“Is that why he sent you here to instate his justice among the people in our Tukholian mountain region?”

The boyar was visibly confused by this direct question, but after only a moment’s hesitation, he answered, “Yes.”

“What do you think, Boyarin, can a just man wrong his subjects?”

The boyar remained silent.

“Can he with dishonest acts instill justice into their hearts and by wronging them win their respect and love for him?”

The boyar continued his silence, toying with the blade of his battle-axe.

“You see, Boyarin,” finished Zakhar, “your lips are silent, but your conscience tells you that this cannot be true. However, your just king has done that to us, whom he has never seen and does not know, about whose welfare and fortune he does not trouble himself and who have never done anything to harm him, but on the contrary, every year give him a bountiful gift in the form of taxes. How could he be so unjust towards us, Boyarin?”

Tuhar Wolf glared at Zakhar furiously and replied, “You’re talking nonsense old man! The king cannot be unjust to anyone!”

“Oh, but he has wronged us by that very grant of which you boast so much! Let me put it this way: Would I not be wronging you if, without asking your permission, I took that glistening steel armor away from you and gave it to my son? That is exactly the sort of thing your king has done with us. What your armor is to you, our lands and forests are to us. From time immemorial, we used them and guarded them as carefully as if they were the eyes in our heads and here you come along in the name of your king and say, ‘This is mine! My king gave me this as a reward for my valuable services!’ And you proceed to drive away our shepherds, kill our forester, right on our own lands! Tell me, how can we be expected after such exemplary justice to consider your king a worthy ruler?”

“You are wrong, old fellow!” replied Tuhar Wolf. “All of us, and everything we own including our cattle and our lands are the property of the king. The king alone is free and we are his vassals. His will is our law. He can do with us as he pleases.”

These words struck Zakhar Berkut like a deafening blow on the crown of the head. He bowed his gray old head and was silent for a long moment not knowing what to say. Also as if dealt a deadly blow, an onerous silence held the folk-mote.

At last Zakhar stood up. His face glowed with a peculiar light. He raised his hands in supplication to the sun: “Oh Brilliant Sun, Benevolent and Free Giver of Light, do not listen to the hateful words which this man has dared to speak before your very face! Do not heed them, I beg of you, forget that they were ever uttered on our realm, up to now not even by such thought defiled! Do not punish us for them! For I know you will not let it pass unpunished. And if there, in that king’s Halich many other such people have been pro-created, then wipe them off the face of the earth, but in your punishment of them for their evil ways, do not destroy also the rest of our race!”

These words apparently soothed Zakhar. He sat down again and turning to the boyar, said, “We have heard your convictions, Boyarin. Please do not repeat them here before us again, but keep them exclusively to yourself. Let us now tell you what we think of your king. Harken to our impression but do not be offended by it! You will understand yourself why we cannot consider him as a sovereign father and protector!”

“A father knows his own child, its needs and desires, but your king does not know us nor wants to know us. A chief or ruler guards his charges from enemies and from all harm. The king has never protected us from either rain, storm, sleet, or from the Bruin and these are our worst enemies. He, it is true, proclaims that he defends us from attacks by outlaw bands of Uhri (Hungarians). But how does he protect us? By sending us even worse enemies than these Uhri warriors, his insatiable boyars with their hireling soldiers. The bands of outlaws will attack, plunder what they can and go their way. The boyar, on the other hand, settles down as lord of the soil and is not satisfied with any kind of booty. His career of conquest is aimed at sheer dispossession and enslavement of all of us forever.”

