Cortrinkau's Blog

Excerpted from the book "On the High Uplands: Sagas, Songs, Tales, and Legends of the Carpathians" by Stanisław Vincenz.

The Raid on Zlota Bania

It is not the clear water, whispering quietly, that scatters into little drops of white dust; it is not swarms of white butterflies carried by the wind that fly above the precipice. It is Dobosz's song, flowing from a chestnut-coloured pipe, disseminated in drops of music.

From the cliffs it flies into the forested abyss. From Dobosz's [pipe] it flutters and flickers downward.

And it chills you, brothers, like a rain-swarm of tiny drops. It brushes you, it kisses, like the flutter of butterfly wings.

And with the thunder of the waterfall it gives you heart.

In the cliff called Kiedrowaty, high above the right bank of the river Kizia, above the precipice, in the seat he had carved for himself out of the rock, Dobosz was sitting, playing his pipe; he was playing his own Dobosz music, which even today the older people still play. From the very song one could tell that he was playing as he listened to the thunder of the Kizia waterfalls and the song of its foaming waves, one could tell that it was floating from his pipe, as he sat high up, gazing towards distant Synycia, towards the shrines carved in the cliff.

But below, on the opposite bank of the Kizia, Iwanczuk Rachowski was enrolling young volunteers who were anxious to join Dobosz's band.

The right bank of the Kizia, which is known as Kiedrowaty, is much higher than the left. A very steep slope, the continuation of the Munczel peak, rises high above the torrent and dominates the forests. Even today that slope is overgrown with an almost impenetrable cembra-pine forest, and littered with innumerable fallen trees, holes, and mossy stones. But in the days of Dobosz it was accessible only from the Munczel peak, while from below it was barricaded everywhere with an impenetrable barrier of cembra-pines. In just one place a secret track, like a dark mole's gallery, ran up from the Kizia, making its way across mosses, rocks, fallen trees, and under pine boughs, up the middle of a tiny stream. A man could follow this path only on all fours. And this was the way by which Rachowski led the daring youngsters up to the cliff seat, into the presence of Dobosz.

Above the forest stretches a small upland clearing bounded by walls of cliff. This was Dobosz's headquarters. When Rachowski and the young volunteers came out on to the upland Dobosz looked down on them from above, with a smile of kindness and friendship.

But now they had to pass various tests. High up on the mountain was a slippery plank bridge leading across a precipice, from one cliff to another. Anyone who passed across that plank easily and without fear Dobosz accepted in his band. But then, as a further test, the newcomer had to place his hand on a stone, while Rachowski swung a great pick, as though intending to strike the hand with it. Many a brave young fellow set his hand on the stone and cried with a laugh: "Let the devil take my hand, so long as I am with our old man Dobosz." And they did not even blink when Rachowski swung the pick. Then Dobosz was satisfied and, looking the volunteer straight in the eyes, said kindly: "You're fine, you're the sort for us." Some were also set the test of firing from a flintlock at eagles or kites flying high above.

After the tests were completed, standing beside Dobosz's seat the youngster took a solemn oath on Dobosz's enormous axe, over which guns were crossed. The oath was: "I swear by the thunder-axe to you, father; and to you, glorious company of youngsters. I shall obey you, father and leader, and be a faithful comrade to you, my brothers. I shall never betray anything, even though I be tortured by the gentry in their torture-chamber, quartered, and burned alive. If I fail to keep my oath, let this thunder-axe and these my comrades' weapons not fail to find me either on the earth or under the the earth. So be it. Amen!"

Then, flintlocks, pistolets, long-barrelled pistols, sabres and axes were brought out from cells in the rock; the weapons were all oiled, and frequently were stored in chests. The youngsters brought some weapons with them, and often many of them carried two guns and several pistols in their belts. All the weapons were decorated with encrustation of fine workmanship, the work of the long winter months. Each man had a javelin, a brass axe, a very sharp steel axe, and two or three decorated powder-horns.

