The Eighth Tribe, 1975 (2. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1975-10-01 / 10. szám
October, 1975 THE EIGHTH TRIBE Page 3 THE LAST TÁLTOS Where the dark rugged rocks of the Badacsony tower above Lake Balaton, the slopes are still full of ancient caves. A very long time ago, the loyal faithful believers in the old Hungarian God hid in these caves to escape the new laws which punished by death those who adhered to the old customs. It is said that the very last of the Hungarian Táltos took refuge in one of these caves many centuries ago. That is, until one day, when he was very, very old, he decided to leave the beloved homeland forever. It was on a sparkling, cold winter morning. The rising sun glittered on snow and frost. Down at the foot of the Badacsony, the frozen mirror of the lake stretched silently into the snow-covered, endless horizon. The tall, white-haired old man, clad in his long white robe, stood for a moment in front of his cave, looking down at the lonely landscape. He was sad, for he knew his time had come to perform his last duty, as the last High-priest of the ancient Hungarian God. He was ready for the big journey. A small bag hung over his shoulder. Within was dried meat, firemaking tools and a few “pogacsa”. Holding a mysterious long object carefully wrapped in felt under his arm, he began his slow descent. Though his white garment blended almost perfectly into the sparkling winter landscape, he was seen from the Tower of the Tihany Abby as soon as he reached the frozen lake. “There goes the Táltos!” the guards in the tower shouted. “He has come out of hiding! Let’s get him alive!” The old Táltos did not even turn around. Nor did he make haste. He knew that his fate was up to God, not to man. He kept on walking, straight and tall, across the ice, toward the opposite shore of the lake, where the wood-covered hills began. The pursuing monks and their armed foreign soldiers were fast closing in on him. Just as they were almost within reach of the old man, suddenly there came a tremendous thundering noise, that echoed from end to end across the huge lake. The two-foot thick ice split wide open behind the old Táltos. The ice split from shore to shore, separating him from his pursuers by the angry blue waters of the lake. It was the RIAN AS, that mysterious phenomenon of the Balaton. “Thank Thee, old man of waters,” the old Táltos murmured, and continued peacefully on his way, not even bothering to listen to the angry curses of the soldiers. Night was upon him as he reached the reedeovered bank at the foot of the low hills. A thin column of rising smoke led him to a fisherman's hut. The Táltos entered the hut. “Isten bless you all,” he greeted the inhabitants, in a deep utterance of the ancient greeting of the Hungarians. The family around the fire answered in the same way, without surprise. “Isten, bless thee, Great Man.” They gave him food to eat, milk to drink and shelter for the night. Early in the morning, a young fisher-lad showed him the way to the next camp. From there, somebody else led him farther East. Always to the East. Wherever he went, people grew somber and worried for fear of the new law. But they honored him nonetheless, for they knew he was the last priest of the old Isten. Spring had come as he reached the flat grasslands. From there on, shepherds, horse-breeders and cattlemen were his hosts and his guides. Among these people, he felt at home. It was almost like the olden days. There were no monks, no lurking foreigners here. The free people of the free grasslands did not fear the new laws. They invited the old man to remain, hut the old Táltos did not accept their hospitality. On he traveled, on and on, always toward the East, in his long white robe, with his bag over bis shoulders and that strange long object wrapped in felt under his arm. Sun scorched him, rain drenched him. Wind blew his long white hair and heard. The summer went by. When he finally reached the end of the flatlands where the Transylvanian foothills began to rise, his strength was gone. He could scarcely walk. Under the first silent oak trees, he collapsed, still tightly clutching the strange bundle under his arm. When he regained consciousness, he found himself in a small log cabin. Through the narrow window, he could see the mellow sunshine glowing on the trees. The leaves were yellow and red. It was fall. A woman was bending over him. “Where am I?” asked the old Táltos. “And who are you, my daughter?” “I am a seer,” the woman answered. “I heal people as I learned the art from my Mother.” “Then I must leave at once,” the old Táltos said, rising with a sigh. “I must not bring you trouble. They might burn you for a witch.” The woman smiled at him. “You must have been on the way for a long time, Táltos,” she said. “They are not burning witches anymore in Hungary. King i
