Excerpted from the book "On the High Uplands: Sagas, Songs, Tales, and Legends of the Carpathians" by Stanisław Vincenz.
The Omens
When the horsemen came out above the steep, clayey, freshly green slope, above the stony track slippery with spring runlets, above the vegetation, before them opened a spacious terrace, a flat and gentle pasture free of enclosures. From it they had an extensive view downward and into the distance. In the valleys ran the two rivers, while beyond them rose the peaks, closer at hand the peaks of Ihrec and Cerkwy, and farther off the snow-covered Czornohora. They had hardly ridden out into the pasture when they were seen from an enclosure lying above. A fusilade of gunfire rang out. When the shots died away the trumpets sounded and resounded merrily.
In front of them, right across the middle of the pasture, at every few steps a fire of juniper and hawthorn blazed. Enormous piles of brushwood had been prepared and set beside the fires. Lads in white linen clothing were bustling about, making up the fires.
On the hill above the meadow large numbers of cattle and other domestic animals were waiting behind the first line of corral-fences. There were cows and heifers in garlands of white primulas and yellow primroses and buttercups, with crimson wool tied in bows to their tails. There were bulls and oxen decorated with fresh beech branches, goats with garlands of periwinkles, and flocks of sheep, so numerous that they were more thriftily adorned. Still higher, in a second corral close to ancient beeches seeming to support the walls of an old house, horses were wandering loose. They were winged with branches of dwarf pine, their manes were made into little plaits with crimson threads intertwined, their tails were tied up with ribbons.
The guests arriving for the christening drew up in a row along the lower edge of the meadow. They waited in silence.
Over the cottage, the clear drumming of a woodpecker sounded from the forest, and then again. Immediately afterwards came the flute-like call of the bird: "Wake up, forest! Wake up, forest!"
The awakener of the forest, a bird in red and green plumage, flew over the mounted procession in its search for a spot in which to build its nest, a spot from which it could see herbs of virile strength, the herbs of fertility.
It was a good omen. Beyond the fires, a barrier was taken down to open the corral, and the spring procession began. The horned cattle began to pour out of the pen towards the pasture, towards the fires. Their gentle footfalls were lost in the luxuriant green. The green blossomed into movement, into crimson, white, rosy, blue, and dark hues: the colours of the animals and their decorations. The animals plunged their quivering, rosy muzzles into the changing green. They snorted, they snuffled, they tasted the milkiness of the tender grasses. They breathed out warm breath, steam rose from their bodies. Driven up from the grass, swarms of white, blue, yellow, multi-coloured butterflies scattered in flight. They flew over the fires.
The colour, the noise and the whistling revealed the secret movements of St. George.1 The patron of animals, the sacred heavenly bull which he had sent out, moved gently and low in a green sound over the stream of cattle. No one saw it, but evidently it was keeping good order and tranquillity. It rustled its wings like canvas, it flashed its fiery eyes, it breathed a burning breath. Calmly the cows drew near to the fires. Their breath came in a gentle breeze, their steps rustled closer and closer. At their head, four mothers, matron cows, the pride of the farm, advanced at a dignified pace, led by drovers.
The christening guests waiting below watched closely, some of them appreciatively. Foka explained to them: "That silvery cow on the right, that's Zoryna; the one with the fair forehead and mild eyes. She's not one of the strongest, in fact perhaps she's rather too delicate. We have a record of her line for a hundred years back, and every one has been kept in the house, and nursed from the calf stage. She's the most reliable cow of all. Well trained and talkative, she calls and she answers. The one next to her is Krasula, the squire's cow… that big one; she's the strongest, and as red as fire. She has the highest milk yield. But she's unfriendly, capricious. You never know when she will baulk and break away. She'll leap over any fence like a cavalry horse. She's always in revolt, and she incites others to revolt. She's not a cow, she's a bull. That blackish little one in the centre, the one with lots of white patches, she's Bahrula, my wife Kalyna's cow; she's still thin though she's been well fed; she was saved from the lowlands during the famine year. She's the best for calving. On the left is Szestula, the grey-brown, with branded forehead and neck. She's the smallest; her horns are set wide apart. She's from a line on the other side of the mountains. She has steady eyes, yet she looks wild; she's calm but bold. She's not afraid of the forest animals, and she warns the others."
The solid mass of cows flowed on towards them, and grew even denser. From a distance it was still difficult to distinguish individual animals.