Next they chose themselves horses from the droves grazing in the uplands. Sometimes they obtained horses from Turkish droves, from the steppes of the Bukovina, and sometimes they rode them away from the gentry's stables. When the mounted troops of robbers set off they wore high-standing, tricorne hats, crimson trousers, and crimson jerkins, while the skins of bears, lynxes and bisons were flung over their horses. On their chests and their hats they had copper plates, which could be seen glittering a long way off. They shone from head to foot with copper, and were plastered with weapons. One had a Turkish sickle-shaped yatagan engraved with Arabic lettering, another a Caucasian dagger in a sheath set with precious stones, yet another an oxidized silver, knightly sabre with a Latin inscription and a representation of the Madonna of Czestochowa. Often the wooden saddles of their horses were encrusted with mother-of-pearl and gold, the bridles were gilded. Across its neck every horse carried a flintlock ready cocked.

As they went they sang songs in honour of their leader, "Our lord Dobosz", to the destruction of the gentry, and a bright future for the people.

Dobosz rode on a gentleman's raven horse with a snow-white mane, a white blaze on the forehead, and a white curling tail. Above its hoofs it had white stockings. And when it neighed it sounded so loud that from Czarnohora it could be heard along the Black and the White Rivers. The horse was called Cloud, or, sometimes, Little Thunder Cloud.

Despite his youth, Dobosz was affectionately and trustfully called "little father". He was the ideal of his youngsters and of all the people, though yesterday he had been only a stripling, a poor goat-herd. Now he was a mountain hetman, a leader, continually forming new detachments and sending them out in all directions, to bring back treasures, caravans loaded with gold, stolen from treasuries, from the gold-mines, from the gentry's castles and houses. The sleeping highlands came to life. The ancient forest paths, the prehistoric high roads, the forests that even today are mute and unvisited, swarmed with armed men, as in the times of the wanderings of the Dacians or the Goths. Everywhere about the mountains the camp-fires burned incessantly, sending out signals. Their meat was cooked in enormous cauldrons hung in the upland manner over the fire.¹ Wine flowed in streams from barrels brought by packhorse from Hungary. Agile and active hunters provided the band with the meat of wild animals, with venison, bison fat, and bears' paws. When called upon, the upland farmers supplied sheep and cheese.

But the Armenian caravans, which consisted often of a hundred horses, ceased to travel along the heights to Hungary. From Kuty they had carried morocco leather to Debrecen, bringing back ducats. Young Dobosz laughed when he was told that the merchants were frightened and had given up journeying over the mountains.

"Now that's a real gain, we shan't have to hunt through the forests after them. We'll just go straight to their chambers, to their treasuries, without further worry."

The old stories provide extraordinary descriptions of the Dobosz men's daring attacks and successful raids in their hunt after treasure. Their expeditions grew more and more audacious, the scale ever greater, the scope ever wider. Dobosz's invincible might, daring and imagination left their mark everywhere. And no one could get at him, to overcome or even wound him.

Perhaps of all his exploits none can compare with his raid on Zlota Bania.² It was a real gold-mine, a fortified castle, and also a mint for gold coin and a state treasury filled with jewels.

The castle was situated on the farther, Hungarian side of the peaks, in the foothills of the Hungarian Carpathians, and stood on a cliff. It was protected by a stout wall ten yards thick and about ten yards high, and surrounded by deep moats. The iron drawbridges were always raised. The gates were shut day and night, and always well guarded. The gates in the heart of the castle also were guarded, and even the door of each building had its guard. According to tradition this castellum belonged to the princely family of Batory or their lessees. As is well known, this family produced the famous Polish king Stefan Batory, the conqueror of Muscovy, and the ruler who tamed the self-willed Polish gentry.

It was this very castle that Dobosz set his heart upon capturing, though experienced veterans, robbers of the older generation, warned him that not even the largest of forces, not even hunger, could conquer it. For it had regular, every-day communication with other castles and with the imperial capital. Many a brave young breast had bled itself against it, and many youthful bones had been scattered around it.

But Dobosz laughed, and said: "No one else has ever been there, but I shall go."

None the less, he thought it over for a long time, and sent men out on reconnaissance. When they brought back their news he strode about Kiedrowaty, sweeping back his black hair and thinking; he was lost in thought, considering various plans. Finally, with a hundred and forty of his band he went off to the upland called Stoh. On this upland lived an old farmer who at one time had been a member of a robber band. He was a man of great strength. He farmed extensive areas, but had no need of any assistance; he managed everything him-self. Some say his name was Bojczuk, but there were several well-known robbers of that name. Others say his name was Zmyjenski, suggesting that he came from the Zmyjenska upland, or else because he looked as mighty as a dragon; for "zmyj" (serpent) can mean "dragon". It was rumoured that he had once been inside the castle at Zlota Bania, that he was well acquainted with the fortress's situation and layout. Dobosz thought the old man might be able to advise him, or at least might say something propitious to such an unusual expedition.

