Hungarian Heritage Review, 1988 (17. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1988-05-01 / 5. szám
into the stack. Then he filled up the hole with earth and said to the farmer, “I’ll put some stones over the grave so that she’ll never be able to leave it again.” “That’s right, my boy.” So he brought a cartful of big stones and dumped them over the grave, and then he covered it with earth, and on top he rolled several bulky pieces of log. “Well, guv’nor, don’t you fear. She’ll never manage to get out of this.” Then the boy went home, carrying a sack of wheat grain which the rich farmer had given him for his pains. That night, at half-past-eleven, Whiteshirt went to their neighbor’s house again. He went up to the loft. He could hardly get in, so full was it with the finest wheat grain. One third of the grain — or was it one quarter? — he carried over to the poor man’s house. Then he went back again, and pulling out a couple of shingles, he made a hole in the roof, on the street front. Then he took hold of a wooden shovel and began shoveling the grain through the hole until some five to six tons were shoveled down onto the street. Then he came down from the loft and made for the strawstack and pulled the corpse forth from beneath the straw. And he carried the dead woman up to the loft and stuck her into the middle of a heap of grain, so that she seemed to stand there. Then he fixed the shovel into her hand to make her look as if she were shoveling the grain onto the street through the hole. All this done, he went home and said to the poor man, “Well, you aren’t a poor man any longer. You have grain enough, maybe even more than your rich neighbor, as not much has been left to him. And money you have even more than he has.” And the poor man’s children could have their fill now, and indeed they were doing themselves so well that each day six to eight of them died on account of overeating. And fewer and fewer they became in number. In the morning the rich farmer looked out of the window and saw his fine grain scattered all over the street. “Oh, Christ! What’s happened again?” Calling his wife, he hurried up to the loft, and there they saw the dead woman with a shovelful of grain, standing at the hole. “Oh, Lord! What are you up to again, mother? To be sure, you’ll bring us to ruin and make us poorer than our neighbor, though he is the poorest of the poor.” And immediately he went over to his poor neighbor. Whiteshirt stepped up to him at once, “Good morning, guv’nor!” “Good morning, my lad. I say, a poor work you’ve done of the burying.” “What do you mean?” "Oh, dear Lord, isn’t she shoveling the grain from the loft onto the street?” “I’ll see to this at once and get her buried again.” And again Whiteshirt went with him and dug a big hole at the foot of the strawstack. And when he got the hole ready, he fetched the corpse from the loft, but instead of burying her properly, he pushed her under the straw. Then he filled the hole with earth and covered it with stones, and on top he rolled a good many pieces of logs. “Well, guv’nor, I’ve got her buried safely this time.” “All right, son. Get yourself a few sacks, and you may fill them with the grain that you see scattered all over the street. That will be for your pains.” He brought a few sacks and filled them well and took them home to the poor man. “Well, father and mother,” he said to the poor man and his wife, “I hope you do not regret having taken me into your house. You are well provided with food and with plenty of money. Even your children are getting fewer and fewer in number since they are not wanting for food and can stuff themselves until they burst and die.” At midnight Whiteshirt went over again to his neighbor’s house. The rich farmer had a fiery colt in the stable. The boy walked to the strawstack and dragged out the corpse from under the straw. He carried the dead woman into the stable and tied her on the back of the horse as if she were riding him. Then he put the bridle on the horse and fastened the reins around the woman’s wrists. And in one hand of the corpse he fixed a switch so deftly that it looked as if she had just raised it to strike at the horse. Then he let the colt loose in the stable, and he himself went out and locked the door carefully, as it had been before he opened it, then he went home. Inside the stable the colt was running up and down in a frenzy, kicking up a fearful hullabaloo. It was neighing wildly, excited by the foul smell of the corpse fastened onto its back. The farmer’s wife was wakened first by this awful uproar, and she woke her husband. “Listen! What’s that infernal racket going on in the stable? Go out and see what the colt is up to.” But he said to his wife, “You must come with me. I am afraid to go out by myself.” She got up too, and they went out together to the stable. And when they looked in through the stable window to see what was going on, good Lord! they nearly collapsed. There they beheld the old woman sitting on the back of their fiery colt, holding the switch in her raised hand ready to strike at the horse. “Oh, my God! Oh Lord, have mercy on us!” And they ran back into their house in utter bewilderment. “Go and call Whiteshirt over to our place,” said the woman to her husband. The young farmer hurried over to his poor--- Cljr ^nlklnrr nf Hungary . neighbor, and when he saw Whiteshirt he said to him, “I say son, would you go and call the priest who lives in the next village but one. Tell him to come at once to bless my deceased mother. Tell him that he must do something with her because there’s no getting into our stable as long as my dead mother is riding the colt.” Whiteshirt set off to the next village but one to call the priest. It must have been around four o'clock in the morning when he reached the village. He greeted the priest and asked him to go with him at once and to bring along incense and holy water, as he would find a corpse riding a colt. “All right, son. While I get ready, go into the stable and saddle the horse for me.” Whiteshirt went into the stable, saddled the priest’s grey mare, and led it out of the stable. Meanwhile the priest had got into his clothes. Taking the censer and holy water sprinkler along with him, he mounted the horse. And so they set off, the priest on the horse and the boy walking behind them. And though the grey mare was going at a steady trot, Whiteshirt kept close behind her. It was about daybreak when the priest and the boy reached the village. But when they came to the farmer’s house, the boy was quicker getting to the stable and he unlocked the door. The colt with the old woman on his back leapt through the door, and when he beheld the mare in the courtyard he charged down upon her at once, crushing the priest to death. Then the boy took the dead woman and the dead priest from their horses and laid the two bodies side by side on the ground and let the colt and the mare back into the stable and tied both horses to the crib. The rich young farmer said to the boy, “Oh, my God! What are we going to do now? I’ll get locked up and be put behind bars forever and a day if it comes out how the priest has lost his life.” Whiteshirt said, “No fear! But you must pay me well.” Well, son, I’ll let you have five hectares of my best lands, only it must never come out what really happened.” And he gave Whiteshirt the five hectares. Then the boy buried the priest and the old woman. And from that day the farmer lived in peace. The boy went back to the poor farmer to give him the five hectares. In the meantime all the poor man’s children had died of overeating, so only Whiteshirt was left. Time wore on, and the boy grew into an able youth and married a comely peasant girl. The poor man made a great fortune, and the rich farmer lost all his fortune and fell on evil days. As for Greasy Whiteshirt — well, he is still having a happy life if he has not died. —From “Folktales of Hungary”, edited by Linda Degh, translated by Judit Halasz. Published by University of Chicago Press. Copyright 1965. MAY 1988 HUNGARIAN HERITAGE REVIEW 23