“Not as a ruler and father of our country, do we consider your king, but as the curse of God, sent to us as a chastisement for our sins, from whom we must buy our way out through yearly sacrifices of goods as gifts. The less we know of him and he of us, the better we like it. If only all of our nation of Rus could be rid of him today with all of his gang it would certainly still be a great and prosperous country!”^[4]

Tuhar Wolf listened to the passionate dissertation of the old sage with a mingling of wonder and awe. Although raised in the shadow of the king’s court and spoiled by its rottenness and meanness, he was underneath it all a prince, a soldier and a man; he was moved to feel within his heart, if only a very tiny fraction, some of the strong emotion which emanated from the person of Zakhar Berkut. At the same time his conscience had been far from clear for expressing those insincere words giving recognition to the king’s unquestionable right to sovereignty. His own spirit had often rebelled against this right and here he had tried to cover up with the king’s claims to unbridled domination, his own craving for power. It was therefore not surprising that Zakhar Berkut’s words penetrated deeper into his heart than he cared to admit. For the first time he glanced at him sympathetically and all at once felt sorry for that mighty relic whose downfall, to his way of thinking, was so imminently inescapable.

“Poor old man, I pity your gray old head and your youthful spirit. You have lived a long time upon this earth, too long it seems to me! Living within your heart in antiquity, with the passionate thoughts of your youth, you have stopped understanding the new view-points and developments of modern times. That which was desirable long ago does not necessarily have to be now or forever. Everything that lives must be outlived. Outmoded and out-lived also are your youthful dreams of freedom and democracy. Afflictive times are now upon us, old man! They demand one mighty ruler over all our land who would knit the strength and power of the whole nation together into one central unit, enabling him to better defend the country against the enemy which advances from the East. You, old fellow, do not know all this and so you think that things are just the way they used to be a long time ago.”

“You are wrong again, Boyarin,” replied Zakhar Berkut. “I admit that it is not good for an old man to give himself up to golden dreaming while closing his eyes to modern needs and developments. Nor do I think it is right to despise the good because it is old or to think a thing is evil because it is new. This is the custom only among young men and at that among poorly trained youths. You are trying to tell me that I don’t know what is going on around us? At the same time I am wondering which of us knows more and in greater detail exactly what is transpiring?”

“You have reminded me of the deadly enemy which threatens us from the East, by expressing the idea that you plan to stem the advance of this enemy through the combined might of all the people held in one set of hands. Now I will tell you what I know of that enemy!”

“Isn’t it true, Boyarin, that yesterday the king’s messenger came to you to inform you of a renewed attack by the terrible Mongols on our Rus-Ukraine; that they, after a long siege took Kiev, ruined and plundered it and now like an enormous black storm cloud are moving towards our Red Rus? We, Boyarin, knew all this for a week already and knew that the king’s messenger had been dispatched to these parts, as well as what his message contained. The king’s messenger was delayed, ours traveled faster. The Mongols have long ago entered our Red Rus, plundered and devastated many cities and villages and separated themselves into two armies. One went west, perhaps to Seudomir in Poland and the other to the upper stretches of the Strey valley into our section. Isn’t it true, Boyarin, that you did not know this?”

Tuhar Wolf stared at old Zakhar in astonishment.

“I may as well inform you further, so you will know how close is our cooperative alliance with various neighboring communities, that we hold reciprocal agreements with all of them including the Sub-Carpathian municipalities to relay to each other as rapidly as possible all important news affecting the welfare of the entire Carpathian region. These Sub-Carpathian municipalities are likewise in concord with others, the Pokutian and Podilian regions so that everything of consequence to us, which happens in any part of Rus, is transmitted as speedily as lightning, travelling from community to community until it reaches us.”

“Of what good is such news to you, if you cannot aid yourselves!” the boyar retorted surlily.

“You are right, Boyarin,” replied Zakhar gravely. “The municipalities of Podilia and Pokutia cannot aid themselves for they have been stripped and reduced to serfdom by the king’s boyars who will not permit them to arm themselves or even to learn the proper art of self-defence.”

“Now you can see what putting supreme power into one man’s hands means! In order to gather together the power of the whole nation into one pair of hands, the entire nation of peoples must be weakened and subdued. To invest supreme power into one man over a nation of people, it is necessary to first take away the freedom of every township and region, to destroy their local self-government and to disarm the entire population, leaving the Mongols free access to our country.”