But suddenly these mild, nodding heads scowled and revolted. As Krasula was led towards the fire she passed into a cloud of smoke and took fright. Instead of jumping across the fire, as the drovers wished, she began to resist, to bellow, to draw back. Unexpectedly tearing herself out of the hands of her two guides and rearing on her hind legs, she galloped through the passage between two of the fires. The other cows began to follow her. The lads at the fires hurriedly drove them back with thorn switches. Krasula turned round, reared again, and galloped furiously straight into the herd of cattle. Thrown into a panic, the cows turned, bunched together, and charged with heads down at the ranks of animals behind them. Like puffs of winter wind their bellows, lowing, and squeals sounded, at times in gusts, at times in prolonged notes; notes of alarm, of terror, of anger. Here and there the horned cattle began to fight in earnest. As though emulating them, the impudent mountain goats ranged themselves militantly, ran about at full speed, and struggled one with another. The bulls threatened one another with deep-chested roars, clashing their horns together; one leaped on another with savage squeals. Higher up too, in the corral, the horses began to thud angrily, kicking and biting. At the bottom of the slope the saddled horses answered to the whinnyings from above like echoes to waterfalls. Only the white mare under the old godmother prudently browsed on the grass.
Anxiety nipped all the assembled people like a chilly wind. What sort of omen was this?
Then old Maksym Szumej rode his horse out from the group below. He gently trotted over the soft grass towards the fire. There he handed his horse to the lads, took off his cap, and slowly walked among the animals. Maksym was tall and thin, and carried his head slowly, cautiously, as though it were heavy. His long hair scattered in the breeze like thick layers of ashes. The long white streaks of his moustache stuck out straight on each side of his clean-shaven face, turning neither up nor down. Fixing his eyes on the ground, he closely examined the earth, the fires, and the cattle's legs. A bluish-grey juniper smoke billowed under his feet, his head was surrounded with steam from the animals' muzzles. He halted in the thick of them, and raised his grey, childlike eyes. Every movement he made was watched, from above and from below.
He did not touch any of the animals, he did not even stroke one. He moved forward very slowly, halted, and looked about him. Wherever he went the bellowing and lowing died away, the struggling cows turned their heads towards the fire, stretched out their muzzles to the farmer, dilated their nostrils, licked his brow. The quarrelling goats started away from one another like frightened pupils. They bent their heads and stared inquisitively. All the animals without exception turned their heads towards the farmer. Krasula choked with a bellow of gentle, almost mournful regret. Zoryna trustfully poked her muzzle under Maksym's arm. Apparently arriving from nowhere, the shaggy white Wallachian dog Bukolan pressed among the cattle and, rearing, set its forepaws on Maksym's chest. The old goat Czuprej, with silvery, curly hair, tufted and bearded, was jealous of this favour, and he, too, leaped up to the farmer.
But, above, the horses craning their necks across the corral barrier neighed in yearning for the farmer's eye. All the animals called with an equable, pleasant bellow; they all welcomed him trustfully, called to him yearningly.
The people watching above and below were silent, except that Tanasenko said aloud: "Now there's a man."
The task of the household servants and drovers was now made easy. Maksym stood before the fire, and the cows leaped across it calmly—almost, it seemed, readily. Krasula took a great bound. Whenever an animal jumped, Maksym raised his eyes, and said slowly, in a loud voice: "Dew of heaven, may you be healthy, fiery, and sharp, like this sacred thorn and juniper fire." In an undertone the servants repeated: "Dew of heaven, amen."
One after another the cows leaped across the fire, followed by the bulls, and finally by the horses. In due order the animals were led to a white mare on which the old woman Kataryna Belmezycha was seated, with Foka's infant child in front of her. To each side of the child on the saddle were two large maple troughs, one containing coarse flour, the other salt. The cows took a lick from one trough, walked round the horse and took a lick from the other. Zoryna licked the child's head. Some of the cows followed her example.
After the cleansing with fire the animals were let loose in the pasture. There was ample room for them, and abundant grass. They were not disturbed. The cows raised their heads, took deep breaths, then sampled the grass. The young ones wantoned and frolicked. The calves, in a separate corral, galloped about with tails raised, the kids somersaulted in the air. The fiery-eyed patron, the heavenly bull, was again invisibly present. It rustled its wings, shone benevolently, blew a soothing breath.
It took a long time for all the animals to be driven through the fire and round the woman. The fires blazed up in line, continually, uninterruptedly. The day was hot. The people threw off their sheepskins.
At the very last the entire procession of mounted people, the woman with the child, the farmers, and the guests, leaped across the fire. The priest from Uscieryki was rather too stout, and he decided to let his horse jump without its rider; but tough old Father Buraczynski from Kryworiwnia pricked up his horse briskly and leaped across in exemplary fashion. Maksym stood continually by the fire; everything passed off in good order; only Klin, Foka's strong, mouse-coloured stallion, took fright, snorted, threw up its muzzle, shook its aquiline head and finally turned in a sudden bound as though attempting to throw its rider. Maksym, standing by the fire, watched the horse closely, and whispered something to it. It pricked up its ears and trembled all over its body. It snorted and pawed the ground. It gazed fixedly at the farmer, then it yielded. With a great bound it leaped across the fire.
The omens were good.
St. George's feast day is April 23, it's likely that these events are set on that day.↩