The Eighth Tribe, 1975 (2. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1975-07-01 / 7. szám
Page Four THE EIGHTH TRIBE July, 1975 THE HERB OF ST. LÁSZLÓ Szent László Füve A LEGEND BY JANOS ARANY In the year one thousand eighty and some, László, King of the Magyars waged war against the Kun’s heathen army. Great was the bloodshed, the flow of blood was like a brook, and through them the rivers flooded. The land became a flat sea of blood, in it the heap of slaughtered men an island; Those who could not overcome their wounds choked in blood. Some who were still alive drowned under the dead. The Kuns all fell or were taken prisoner, all but one who managed to escape and carry the sad news to faraway Kunland. The victory was brilliant, with plenty of rich booty. The Magyar warriors were jubilent. They divided their share of the booty among themselves, and staked a festival in their tradition. The warriors ate, drank, danced and had a merry good time, as customary after a hard fought battle. In contrast to this merry scene, the King, by himself, knelt in devout prayer in his quiet tent. He did not claim the brilliant victory, but gave thanks and all the credit to his God. But the Almighty God did not accept his thanks. He did not delight in bloody wars or the sacrifice of men, so how could the good God be pleased? In vain the dry earth drank up the blood. It cried back to Heaven for revenge. Woe to the people who brought the wrath of God upon themselves, enormous were their sins. So God sent his destroying Angel and a plague spread all over the land. The people tumbled like grass in front of a sharp scythe. In the bloody field the stench of the dead choked the breath and became the victor. The Magyars fell incessantly. Every street and house was filled with dead bodies, but there was no man to bury them. At other times they would have carried their dead to the burying grounds, now the live ones ran away from them. A neighbor was not concerned with his neighbors problems anymore. The fire of friendship burned out in ashes. The relationship between brothers and relatives came to an end, even fathers were forsaken by their children. The hope that never tires held the rein short. They used to count the years in sixty’s, now one day was all that could be hoped for. In his quiet tent, the King sat in the dust of the earth repenting. In grief he sat, his garment tom, ashes where his crown should be. In a clear voice he pleaded, “My Lord my God have pity, have compassion on my people. Cast your just anger at me, but take your wrath off my people.” So pleaded László, King of the Magyars, and behold, an immense group of men, women, young and old, approached the King like pale ghosts emerging from the grave. Their chatters could be heard coming closer like a cloud of locusts humming. As they drew closer the noise became deafening. The King stood up to receive the people, he was not alarmed. It was not his way to be afraid, still he did not know how to handle the situation. As they gathered before the King, all talking, all shouting at once, it was all in vain, for the King could not make clear one complaint. Finally one shouted, “Brothers, listen to me. Let’s not talk by the thousands or it will never come to an end. The King can not hear all of us at once. We all have the same request, one can tell while the rest remain silent. If you approve, I will tell.” The throng consented. “Our Lord King László, do you know why we all came to see you? Glance over your land and you will see the monstrous destruction all around. In vain you ordered fast and prayer. You cannot save your dying land with this. The fast and hunger only prolonged the fury of the pestilence. What is the reason for this? Let us finally admit our foolishness is the result of our fathers sins. We have forsaken the God who led us to this land from Scythian land. He gave us rich land instead of lean desert, green meadows for cattle to breed and romp, great wide rivers with fish aplenty, plenty of game in the forest and clean springs. But wanted to know more than our fathers. We ceased to sacrifice at the head of the springs; we put our hands to a large amount of sacrificial stones and from them we built a church to the new God. That is why God, the God of the Magyars, his anger greatly aroused against his people said — ‘I will show my might. I will sweep them from the earth and give the Jand to others.’ “That which he spoke, so he did. He emptied the pretty springheads, he blocked the flow of the stream, and he covered the surface with green poison. In vain we pleaded to the new God, but the old God of our ancestors was stronger, and we were punished for sinning so greatly against him. Therefore Lord our King, we ask your highness to abolish the new reverence. We shall return to our old God and sacrifice at the spring so it shall be clean again. This is what we intend to do. We do not want to perish. This is the wish of all your people.” So the man spoke, then stood aside. Loud cheers followed his last words. The kind King however was
