Transporting stories of intrigue, superstition and rivalry from a European master, in English for the first time
In this stark, haunting collection, Miklós Bánffy narrates with wry wisdom stories of cunning, betrayal and myth ranging from classical antiquity to the Transylvania of his own day. These are communities of sharp rivalries and religious superstition: young Borbálka, about to marry an unsuitable man, receives strange counsel from a suspicious figure in her village; four men seek to exploit the captive Gavrila Lung for money, while mountain wolves howl in the distance; when Old Damaskin betrays his stepson to hold on to his land, his wife extracts bizarre revenge. Translated into English for the first time by the award-winning Len Rix, this collection further establishes Bánffy as one of the foremost European writers of the twentieth century.
Release date:
May 25, 2021
Publisher:
Pushkin Press
Print pages:
256
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WOLVES It was winter. Thick snow covered the mountains and valleys of Transylvania. It had left tall round shepherd’s caps on the circular Vlach huts, turning them from black mushrooms into white. It had draped its soft white coat over the mountain slopes, sprinkled the forests with a mica-like glitter, settled thick on the mud and frozen clods and transformed the fields around the River Maros into a sea of blinding white. Everything so white, so utterly, inexpressibly white. Only on the Hungarian side, all the way down to the Maros, was the never-ending whiteness ripped apart. In almost every village blackened roof beams poked out through the snow. Scorched and dying poplars thrust their branches into the sky like enormous black brooms. The walls of once-grand houses and mansions, their sides besmirched by fire, criss-crossed each other at strange angles on the ruined street corners, abandoned to the empty silence. As if intent on claiming everything, the snow had poured into the gardens and roofless rooms alike, scattering its fine dust under any vaulting that had not collapsed. But despite its best efforts, on the floors of the houses and out in the gardens, mysterious dark-red stains had welled up, stains that had remained slippery underfoot. The snow had blanketed everything under its immaculate whiteness, but these dark red stains resisted every onslaught. No sooner were they covered over than they appeared again. Among the scorched and trampled evergreens of what had once been gardens and in the stubble fields beyond, fresh burial mounds had risen. Stray dogs prowled around them, snarling and bickering as they scratched at the soil. Crows swirled above in a vast cloud, cawing loudly. There was a horror in the wintry silence, a silence more profound than in any previous winter. It was as if life itself had been somehow diminished; as if there were fewer people now alive than in the past. It was a terrifyingly silent winter, the winter that followed the Hora Peasant Uprising. The snows had brought out the wolves. They now roamed down from the forests towards the wintry villages, ever closer to the isolated farmsteads and settlements. At first they came singly or in pairs; then, as the winter tightened and extended its grip, there were more and more of them, in ever larger packs. They roamed in the greying light of evening and late into the night, trotting steadily around the edges of the forests, one behind the other, their heads down, in complete silence – perfectly anonymous-looking predators. At first glance you might have thought they were grey, dirty Komondors, the huge dogs used by the shepherds. They would squat at the edge of the woods, unmoving, as dogs do, and wait – wait with menacing patience for the darkness of night. They attacked only at night. There would be scarcely a sound, but by morning half a dozen ewes would be missing, with nothing left of them but large bloodstains in the snow. The wolves plundered everywhere, always in the dark of night, stealthily, like craven thieves. Attempts to guard the farms and the flocks proved fruitless. The strong, brave Kuvasz dogs set to guard them could do nothing: they were the first to be torn to pieces, and the silence of the night remained almost unbroken. The bailiffs put a bounty of two silver twenty-crown coins on every wolf ’s head, a great sum at the time. But few were hunted, even though the proclamation was made all across the mountains, for the forests held another quarry that seemed more worth the trouble. On the heads of the rebel leaders an even greater price had been placed: three hundred pieces of gold for Hora himself and the same for Kloska. The two had been duly captured and taken to Gyulafehervar, and now the hunt was on in the mountains for Hora’s deputy, Gavrila Lung. On his head, dead or alive, were a hundred pieces of gold. The wolves were left to roam in peace. Late one afternoon a small, drab-looking group of men made its way from Toszerat in the Szamos valley up towards Mount Humpleu. They walked one behind the other, in silence. Leading the way was old Maftye, the sawmill owner, a short, dog-faced, grey-haired man. Behind him came a tall rifleman, his superior status shown by his enormous sheepskin cap and the blue stitching on his ragged coat. He was the real leader, it was plain to see. Behind him were two men from Gyurkuca, the skinny Pantyilimon and Simion the Israelite. Last of all came the younger Maftye, a shepherd’s boy from Merreggyo, nicknamed “Rooster”. They had come well prepared for the journey. Over their leather jackets they wore thick loden coats, all very much alike except that the tall rifleman’s was more ornate. Each had a wooden water flask and variously coloured bags and rucksacks on their backs. The tall one carried his forest ranger’s gun, the others long-handled axes. They were making good progress towards Mount Humpleu, following a single track across the wide expanse. Their tightly laced-up boots and the lower halves of their trousers were dusted with glittering crystals. Under old Maftye’s tread the powder creaked and groaned. Behind them they left white tracks as bright as steel in the soft clean snow. When they reached the meadow of Pojen the old man suddenly stopped and pointed with the handle of his axe towards the edge of the forest on the other side. Seven wolves were trotting along, slowly and lazily, one behind the other. They were going in the same direction as the men, towards Mount Humpleu.
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