“Let’s take for example our Rus, at this crucial moment. Your ruler, your all powerful king Danilo, has disappeared, gone no one knows where. Instead of turning to his people, granting them their liberty and organizing them into a living and unconquerable garrison against the Mongol invaders he, while the Mongols are plundering his country, has run to the king of the Uhri, begging for his assistance! But the Magyars are not anxious to help us although they are also threatened by the onset of the same enemy.”

“Now that your king Danilo has vanished, who knows but you may soon see him in the camp of the Magyar Khan as his faithful servant so that with the price of his enslavement and humiliation he may purchase his own domination over the still weaker populace.”

The boyar, listening to this discourse, began to plan what to do, how to make the best of this situation.

“Did you say the Mongols are threatening even this realm with their attack?”

Zakhar smiled peculiarly at this question. “They are, Boyarin.”

“And what are you planning to do, surrender or defend yourselves?”

“It would do no good to surrender for those whom they capture they put to service in the forefront of their heaviest battles.”

“Then it means you intend to defend yourselves?”

“We shall try to do all in our power.”

“Well then, accept me as your commander. I will lead you to the battle against the Mongols.”

“Wait, Boyarin, we have not yet come to the choice of a commander. You have not yet explained the reasons for your past behavior towards our community. We will gladly accept your sincere wish to aid our community but our forefathers taught us that for a clean deed there is need for clean hands. But will your hands be clean enough for such an enterprise?”

This sudden change of subject a bit embarrassed Tuhar Wolf and he replied, “Elders, citizens! Let us bury past grievances and let bygones be bygones. The enemy is drawing nigh and I want to join forces with you against it. Further investigation to get to the bottom of your grievances will merely confuse the issue and you will profit nothing by it.”

“No, that is not so, Boyarin! It is not our grievances that we are trying to get to the bottom of, but to the truth. You came here under false pretenses and behaved fraudulently towards us, how then can we entrust you with command over us in a war with the Mongols?”

“See here, old man, are you purposely determined to irritate me?”

“I must remind you, Boyarin, that you are on trial by the people’s court and not parrying in debate,” Zakhar brought him up sharply.

“Tell me, if after settling on the Tukholian lands would you want to become a citizen of our community?”

“I was sent here by the king as a warlord.”

“We have told you that we do not accept you as our overlord and particularly as the overlord of our lands. Do not disparage our lands and our people, then perhaps we’ll accept you in our community as an equal among equals.”

“Oh, so that’s it!” exploded Tuhar Wolf angrily. “So this is your brand of justice! Do you mean to tell me that you expect me to give up the good will and kindness of my king to beg favors from peasant louts?”

“Of course, Boyarin, otherwise you cannot become one of us. The township will not tolerate a nonconforming alien among its citizens.”

“Will not tolerate?” laughed Tuhar sarcastically.

“Our predecessors told us that a harmful and useless member of a community such as a murderer, horse thief or an alien who wants to take possession of their lands, without the consent of the people, should be driven out together with his family beyond the confines of the municipality and his house torn down.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” the boyar laughed forcibly. “You dare to compare me, the king’s boyar, favored by the king’s graciousness for my services, to murderers and horse-thieves?”

“What else, Boyarin? Let your own conscience tell you whether you have acted any better towards us than a murderer. You take away our lands, our greatest and only wealth; you drive our people away from what is theirs, beat them to death when you catch them and you kill our herds! Is that how respectable citizens behave?”

“Be done with such talk old man, I can no longer bear to listen to it, it affronts my honor!”

“Wait, Boyarin, I have not yet finished,” replied Zakhar Berkut calmly. “I’m glad you brought up the subject of your honor and those services rendered your king which you have continued to vaunt before us at every opportunity. Would you be so good as to tell us exactly what they were so that we too might pay them homage?”

“I have spilled my blood in twenty battles!”

