The Eighth Tribe, 1975 (2. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1975-09-01 / 9. szám
Page 6 THE EIGHTH TRIBE Szeptember, 1975 Sitting straight on the dead stallion, Tonuzoba began to sing the Bessenyo war-song. His voice floated across the swamps, over the forests. It seemed as though every tree and every reed in the swamp was singing with him. The priests began to sing a Christian hymn too. Then suddenly a raft appeared floating down the Danube with a tent in the middle. In front of the tent stood Tonuzoba’s wife and his two little sons. Strong hands pulled the raft to the shore, and the beautiful young woman came to land, leading the two children by the hands. Proudly, with her head high, she walked toward the grave. “What do you want here?” the priests yelled at her. “I have sworn to God to be loyal to this man unto the grave,” she answered proudly, “and a Bessenyo woman never breaks her oath.” Inside the circle of priests she stopped and looked around. A young monk caught her searching eyes. The black robe could not humble his proud stature, the short-cut hair could not change his Magyar features. She took the two young sons to the young Magyar monk. “Do you swear to your God and mine, to the only God in heaven, do you swear to raise these two orphans in a decent and honest manner? Do you swear, priest of the new God?” Tears filled the eyes of the young monk. “I swear to the only God, to all the saints, and to the salvation of my soul, Lady of the Bessenyos,” he replied with trembling voice. “I swear to the living Isten of the Magyars, to the sun, the moon, the earth and the water, to raise your children in a decent and honest manner, so that they may become leaders of men and nation.” Kissing her small sons for the last time, the woman put their hands into the big brown hands of the monk, then turned around, raised her red velvet skirt up to her ankles, so as not to make it dirty, and walked in her soft red boots to her husband’s side in the grave. The two long braids of her black hair, interwoven with pearls, reached down almost to her heels. Tonuzoba bent down to her, lifted her into the saddle, and kissed her. Smiling, she nestled into his arms, like a bird who has found her nest. “Proceed, you Bessenyos,” nodded Tonuzoba. “Do your duty.” When the black soil reached to their chests, the bishop spoke again. “I ask you for the last time, Tonuzoba, do you convert to the true faith?” Without an answer, Tonuzoba began to sing the Bessenyo death song, and his men sang with him, piling the dirt higher and higher around their leader and his wife. When only their heads were visible, the bishop cried out to him for the last time. “In the name of God, Tonuzoba, I beg you! Let your forehead be touched with the water of baptism, and no harm shall come to your people!” But there was no answer, only the sounds of the death-song floating across the plains, over swamps and forests, up to an old God somewhere in the endless blue sky. Today, only some old fishermen in the swamps and a few old shepherds on the Puszta remember Tonuzoba and his beautiful wife. On dark, moonless nights, they seem to hear from somewhere in the distance the sorrowful death song of the Bessenyos. For they, themselves, are of Bessenyo blood, the descendants of those captured warriors. One can recognize them from the sign of their mourning, which has become through the centuries their national costume. The men wear cut pants, and the women wear their skirts gathered up to knee level. Somewhere, among the thousand little hummocks of the Puszta, there is still one that marks the grave of Tonuzoba and his wife. Many people have tried to find it for all the gold and silver that was buried there, but so far, no one has found it. Though, according to the story of old, the grass waves constantly on that little mound, even when there is no breeze, for the heartbeat of those buried alive keep moving the grass. It should be easily recognized also from the fact that no grazing animal would go close to that mound. However, when the day comes that the piled-up dirt erodes away under the rains and the horse-tailed flag of the Bessenyos pierces the top: those who were buried alive in that grave shall come out of the earth, and Tonuzoba’s bugle shall blow the battle-song again. Translated by Elizabeth M. IFass Reprinted from Selected Hungarian Legends by Albert Wass