The Stoh upland is the lowest stretch of the extension of the Czornohora ridge. It lies to the south-east of the height called Pop Iwan (priest Iwan). Stoh itself is a very gentle and sunny upland. Below, to the north, among forests lies the largest lake in the Czornohora district, Szybene, known in olden times as Czuriek.

As they rode along the ridge from Czornohora, in the distance the robbers saw a powerful old white-haired man; on his back he was carrying a very large and heavy bundle of pointed stakes for making an enclosure. At every few paces, with one blow he drove a stake deep into the ground, as easily as if it were a beanstick. Then on to his back he swung as much hay as a good-sized cart would hold and carried it down to the enclosure he had made. The robbers were astonished. But Dobosz laughed and said: "It's a good job this old dragon-farmer is our friend. It wouldn't be very safe to quarrel with him."

When they came up to the old man he was as delighted to see Dobosz as if he were an old friend. He had heard much about this robber leader, and was amazed to see how young he was. Going up to them, in his delight he welcomed them in such a loud voice that the forest answered with echoes.

"Peace be with you! Do you want anything, my dear friends? Money, perhaps? Or weapons? Or perhaps you'd like something to eat? I'll feast you here to the best of my ability. But tell me, say what you require."

But, gazing with admiration at the old robber's powerful shoulders, Dobosz answered: "Just to see you, father. That's our first need. You've been as good to us as this Czornohora itself, and just as much have you recommended yourself to our hearts. May you live to see and survive your second century. And we ask you for a good word, old man, for a dangerous expedition."

They welcomed and embraced each other warmly. After a moment Dobosz said quietly:

"I ask you also for a wise word, for counsel. Give us this word of counsel. How can we get at that Bania, that Zlota Bania? How can I get it into my Dobosz hands?"

The old man listened, smiling and gazing boldly straight into Dobosz's eyes, brushing back his white hair. But he pulled a face when he heard of the plans for an expedition to Zlota Bania, seeing how young and like a child this famous Dobosz still was. To think he wanted to try his hand at something impossible!

"I have been there—wretched that I am—in the very heart of that Bania, not golden, but accursed. May it be gilded with devilish fire. And that before many years have passed. I hardly escaped with my life. My son, I tell you the sincere truth: many of ours have perished on those walls, caught by a hook beneath the ribs, and maybe many a man still groans there, rending his breast in those dens. Don't thrust your young head in there! They'll slaughter you like an Easter pig. Are there so few castles, palaces and treasuries in the world? Hah!"

Dobosz was prepared for such an answer. The old man evidently did not know who Dobosz was and why he was lured by Zlota Bania. So he answered the powerful old man calmly:

"Father, I tell you this. There is no hook anywhere in the world waiting for me, for Dobosz. But I would die tomorrow, and be made a hash of, not living another day, rather than not get into Zlota Bania. So if we have your favour, advise us, father. Tell us what you remember, what it all looks like, so that we may know."

The old man was lost in thought. He looked at Dobosz, then at the young robbers' bold and smiling faces. He had not seen many such in all his lifetime.

"Well, what can I advise and tell such as you, brother? Hah! Talk! It's an empty thing. I shall go with you. I shall either live and achieve great glory, or I shall taste of cruel death there, on those hellish walls."

He sighed deeply:

"Maybe our Stasko, my most faithful comrade, a man as sincere and bold as you, is still living in torment somewhere in those dungeons, crying out for death. I'll go.

"But horses! We need good horses!" he cried out suddenly, until there was a roaring in the forest.