“To spill your blood, Boyarin, is not enough of a service. Even a murderer often spills his blood, but they hang him just the same. Tell us, against whom and for whom you have done battle?”

“Against the king of Kiev, against the Volynian, Polish and Mazovian kings. . . .”

“That is quite enough, Boyarin! Those wars are a disgrace not an honor for you or the kings. They were purely wars of extermination, massacres of innocent peoples.”

“I also fought against the Mongols at the battle on the river Kalka.”

“And how did you fight against them?”

“What do you mean, how? The way it was necessary to fight, holding my ground firmly until I was wounded and taken prisoner.”

“That was well said, except that we don’t know if it is actually true.”

“If you don’t know, then don’t attempt to talk about what you know nothing.”

“Hold on a moment, Boyarin, and don’t decry our ignorance. We will see to it that we find out what we don’t know!” With these words, Zakhar Berkut stood up and turning to the assemblage said, “Estimable gathering! You have heard the open attestation of Tuhar Wolf presented in his own behalf?”

“We have.”

“Is there anyone among you who can testify as to the truth of his testimony?”

“I can!” a voice answered from among the assembled.

The boyar started as if shot by an arrow at the sound of that voice and for the first time cast a sharp, fearful glance over the gathering.

“Whoever wishes to testify for or against this man, let him come up here in front of the gathering and present his evidence,” said Zakhar.

Before the town-mote came a man not yet old but crippled, with a leg missing from one side of his body and an arm from the other, his face furrowed by deep scars. It was Metko The Soldier, as he was called by the populace. A few years back, he had come to them limping on his wooden leg, recounting fearful tales of the Mongol invasion, the battle at the river Kalka and the concurrent defeat of the kings; how those taken prisoners were crushed to death beneath the boards which served the Mongolian commanders as seats at their repast. He, Metko, had also fought in the battle while in the service of a boyar with whom he was taken prisoner, and had somehow contrived to make good his escape from prison. For a long time he had wandered among the villages and cities of Rus, until at last he had chanced to come to the Tukholian valley retreat. He was so pleased with it that he wanted to settle down there for the rest of his life and because he could with his one hand weave pretty baskets and knew many songs and tales about far off lands, the community accepted him as a member, cooperatively feeding and clothing him. He was respected and honored by them for his wounds received in the defence of his country and loved by all for his honesty and cheerful disposition. This was the Metko who now came forth to testify against the boyar.

“Tell us, Soldier Metko,” Zakhar began his questioning. “Do you know this boyar against whom you wish to testify?”

“I certainly do,” replied Metko confidently. “It was while a mercenary in his service that I fought in the battle at the river Kalka.”

“Silence, stupid vassal!” shouted the paling boyar. “Forbear or else your miserable existence will end right where you stand!”

“Boyarin, I am no longer your slave, but a free citizen and only my fellow-citizens have the right to order me to be silent. I remained silent long enough but now they command me to speak.”

“Honorable citizens! My testimony against the boyar Tuhar Wolf is important and terrible. He was a trait . . .”

“If you were silent until now, then be silent forever!” yelled the boyar. The battle-axe glinted and Metko The Soldier, his skull cleaved in two, fell to the ground.

“Oh!” gasped the assemblage, jumping to its feet. Angry voices rose from the gathering. “Death to him! Death to him! He has desecrated our meeting place and killed a citizen of our town in the presence of our folk-court!”

“Dirty louts!” the boyar shouted back at them. “I am not afraid of you! A like fate awaits any one of you who dares to lay hands upon me or utters a word against me. Hey there, faithful guards, come here to me!”

The archers and battle-axe wielders themselves pale and tremulous surrounded the boyar. Menacingly, his face flushed with fury, he stood amidst them with the bloody battle-axe upraised in his hand. At Zakhar’s sign the crowd quieted down.

