The Eighth Tribe, 1974 (1. évfolyam, 1-7. szám)
1974-12-01 / 7. szám
December, 1974 THE EIGHTH TRIBE Page Seven "Turn back, Caaba!” the fire roared. “The Szekelys are in peril!” Csaba and his Huns turned their mounts. They swept down the mountain slopes like a raging storm wiping out the enemies. Once again they started toward the East. Suddenly, floodwaters blocked their way and the waters roared. "Back, Csaba, back”, they roared. “The Szekelys are in danger!” Faster than the wind, the Huns stormed back in Szekely-land, and fell upon the intruders, killing them to the last man. They started out for the third time. Suddenly, a storm stopped them with lightning and thunder. “Turn Csaba, turn!” roared the storm. “A handful of Szekelys are fighting for their lives!” So Csaba and his Huns returned for the third time, and saved their people. At last the enemies learned not to harm the peaceful little settlement in the mountains of Transylvania, between Oltárkő and Reka Brook. Csaba and his men were able to reach old Scythia, the land of their Magyar brethren. They were greeted with open arms, but the leaders of the Magyars shook their beads at Csabas’ request. “We have heard of Atilla’s land”, they said, “one day we might decide to break up our camps here, and move to the West, but not now. Our people are happy here. There is plenty of grass for our herds, plenty of fish and game. We live in peace and prosperity. Perhaps one day the time will come when our warriors grow restless, and will want to reconquer Atilla’s heritage. You must wait.” Csaba waited. His young Huns married Magyar girls, and lived happily on Scythian soil. After many, many years, Csaba felt bis death approaching. He asked as a last favor to speak to the Magyar warriors. After they had all gathered around the council-fire, he told them once again about Atilla’s land. He spoke of the great plains, surrounded with high mountains. He spoke of the beautiful forests teeming with game. Of lakes and rivers, full of fish. He told them that nowhere on Earth grew tastier fruit and lusher grass than there. That beautiful country was the inheritance, Csaba told the Magyars, and be spoke of the lonely Szekelys still waiting for them in the mountains of Transylvania. At his last request, the Magyars took the oath that one day they would re-take Atilla’s land, their inheritance, and make it their homeland. They solemnly vowed to live there forever, until fire turns into ice and waters dry up. Hun graves rose on the meadows of the Magyars. After the fathers, sons and grandsons found their last resting place on Scythian soil. Hundreds of years passed, but the Magyars kept pushing out farther and farther the realization of the promise they had made to Csaba. In the meanwhile, far away on Szekely soil, a handful of people tried grimly to survive. They stayed out of the way of migrating tribes, hid in the mountains when war parties roamed the valleys. No matter how peaceful they were, the time came again when ravaging enemies fell upon them, and they had to prepare for a last stand. The enemy had more warriors than there were blades of grass on the meadow, water drops in the brook or stars in the sky. There was no help anywhere in sight. "Ob, Csaba, leader Csaba”, sighed hundreds of Szekelys. “Now is the time we would need help the most!” Under the feet of the attacking enemy the earth began to shake and rumble, and from dale to dale, from bill to hill, from mountain to mountain and from plain to plain, the message went: — "Csaba help! The Szekelys are in danger!” Suddenly, far away in Scythia, the Hun graves burst open. Skeleton warriors mounted their skeleton horses. A multitude of stars gathered in the sky to form a road under the horses’ hooves, and down this glittering road came Csaba and his army of ghosts, sweeping down in deadly silence upon the enemy. "Don’t harm the Szekely!” The intruders threw away their weapons and scattered in fright. The people of the Szekelys were saved. From that time on, as the centuries went by, whenever the Szekelys were in great danger, and their desperate cry for help reached the sky, high above the mountains, the Road of Hosts, known by others as the Milky Way, began to sparkle under the hooves of Csaba’s skeleton army. Like a frightening whirlwind, the dead warriors appeared, and saved the people from final destruction. The Szekelys are still there today, in Transylvania, where the Reka Brook bubbles, the spruce of the Hargita mountain sway in the breeze, and the