Hardly had he spoken when he began to call his droves from the uplands. He walked along the enclosure, shaking a trough filled with grain; he struck the trough against the fencing and shouted in a powerful and far-carrying voice: "Sciou! Sciou!" until all the forests and the uplands were filled with shouting and roaring. In answer to that call, high up beyond the crest sounded first a distant neighing, then the drumming of horse-hoofs, like muffled thunder. The robbers' horses answered with a loud neighing from below. Then little groups of horses appeared like little clouds above the crest. Coming together in one great drove, they flew down the mountain, with tails waving and manes tossing, perhaps a hundred of them galloping downward. They halted right in front of the palisade, rearing, biting one another and squealing, or quietly thundering in a joyous whinny. They all crowded round the old farmer. It was a sight for the robbers' eyes! Among them not one horse looked exhausted or had drooping ears or sad, troubled eyes. They stood gazing angrily, threatening one another, fretfully shaking their heads, or neighing joyously, or impatiently pawing with one hoof, pricking up their ears, snorting briskly. The yearling foals also, as light as butterflies, had come flying down with their mothers. They gazed inquisitively and innocently, mildly and wisely. Each horse was as full as a well-fed child. Grazing on grass never mown, rolling in high grass, bathing in the rain, their fine, vari-coloured coats shone with health. As always, the piebalds and ravens were especially handsome. But they were all beautiful—the duns and the steel-greys, and the dapple roans. The robbers' horses were handsome enough, but it was obvious that these from the Stoh upland were the solitary old man's family. They had the same strength, vigour, and potentialities as the farmer. But even among all these there was not a horse to surpass Thunder Cloud-just as there was no leader to surpass Dobosz. "Well, brothers, gentleman-robbers!" the old man cried. "Come on, exchange, choose your old nags! And if God pleases, you shall take back your own again later."

So, after a little more inviting and pleading on the old man's part, the robbers tried and selected their horses. But it must not be thought that they chose homely horses, not standing out from their background, indistinguishable from their comrades' mounts. On the contrary, they all desired to shine, to be splendid with reflected glory. They ignored the more homely bays, even though they were well broken in, and chose piebalds, chose the most striking, the most intractable, half-wild horses—so that the people should know who was riding past, so that the people should remember!

Then, before they set out, the old farmer prepared them a banquet: eighteen tubs of sheep's cheese—so the story goes—he mixed in with the maize polenta. And then he asked their pardon if they were still hungry! Such was his poverty-stricken existence! Just before they started off Iwanczuk Rachowski came galloping up with important news, news for which Dobosz had been long waiting. During the very next week a wedding was to be celebrated in the Batorys' castle. There was to be a grand parade and a great assemblage of knighthood. Dobosz was only waiting for this news, for he wanted to take advantage of the crowd and the confusion.

So while Zlota Bania was preparing great and riotous princely celebrations, while knights and gentlemen were gathering from all Hungary and Poland, here beyond the peaks, beyond the forests, on a lofty upland, a flight of… hunting hawks had dismounted from the saddle and were waiting ready to strike. But no one knew anything of them, except the forests and the uplands.

They set out at dawn. They trumpeted with the trumpets and sounded the bison horns. Dobosz and Bojczuk-Zmyjenski rode at the head—the old leader and the young leader, white, and black; the white-haired Bojczuk on a white stallion, and the raven-curled Dobosz on Thunder Cloud. Behind them on a horse of steely grey rode the merry and inventive youngster, Dobosz's favourite, Iwanczuk Rachowski, once a ragged beggar. He came from the Hungarian side, and he knew every track, every ravine, almost every tree in the vicinity of the castle.

When they rode out on to the nearest upland they heard a deep thunder in the mountains, coming from the Wallachian side. As the old rhyme says of the thunder:

The white horse waded in the deep Danube, When he neighed all the world re-echoed.

It was the horse of St. Elias neighing beyond the hills, neighing from its thunder-breast. And then a terrible avalanche overtook them. Black, crimson, and grey clouds streaked with brilliant bands floated over from Palenyca towards Hungary. Twilight descended upon the earth. Lightning flashed, lighting up the robbers' road, and the unfettered thunders played mightily, more proud and more magnificent than any music of this world. The bearded saint and prophet Elias urged on his horses, carving the road with lightning, driving away the evil spirits and preparing to shatter the noblemen's abode. The robbers crossed themselves devoutly. But Dobosz, gazing joyfully at the hordes of clouds preceding the robber band, exclaimed:

"Look, brothers! See how the fighting, white-bearded saint is leading us! To the perdition of the gentry! To the victory of our faith! To good fortune for the poor! He is our patron, the true father of daring youth! There is no greater saint than he. And none finer!"

The bearded prophet Elias, the thunder-emperor's victor, finely attired in cloudy cloak and head-dress, driving along on the resounding masses of clouds, confirmed Dobosz's words with a fiery sign and a word of thunder. The robbers cast grateful looks at the flying clouds.