“Boyarin!” said Zakhar. “You have sinned irrevocably before God and our people. You have killed a witness at a session of our court and in the presence of the citizens of our municipality. What he wanted to testify against you, we have not found out and do not want to know, let your conscience be the judge. But with his murder you have acknowledged your guilt and added a new grievance. The community can no longer endure your presence on its lands. Move away from us. Leave at once! Three days from today, our people will come to raze your house and destroy all traces of your ever having been among us.”

“Let them come!” spluttered the boyar angrily. “We’ll see who will destroy whose traces. I spit upon your court! I’d like to see anyone come near my house! Come my guards, let’s leave this churlish gathering!”

The boyar marched away, surrounded by his mercenaries. For a long time an oppressive silence reigned over the town-mote. The youths removed the bloody body of Metko The Soldier.

“Estimable gathering,” said Zakhar at last, “is it your will to mete out the sort of punishment to the boyar Tuhar Wolf as our forefathers commanded us to give to such people?”

“Yes, yes!” shouted the populace.

“Whom do you nominate to carry out the orders of our court?”

Ten youths were selected among whom Maxim Berkut was included. It was hard for Maxim to accept this nomination. No matter how hateful he considered the boyar, still he was the father of the one who had bewitched his heart and come to occupy his every waking thought, of whom he dreamed constantly and for whom he would have given his very life. And now she too was doomed, innocently, through her father’s guilt! Despite this, Maxim did not refuse the nomination. Hard as it might be for him to carry out the order of the people’s court, deep within his heart he was overjoyed at the prospect the opportunity would give him of seeing her once more and to try at least to smooth over with his personal good will the harshness of the folk-court’s jurisdiction.

In the meantime the business of the session proceeded.

The envoys from surrounding townships were called upon to give their reports and to confer with them how they could best cooperate to defend themselves against the imminent onslaught of the Mongols.

“We are ruined,” reported the messengers from the Sub-Carpathian communities. “Our villages are burned to the ground, our cattle have been stolen, our youths are all killed. The Mongols have left behind them a wide-spreading river of conflagration and desolation in the entire Sub-Carpathian region. The king sent us no assistance for our defence and the boyars who had imposed themselves upon us in time of peace turned against us in our hour of need.”

The envoys from Korchena and Tustania, told their story: “We are threatened by inundation. On the wolds below the Senevid valley, gleam the white tents of the Mongols. There are countless numbers of them advancing which it would be useless for us to even think of resisting. We are taking everything we can carry and fleeing to the hills and forests. Our boyars had at first begun to erect barricades along the highway, but are now for some reason procrastinating. It is rumoured that they are planning to sell out to the Mongols the passage through our highway.”

The messengers of other mountain range districts said: “Our crops are bad and now many refugees have come to us from the valley below the ranges. The pre-harvest is very hard on us. Save us and our guests from starvation by helping us in our extremity!”

Envoys from the Hungarian side of the Carpathians told them: “We have learned that the Mongol horde is advancing into the Carpathian region. In the name of the Gods of Rus and all other Gods of our forefathers, we beg of you, neighbors and brothers, check that fearful mob. Do not allow them to penetrate into our country! Your villages are natural fortresses: every hill and mountain range, every ravine and gorge can take the place of a thousand soldiers. But as soon as they push themselves over the crest then we are lost for there is nothing to hold them back and all our efforts will avail us nothing. We are ready to aid you with all we have, with bread and men, only don’t give up, don’t lose courage but take your stand and fight the barbaric horde.”

Then Zakhar Berkut replied, “Honorable citizens and envoys of neighboring communities! We have all heard your reports of what a terrible storm has hit our land of Rus. Armies of trained soldiers have fought and fallen. The numbers of the enemy are vast and due to the unfortunate circumstances which prevail in our Sub-Carpathian regions, they have been allowed to penetrate into the very heart of our realm, right up to the doorstep of our house. The kings and boyars have been beheaded or have openly turned traitors to the country.”

