Zakhar Berkut/Chapter IX
Chapter IX
“Boyarin, what do you think will happen to us?” Burunda suddenly asked.
“We’ll all be drowned,” replied Tuhar Wolf quietly.
“That’s what I thought,” affirmed Burunda. “But what infuriates me most of all is that we’ll all die without a struggle, without glory, like cats thrown into a pool.”
The boyar made no answer to this. New developments turned everyone’s attention upon himself. Evidently the Tukholians were not content to wait until the water had risen high enough to drown the rest of the miserable Mongols; they were in a hurry to finish off the enemy.
In the forest above the catapulting cataract their youths were chopping down thick fir trees, sharpening them at both ends like stakes and tying stone weights to them so they would float beneath the surface of the water without being detected. When swiftly flowing currents from the catapulting waterfall appeared in the center of the lake, they let the fir timbers float down stream straight towards the Mongolian posts. The very first of these dealt a forceful blow with its sharp point to one of the heaps of stones upon which the Mongols stood. The stones crashed beneath the water and, pressed down from above by Mongolian feet, the pile loosened and gave way. With loud oaths the Mongols fell into the water. Three of them landed on top of the fir timber and grasped hold of it. The current swung them with the fir log down stream into the depths until it chanced upon a whirlpool which twirled the fir around and stood it up on end. The Mongols slid into the water and were never seen again.
Other Mongols who were so violently dislodged from their places trampled each other down into the water or called for help while trying to right themselves. Two or three of them, evidently good swimmers, set out for the banks but even here death did not escape them. Only a few were allowed by their comrades to take places on neighboring piles. But they were not safe there for long. The Tukholians, noticing the success of their first effort, began to float log after log down into the valley. However, these rams failed to do much damage to the Mongols for the strong current carried them past most of the Mongolian posts.
Then Peace-Renown made a new suggestion, that they nail several pieces of timber together and lower these rafts with the aid of ropes down the waterfall into the valley, keeping them close to the banks. Ten vigorous fully armed youths were to stand upon each raft, two of whom would steer the rafts with long poles against the Mongolian stations. It didn’t take long before two such crafts were ready to be lowered down the waterfall, which had been reduced considerably by the swell of the flood. Twenty stout and dauntless youths stepped unto the log rafts and were carried down stream to battle with the Mongols.
It was an easy though resolute combat. The first group of Mongols whom they rammed were almost entirely unarmed, terrified and dismayed. They quickly pushed these unfortunates into the water with their poles. The Mongols on the other piles whimpered pitifully, seeing their approaching death. Burunda gnashed his teeth when he saw the enemy’s merciless manner of warfare and grasped hold of his weapons but his wrath was useless, the poisoned arrows of his Turkomen could not reach the bold Tukholians. The obdurate behadir was forced to stand up to his chest in water and helplessly watch the Tukholians annihilate post after post of the Mongolian army.
With clenched teeth, squatting on their rafts, the Tukholians rode the waves, steering towards the Mongols. At some of the posts they were met by an obstinate resistance. Blood flowed, groans and wails rose from both sides, corpses fell from the rafts and the stone heaps but the resistance of the Mongols was of short duration. Like a blazing fire that sweeps over a field of mowed hay and devours stack after stack of dried hay, the Tukholians swept the dwindling Mongols off their heaps, one after the other, into the water and into the chill embraces of death. Soon there was not a trace left of the little black islands in the center of the lake. Further away towards one side of the valley, not far from the banks, there stood the last remaining group, like the last black rock, lifting its peak above a flooded area. This was Burunda’s personal contingent, one hundred select Turkomen, Tuhar Wolf and Maxim, all that remained of the once prodigious Mongolian army, which was to have marched over the Tukholian trail to the kingdom of the Magyars and which had found here among the mountain ranges a chill grave in the icy mountain streams though it had successfully crossed the Ayka, Volga, Don and Dnieper rivers. This intrepid group of men who stood surrounded by water without hope of being saved, with but one desire, to sell their lives dearly in battle, was the last sacrifice to Mors.
The entire population of the Tukholian township had assembled before this last enemy stronghold. They lowered two additional rafts in order to encircle and harass the enemy from all sides. The foe was bombarded from the top of the bank by a barrage of heavy missiles and arrows. Most of these did not reach Burunda’s post, others even though they reached it, did not harm the Turkomen. However, the Tukholians were afraid to come too close because of the volleys of poisoned arrows aimed at them. Swiftly noting the futility of their shots, they ceased and stood quietly watching.