So they rode across the Polanski mountains, and among beech forests in the Hungarian foothills not far from Bania they waited in ravines for the day of the celebrations to arrive. Dobosz fastened a beard to his chin, attired himself as a beggar, and went with the old man to the castle; they wandered round it like two old beggars waiting for alms. Old Zmyjenski gave Dobosz an exact description of the entire plan of the castle and the town.

But that was a castle! Rock, stone, iron and precipices all around. Dobosz's eyes smiled. Oh, to build one like it somewhere on Czornohora! Then no gentry power would ever get at him! But he would get at this one, though it would not be possible to remain in it for long! They drew up detailed plans for the attack.

When the day of the celebrations arrived, when the little town was swarming with people, when the drawbridges were let down and the gates opened, when the trumpets began to play, when the sumptuous wedding procession rode out, then Dobosz, Zmyjenski, Rachowski and Dzemyga, all four of them together, tore on horseback on to the bridge, firing furiously from their pistolets. They halted the coach with its six horses, and each of the four carried off one of the more important personages: Dobosz took the princess, Zmyjenski the young lord, and each of the others seized his prey. They flung them across their saddles and swiftly bound them, hurling back members of the processional guard and the defence force.

Zmyjenski shouted until the air thundered, threatening that if anyone made the least resistance those captured would perish at once. Dobosz displayed all his terrible strength, the strength of a bear and the agility of a lynx. Sending two men at a time flying from their horses, throwing the foremost knights to the ground, he passed them on to be bound by Dzemyga. When they fired at him from pistolets he laughed, and only waved his hand, as though driving off flies. But when someone took longer aim at him he gave him a quick glance, shouted curtly, "Here, you! Drop it!" and the pistolet fell from the man's hand. It was obvious that no bullet was destined for him and that he could cast a spell on their fire. And he fought his way forward, protecting his comrades with his own body. That was Dobosz! But Dzemyga, a man of statuesque figure and cold, unmoved, cruel face, bound the prisoners. He froze with his very glance: to kill and to break bones was a pastime for him. But because of the wedding Dobosz had issued the word that today not one was to be slain.

Thus, at lightning speed, more swiftly than one can tell, they cleared the main drawbridge and galloped furiously up to the gate. And simultaneously, at the sound of shots, brilliantly dressed robbers on frenzied and raging horses flew on to the bridge from all sides, firing incessantly from their guns and pistols. A terrible confusion and terror seized the gentry. Owing to the speed of the robbers' movements and the efficiency of the assault they could not realize, nor did they even try to realize, how great was the strength of the attack. Part of the procession assembled in the town scattered in all directions. Riderless horses were flying everywhere.

Entering the castle, Dobosz commanded the bridges to be lowered. He left part of his force outside the fortress, to pillage and terrify the little town. Old Bojczuk-Zmyjenski personally closed the gate, put the keys in his wallet, and posted guards. But Dobosz, flying about the castle on his Thunder Cloud, ordered everybody he met to fall flat on his face and, tying them up as quickly as light, handed them over to Dzemyga's force to be guarded. He spoke courteously and gently to the sobbing and swooning princess: "Now, quiet! Quiet, my child, my little daughter, my little dove! I am Dobosz, we shall not do you any harm. Not a hair will fall from your head!"

When they had mastered the castle and felt secure, Dobosz gave orders for the gold to be packed into leather sacks and loaded on to the horses. Old Zmyjenski knew everything and directed everything. Dobosz also gave orders for the locks and grilles to be broken and shattered, and for the heavy lids of the underground dungeons to be opened. In those dungeons half-blind peasants had lain in torments for many years, fettered to the ground, brutalized with the misery of their cellar prison. Among them was Zmyjenski's old comrade, Stasko Maksymiw Urszega. He was still alive; but he did not recognize any-body, he was half crazed with sitting motionless in irons. He did not understand what was happening even when he was released from his fetters and led out to freedom; he did not understand even when the gentlemen were pointed out to him, lying trussed like sheep. A stifled, weeping, human roar came rending from the breast that had been so long in a cellar:

"I don't want even freedom from the gentry. May you be accursed for ever you and all your line, all your seed!"

"Look, brother, dear old Stasko, most faithful of friends, look! This is young Dobosz, our born highland hetman. All this is his work. He is freeing all the groaning people. Hah!" Zmyjenski cried; he wept for joy as he tried to embrace Stasko.