“What shall we do? How can we defend ourselves? I do not think it advisable for us to go beyond the confines of our Tukholian valley. We certainly will do our best to defend the Tukholian trail, with your help, respected citizens of communities over the mountains, but we cannot promise to defend other highways. That will be your duty, honorable citizens of Tustan. But if we should be successful in repelling the enemy ourselves, then we will gladly lend you our assistance.”

To this the messengers from Tustan replied, “We realize father Zakhar, that it is not possible for you to defend us and that it is necessary in such a time as this for each to defend his own first. But at the same time we would like to ask your kind consideration of the fact that our communities are not as fortunate as yours, that the boyars have taken us in hand and that it is they who guard the forts, the trails and highways. If they should feel like turning them over to the Mongols, what then could we do? The only hope we have left and upon which we base our sole salvation, is that the Mongols will not use your trail, in which case you, having set guards to watch your trail, then will be able to come to our assistance.”

“Citizens, citizens!” Zakhar reproached them splenetically. “The power it seems is in our hands, we have the ability to think like men, but we talk like children! You put your faith in “if” and “maybe”. However, of this you can be sure, that when our community is no longer threatened by the danger of attack, we will come with our entire populace to aid you. But first of all, you must protect yourselves against your own enemies, the boyars. So long as the forts and trails remain in their hands, you cannot draw a single breath safely; you will never be secure against their treachery. Any time at all this cunning, parasitic race will betray you. It is high time to stop dreaming and to sound their death knoll by taking action. Each community, one by one, must shed the chains in which the insatiable boyars and their kings have bound you with their self-aggrandizement. Not until this is accomplished will we be able to aid you!”

The envoys from Tustan hung their heads sadly at Zakhar Berkut’s words.

“Father Zakhar,” said they, “knowing our people, you speak as if you did not know exactly what is the matter with them! The daring spirit of their race and their old courage have long been crushed and their will broken. We thank you for your advice and will repeat it to our citizens, but will they follow it? If only you were to come among them and tell them these things yourself!”

“My honorable neighbors! How can my words have any greater weight with them than their own needs, than the dictates of their own common sense? No! If matters have come to such a pass as you describe among them, then even my words can no longer help you, then our communities are indeed lost and our entire Rus is lost!”

The sun had rolled far down from its mid-day position when the people, at the close of the meeting, were returning to their homes in the village and hamlets. Without the usual accompaniment of joyous songs and shouts, but gravely and quietly, walked the young and old alike, their thoughts filled with foreboding. What would the following days bring them?

The envoys from environing communities, inspired and encouraged, went their ways also. Only the town banner, symbol of the solidarity and concord of the populace, waved high and joyously in the breeze, the clear, pale blue of the spring sky shining with glory above it, as if it did not see the fears and tribulations of those bound to the earth.

1. Folk-mote, town-mote, town meeting: assembly of the people for government and law. Town, village: a unit of rural administration more or less like the New England town.
2. Kobzar: ancient bard of Ukraine; also epic poem.
3. The king surrounded himself with a chosen warband of companions, servants or “thegns” (English) or boyars (Ukrainian) who were rewarded for their service by gifts from the public land. Their distinction rested not on hereditary rank, but on service done to the king. The fidelity of this warband was rewarded with grants from the royal domain, the king became their lord “the dispenser of gifts”. Personal service at his court was held not to degrade but to ennoble. The boyar absorbed every post of honor while his wealth increased as the common folk-land passed into the hands of the king and was carved out by him into estates for his dependents.
4. There’s a note by Ivan Franko which states that from Zakhar’s speech we must not get the erroneous impression that king Danilo was an evil man. History testifies that he was a sympathetic and for those times a democratic enough sort of individual endowed with unusual wisdom and diplomacy. However, Zakhar’s speech is also characteristic of the people’s attitude at that time towards all the internal wars of dissension carried on by the kings of the various provinces in their competitive effort to gain control of the vast, rich and prosperous Grand Duchy of Kiev.