High up on the edge of the cliff, stood Zakhar Berkut, eyes fastened on his son who stood among the foes, agilely avoiding the bursts of flying arrows and stones. Further away among those who did the shooting, stood Peace-Renown and her glances flew faster than her shots into the group of enemies among whom stood all that was most precious in her life, her father and Maxim. With each arrow shot released by the bow of a Tukholian, her heart almost failed her.
The youths upon the rafts soon tired of aiming from a distance without hitting their marks. They took courage and drew nearer. The Turkomen greeted them with their poisoned arrows and wounded several. But they soon noticed that the foes were all out of that deadly ammunition and with savage yells they closed in upon them, steering their rafts directly towards them. Silently the Turkomen, held together by a discipline as unyielding as iron, awaited their attack, tightly grouped together to resist the Tukholians and the waves. But the Tukholians, having come to within two rods of them, hurled their javelins which hung suspended from their wrists by long spiral leather thongs. Ten foes howled at once and ten bodies toppled over into the water. Again the youths threw their javelins and again a few more of the enemy fell.
“Damnation upon you!” Burunda yelled at them in a wild frenzy of blasphemy. “They will pick off all of us that way, the dirty louts!”
But his wrath now had the same effect as the gentle evening breeze which sighs in the pines but harms no one. The Tukholian youths, screaming like vultures, circled around the enemy, attacking from all sides, killing one here, one there, with well-aimed javelin throws. Further self-defence was made impossible for the Mongols. They were forced to stand quietly as if bound, awaiting their death.
“Behadir,” said Tuhar Wolf to Burunda, “can’t we somehow manage to save at least our own lives?”
“What for?” Burunda questioned sullenly.
“Life is sweeter than death!”
“I suppose so,” replied Burunda, and his eyes glistened not with any real desire to live but to get his revenge. “What shall we do?”
“Perhaps they would be willing now to grant us our lives and freedom in exchange for the return of the prisoner.”
“Let’s try it!” approved Burunda and grabbing Maxim by the front of his shirt, he pulled him up before him. Beside him stood Tuhar Wolf who began to wave with a white kerchief.
“Tukholians!” he called, turning his face upwards toward the bank. Everything quieted down.
“Tell them that if they want this slave returned to them alive they must grant us our lives and set us at liberty. If they refuse, we will know how to die, but first he will die, right before their eyes.”
“Tukholians!” called Tuhar Wolf, “The Mongolian commander promises to return this prisoner to you sound and well and asks in return that you set those of us who are now left at liberty. If you do not consent, then inevitable death is awaiting him.”
As if desiring to convince them of the reality of his threat, Burunda raised his terrible battle-axe over the head of the unarmed Maxim.
The entire community stood petrified with horror. Old Zakhar shuddered and turned his eyes away from the sight which tore at his heart strings.
“Zakhar,” said the Tukholian elders gathering around him.
“We think it is all right to accept this proposition. The bulk of the Mongolian army is vanquished and those few remaining men should not frighten us.”
“My brothers, you do not know the Mongolians! Among that small group of people is their most formidable commander who will never forgive us for the destruction of his army. He will lead a new one into our mountains and who knows if we will be able to disband it so easily the next time!”
“But your son, Zakhar, your son! Take heed, death awaits him! Look, the axe is upraised over his head!”
“It is better that my son should die than for his sake a single enemy should escape from our country.”
Weeping, Peace-Renown approached old Zakhar.
“Father,” she wept, “what are you thinking of doing?” Why do you want to lose your son and . . . me, father? I love your son. I vowed to marry him and be his wife. The moment of his death will also be mine!”
“Poor girl,” replied Zakhar. “How can I comfort you? Your only concern is a pair of flashing dark eyes and a handsome build while I must consider the good of all. There is no choice here, my daughter.”
“Zakhar, Zakhar!” cried the townspeople. “We are all convinced there’s been enough slaughter and that the power of the Mongolian army has been fatefully broken. We do not desire the death of the rest therefore we put their destiny as well as that of your son into your hands. Take pity upon your own flesh and blood!”
“Take pity upon our youth, our love!” Peace-Renown implored, weeping.
“You can promise them anything and everything until they return your son,” said a youth from one of the communities beyond the crest of the mountain. “As soon as Maxim is free, you give us the sign and we will send all the rest of them to the bottom to feed the crabs.”