Stasko's face was veiled behind filthy, matted, yellowish grey locks, and his form was so bent that his hands hung impotently to the very ground. He groaned and snorted: "Is it any of our business? The gentry, the hetmans, let them fight among themselves. Let them hang one another, let them peck out one another's livers, and eyes..."

He stared wildly at the gigantic Zmyjenski's mournful face, and did not realize that it was his old friend standing before him.

Dobosz gave orders for the other prisoners to be swiftly unfettered. Then he showed the workmen and prisoners how they were to load the gold in leather sacks on to the horses. And, taking ducats from the sacks, he distributed the coins in handfuls to the prisoners and workmen and ordered them to hide them swiftly at their breasts. In agitation and fear, not fully understanding what they were doing, they hurriedly carried out the gold and loaded the horses as he had commanded.

Stasko Urszega lay down like a log in the courtyard and blinked, dazzled by the brightness of the day. So Dobosz went up to him and silently kissed his old, half-dead hand, as black as earth, as though he were kissing his own father, his own brother killed by the gentry. Poor Stasko, this old man who once had been a dashing youngster with fair curls, blinked his purblind eyes and stared at him; and no one knows whether he understood anything of what was happening. No one knows whether he ever understood that the hour had come, that Dobosz himself had freed him from the noblemen's dungeons.

Soon everything was ready for departure; they all waited only for the word from Dobosz.

But Dobosz was occupied in searching for certain long-dreamed-of jewels fashioned in the shape of doves, of which reports had reached as far as Czornohora. Famous masters of the jewellers' art had prepared them in Zlota Bania as presents for the emperor, or perhaps for the Pope. Conducted by old Zmyjenski, Dobosz found them in a small house within the fortress walls. He was happy. He had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. The dull gold wings of the doves were just starting into flight, they had delicately distinctive feathering, and the breasts of these golden birds were sprinkled with diamond dust to imitate the sheen of feathers. The beaks and eyes were of polished black and white diamonds, and cunningly represented the reality, yet made the work look like a dream.

Young Dobosz sat down in a chair, removed his tall robber hat and gazed at those doves, that seemed to have dropped from heaven. As he gazed, his steely eyes lit up like a child's with a smile of happiness and wonder. And the old, white-haired grandfather gazed at Dobosz with joy, almost with reverence. The wise old man knew who Dobosz was.

There was silence in the castle courtyards. The robbers had loaded the sacks of ducats, and now were standing beside their horses, together with all the released prisoners, waiting impatiently. The nobles, disarmed and guarded, their eyes bandaged, and the men of the castle garrison, lying on their bellies and fettered, swooned with terror, not knowing what fate to expect. The silence imbued them with all the more fear. One gypsy rogue, one of Dobosz's comrades, hurried and ran all over the castle, thrusting whatever he could into a sack. But, forgetting where he was, sunk in thought, young Dobosz, the leader of the Czornohora robbers, sat before those exquisite doves.

At last Dzemyga found him and brought them, both Dobosz and the old man, back to their senses. "Hi, don't doze! Get up, my lords and leaders. What sort of wine has made you drunk? The troops will be here within the hour."

Dobosz started in astonishment. A moment later his horn sounded in the courtyard. Upwards of a hundred horses loaded with gold, going in upland fashion one behind another, paced over the lowered drawbridge. All the castle garrison were left fettered, the gates were locked with the keys, the bridges were destroyed, and a few moments later the robbers were in the forests. Then they split up and made their way back to Czornohora by various tracks. They rode, as always, without a halt, at breakneck speed. Wherever they could, they changed horses. In the Rusko-Polanski hills hundreds of robbers from Czornohora were waiting for them with fresh horses, for Dobosz, saying no word to anyone, had sent a messenger back for the rest of the band. Once more they loaded the gold, and were below Czornohora before the pursuit from Bania had time to set out.

The proud noblemen were not prepared to overlook this exploit. To capture a fortress almost without firing a shot and entirely without loss of life was a blow to the splendour of Zlota Bania. The noble line of Batory was covered with shame. To think that wretched foresters, wilder than bears, had in broad daylight conquered a castle in the face of such an influx of guests and knightly chivalry! Meanwhile the peasants released from the dungeons spread the fame of Dobosz far and wide through the villages. "He's a real man is this Dobosz; he's our friend, he's a man with a heart of gold." So the people all whispered to one another. But the lords could not stand that. A call to arms was sent out to all the castles and districts in the north-east of Hungary. Hordes of soldiers and retainers were organized, and masses of peasantry also were forced into the task of hunting the robbers.

