The Eighth Tribe, 1975 (2. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1975-10-01 / 10. szám
October, 1975 THE EIGHTH TRIBE Page 5 Kalman, Isten bless him, has made it a law that there are no witches.” The old Táltos sat up, stared at the woman for a long time, then nodded slowly. “He must be a wise man, King Kalman. God bless him.” “So be it,” the woman added. The woman kept the old Táltos in her log cabin throughout the winter. When spring melted the snow and opened up the ridges, she led him across the mountains into the Maros valley. From there on. Shepherds and woodsmen helped him farther and farther into the beautiful silent mountains of Transylvania, the land of the Szekelys. Nobody asked him where he was going or why. They all knew who he was. They had all heard about the law of the monks in the monks in the West and the persecutions of their foreign soldiers. Slowly, the broad valley of the Maros began to narrow. On both sides of the river, the slopes grew steeper and the ridges grew higher, until at length, the river was no longer even a river, but only a rushing crystal-clear brook. Spring and summer passed, and the forest on the slopes began to turn from green to gold. Only the spruce, the Szekely spruce, stayed green, towering high upon the ridges. Here, the old Táltos suddenly knew that he had arrived at the end of his journey. He was home. The last few years of his life were spent by the Táltos high up on the mountain glades, among Szekely horsemen and their charcoal burners. He lived there in peace, disturbed by no one. People came to him from far, seeking advice. The Szekelys had combined their old with the new Christianity, so that the old man was not even aware that he was living among Christians. W'hen the Szekely wood-fellers chopped down a tree, they asked forgiveness from the brother trees, as was the ancient custom. When drinking, the first drops went to Mother Earth, and camp-fires were put out with a shovel of dirt, never by water. On Sundays, they walked down from the glades to the little wooden churches in the valleys, where the priest spoke of Jesus. These were good and godly people. Perhaps this was so because they lived a free life up there under God’s sky, like the birds. Perhaps it was due to the fairies and elves who dwelt among them in the dense forests, dancing at midnight on moonlit rocks. Perhaps it was because the Szekelys still remembered that UR ISTEN had created the earth to become a paradise, and that it was only man who invented hell. When the old Táltos felt that his time had come, he chose the best among the Szekelys — a brave and wise woodsman. He asked the man to lead him to the highest mountain peak. The woodsman did not ask any question. He just led the old Táltos up a steep, winding path, where the ridges all ran together into the sky. The man did not even ask what that strange long bundle was under the Táltos’ arm, which the old man carried so carefully. The last part of the steep slope, the Szekely had to carry the old man in his arms because he was so weak. When they reached the top, the Szekely put the old man down gently on a patch of grass. They were alone. Above them was the endless blue sky, under them, the endless spruce forest of green. The Táltos reached for the strange, long bundle. He began to unwrap it carefully. Then appeared what had been inside. It was a sword! The most beautiful sword that man had ever seen! The hilt was of pure gold. The shiny, gleaming blade bore a Runic inscription within a flower design. The Szekely read the script and fell to his knees. “The SWORD OF GOD!” he cried. “We have guarded this sacred sword,” the old Táltos spoke, “since Ruler Geza’s time. Some of my forefathers paid with their lives for the secret. I have paid for it with a long life of hiding and wandering. We must hide it up here, where it will be safe. My Son, thou must give me the great oath, according to our custom, not to reveal the place to anyone. Also promise to care for it. Once each year, come up here, all alone, and re-wrap it in clean felt. Thou must also see to it that after thou art gone, there shall always be someone who knows the secret of our sacred sword, and who takes charge of it, in reverence and faith.” The Szekely bent his head. “I swear to the living God, to his only Son, Jesus Christ, and to all the saints ...” Then he raised his head and said in a loud voice, “And I swear to the Sun, to the Moon, and to the Stars, that I will guard with my life the Sword of God. Mother Earth shall not accept my body, Father Water shall cast it out, and my soul shall be condemned forever, if I break this oath!” That is the way it happened, in those olden days, long, long ago. Century after century has passed. The Szekely people up there in the Transylvanian mountains have had little peace and happiness during the centuries, only much trouble and much sorrow. But uo matter how difficult was life, there was always