“No!” Zakhar expostulated angrily, “that would be dishonorable! The Berkuts keep their promises even to enemies and traitors. The Berkuts never soil their hands or their hearts with deceitful spilling of blood!”
“That’s enough of such talk my children! Wait and I will send them an answer myself, with my own hands.” And turning about he went to the engine upon whose laddle lay a huge slab of stone and with a strong, firm hand, took hold of the rope which held the ladle in its loading position.
“Father, father!” cried Peace-Renown, running after him, “what are you going to do?”
But Zakhar yielded no whit. As if he had not heard her cry, he quietly adjusted the ladle and aimed it at the enemies.
In the meantime Burunda and Tuhar Wolf vainly awaited an answer from the Tukholians. Maxim hung his head silently resigned to accept his fate, as he stood beneath Burunda’s upraised battle-axe. Only Tuhar Wolf for some reason trembled.
“Oh, why should we have to wait so long!” cried Burunda finally. “Once we were born and once we must die. But before I die, you vile vassal, must die first!” And he swung a powerful arm backward the better to cleave open Maxim’s head. In a flash Tuhar Wolf’s sword gleamed above Maxim’s head and the threatening, murderous arm of Burunda, together with its upraised battle-axe, was slashed off from the shoulder in one movement, falling spattered with blood like a piece of cord-wood into the water.
Burunda howled with fury and pain and with his left hand seized Maxim by the chest. His eyes filled with loathing, he turned towards the treacherous boyar. Maxim ducked and with all the strength at his command butted the ferocious Turkoman with his head and shoulders on the left side of his body so that Burunda lost his balance and toppled over into the water, pulling Maxim after him.
In the ensuing second the huge stone cast by the Tukholian trebuchet under Zakhar Berkut’s guidance hummed through the air and struck the group of foes. The water splashed up to the clouds, the pile of rocks crashed and heart-rending screams echoed to the top of the bank. In a few moments the surface of the lake was smooth and calm again and there was not a vestige left of Burunda’s company.
The Tukholian townspeople stood upon the bank watching breathlessly. Old Zakhar, up till then so hale and strong, now trembled like a little child, drained by the tax of energy, and covering his face with his hands, wept bitterly. At his feet lay the unconscious form of Peace-Renown.
Suddenly joyous shouts echoed from below. The youths who rode the waves on their rafts near the place where Maxim had disappeared with Burunda, suddenly caught sight of him as he floated up from beneath the waters, sound and whole, and greeted him. Their elation rapidly spread itself to the entire community. Even those who had lost their own sons, brothers and husbands, rejoiced in Maxim’s safety, as if with his return all their dear ones lost in battle also had returned.
“Maxim is alive! Maxim is alive! Hurray for Maxim!” The echoes thundered and reverberated far into the forests and along the peaks of the mountain masses. “Father Zakhar! Your son is alive! Your son is returning to you!”
Quivering with suppressed emotion, eyes filmed with tears, Zakhar raised himself.
“Where is he? Where is my son?” his voice quavered.
Soaking wet, his face shining with happiness, Maxim jumped off the raft unto the bank and clambered up to his father’s feet.
“Father!”
“My boy! Maxim!”
Neither could say more. Zakhar swayed a moment and fell into his son’s strong young embrace.
“Father, what ails you?” cried Maxim, noting the deathly palor steal over his father’s face and feeling the chill tremor which shook his body.
“Nothing, my son, nothing!” replied Zakhar quietly smiling. “The Sentinel is calling me to him. I hear his voice, my son. He is beckoning to me, saying, ‘Zakhar, you have done your work, now it is time to rest!’ ”
“Father, father, don’t say such things!” Maxim wept, kneeling beside him.
Old Zakhar, at peace and softly smiling, lay upon the moss, his face alight, turned to the mid-day sun. He removed his son’s hand from his breast gently and said, “No son, don’t weep for me, I am very fortunate! But look around you, a little further away, there is someone who needs your attention very badly.”
Maxim turned and his heart stopped still. There on the ground lay Peace-Renown, deathly pale, intense suffering and despair manifest upon her beautiful face. The youths had already brought some water and Maxim set to work reviving his beloved, rubbing her temples, hands and feet. Finally she sighed, opened her eyes and then closed them again.
“Peace-Renown! Peace-Renown! My sweetheart!” cried Maxim kissing her hands, “Come back to me!”
Peace-Renown, as if awakening from deep slumber, gazed up in wonderment at Maxim’s face.”