The pursuers rode and rode at full stretch. At first they were puzzled only by the fact that the traces of the robbers scattered in many directions. But then the pursuit grew more difficult, for to erase their tracks the Dobosz men had gone wherever possible along streams and little rivers. And so all traces were lost, and the pursuing forces were lost in the forests. In the mountain forests and wilds it is impossible to follow by guesswork. The pursuit turned this way and that and had to return. But the prince issued a proclamation and sent couriers with messages to all the lordly domains, commanding that Dobosz was to be hunted down.

When the robbers reached Czornohora, Iwanczuk Rachowski and several other picked comrades climbed the cliffs with crampons fastened to their boots, crawling like flies, driving in hooks, and throwing gangboards from cliff to cliff across the precipices. They concealed the treasure in chambers situated high up in the cliffs of Howerla. Part of the treasure was hidden in Dobosz's cell on Kiedrowaty.

Dobosz, Zmyjenski, and poor old Stasko were sitting on Kiedrowaty, close to the seat carved in the cliff. Refreshed by the air and the scent of the mountains, the released prisoner smiled with his tortured face at the forests, at the waters and the rocks, but said nothing. When they were about to part, Dobosz wanted to load sacks of gold on to Zmyjenski's horses. But the old robber laughed aloud at his young brother: "Brother, are you trying to give me what you have destined for the poor? There are greater treasures than gold, and you have opened them to us. You have dug up a truly great treasure for me, an old man. This poor fellow here! All my life my heart has ached at the thought of him. It is I who ought to give and pay more to you. Not only I, but all our people ought to raise a rock fortress like Zlota Bania for you, here, in this very spot. And we ought to raise castles for you all over our mountains, for you to be our king—for the people themselves to reign with you. And then no robber-baron, no mercenary or soldier would ever tread this land. Ah!

"Oh, my old heart feels that our people are too stupid, too childish. They themselves don't know what treasure they have got, and they will glorify Dobosz only when he is no longer with us."

"You speak the truth, old man. Not very wise are our people, they truly don't know how to look after themselves. But they are good, and grateful. They will never forget us."

Then the two leaders parted. The night was clear above Czornohora. The pine forests were silent. The old comrade Stasko was silent. The others also said nothing. Only the horses snorted, only the Kizia sang in its valleys and ravines. "Will the day ever come," perhaps the two leaders were thinking, "when those rocky fortresses will indeed arise? Will we ever see it in victory? Or perhaps in woe?"

"God be with you, Dobosz, my son," the old man said quietly. "And Elias, the brave, thunderous saint, defend you."

"God help you, father," Dobosz said. The old leader rode up into the mountains, towards Munczel, across the peaks, towards his house and his lonely farm, taking his old comrade Stasko with him.

When Dobosz was left alone he examined the treasure. He looked at the flaming red ducats, at the sparkling jewelled doves, the miracle of the jeweller's art. Maybe he was wondering how he could distribute this gold to the people all through the highlands and lowlands. But these doves at least should be kept here in Czornohora, so that he could look at them, could feast his eyes on them like the sweetest of darlings. But perhaps he should give them to some church, for the people to pray to them as to a saint's picture? If only he knew now where his old, withered soothsayer was! He might tell him how to use this treasure, and which treasure was truly the more valuable—that which fed the people and saved them from misery, or this which enabled one to forget the world.

He sat wearily by the fire, and as he dozed pictures and thoughts were jumbled together in his mind. The fire burned, the treasures glowed and sparkled. Old Zmyjenski's words floated to him:

"There are greater treasures, and you have opened them to us. All these sparkling treasures are yours. You are the farmer of these, and of those hidden treasures too.

Far away before him stretched the broad uplands and the fields of Podolia. Out there a great nation was living; but here in the cells jewelled seed was concealed.

Even greater, immeasurable treasures would come from it, from that seed. Trees giving birth to treasures would shoot up; castles would stand here, and cathedrals of rock.

So Dobosz dreamed, as the living fire warmed him, as, crackling and humming its little song, it rocked him in his sleep.

No one knows all this for certain, but so the tale runs. And if we do not believe it, where shall we be then?

#folklore #ukraine