“Where am I? What has happened to me?” she questioned weakly.
“You’re right here among us, beside your Maxim!”
“Maxim?” she questioned sitting bolt upright.
“Yes, yes! See I am alive! I am free!”
Peace-Renown was silent for a long moment unable to overcome her surprise. Then she flung her arms about Maxim’s neck and wept with joy, “Maxim, my beloved!” was all she could say.
“But where is my father?” she asked a little later.
Maxim turned his face away. “Try not to remind yourself of him, dearest! He who weighs Truth and Falsehood, is now weighing his evil and his good deeds. Let us pray that the good will overbalance the bad.”
Peace-Renown wiped away the tears and glanced up lovingly at Maxim.
“But come, Peace-Renown,” said Maxim. “There’s our father and he is leaving us.”
Zakhar looked at the young pair, joy filling his eyes.
“Kneel down here beside me, children!” he said softly. “Daughter, Peace-Renown, your father died. Let us not judge whether he was guilty or innocent, for he died like thousands of others, but do not grieve, daughter! In place of a father, fate is giving you a brother. . . .”
“And a husband!” added Maxim, pressing her hand in his.
“Let the Gods of our forefathers bestow their blessings upon you, children!” said Zakhar. “In crucial times fate has brought you together and united your hearts. You have shown yourselves capable of withstanding the worst storms. May your union on this day of victory portend that our nation will also withstand corrupt and pernicious influences without the disruption of its fundamental unity and the loss of its integrity and humanitarianism.”
And with already cool lips he kissed Peace-Renown and Maxim on their foreheads.
“Now children, get up and lead me just a little ways! Before I go I would like to say a few words to the townspeople whom I have tried so earnestly to serve all my life.”
“Fathers and brothers! Today’s victory is a great accomplishment for us. How did we win? Was it by our weapons alone? No. Was it by our adroitness and strategy? No. We are victorious because of our sincere cooperation with each other and the efficiency of our united effort. Remember this well! As long as you continue to live in harmony and work and hold together, each for the other and all for one, so long no enemy will be able to conquer you. But I am certain my brothers, and my soul intuitively senses this, that this is not the last attack upon the solidarity of our community, that there will follow others which in the end will crush our independence, our vigor, and destroy our community. Evil times will come to pass for our nation.”
“Brothers will become strangers to each other, sons will not recognize their fathers and there will begin great quarrels and dissensions throughout our land of Rus which will devour the strength of our people, cause the decay of the whole nation and sell it into bondage. People will be dispossessed, enslaved by their own and foreign oppressors, who will make of them, under a purely despotic system, their obedient and hard-working slaves to do the bidding of their slightest wishes.”
“But sometime during that corrupt period, the people will again recall their ancient system of self-rule, and they will be blessed if they will recall the times and ways of their forefathers quickly and desire once more to make the transition from serfdom to freedom. Fortunate will be they indeed, who will live in those times! They will be great and glorious days, the springtime of the rebirth of the nation.”
“Hand down to your children and grand-children therefore, the stories of the old days and old ways. Let that memory continue to live among them during troublous times, as a glowing ember which does not die in a heap of ashes. The time will come when the spark will ignite and start a new fire! Farewell!”
Old Zakhar sighed heavily, glanced up at the sun, smiled and in a moment was gone.
No one wept after him, neither his sons, his neighbors nor the townspeople, for they realized that it’s a sin to weep for the fortunate. Rather, with felicitous songs they bathed his body and carried him to the Glade of Light, to the ancient home of the Gods of his predecessors and having placed his body within the sanctuary, with his face turned to the golden image of the sun on its ceiling, they fitted an enormous flag-stone into the entrance and cemented it up. Thus rested old Zakhar Berkut in the laps of the Gods who had lived in his heart and whispered the brilliant thoughts which inspired him all his life with the ingenious probity to do so much good for his community. So dear became his memory that liberty and independence itself seemed incarnate in his name.
Many changes have taken place since that time. Only too literally has the old townsman’s prophesy been fulfilled. Great hailstorms and clouds of evil have passed over our land of Rus. The old democratic system of rule is long forgotten, it seems dead and buried. But no! Isn’t it time right now, in our day, that it should be renewed again? Aren’t we the ones living in that fortunate period of the re-birth of our nation, which dying old Zakhar Berkut predicted would come someday? And aren’t we today, at least living in the dawn of its re-awakening?