The Three Comrades Part 1

The Three Comrades.

by Kristina Roy.

CHAPTER ONE

In the whole wide world there were no comrades who loved each other better than Petrik,[1] Ondrejko,[2] and Fido. All three were orphans and had had a hard time in the world thus far. Both parents of Petrik had died of a malignant fever. He became a public charge and was sent from place to place, till finally he was placed in charge of "Bacha"[3] Filina, who was his father's uncle, and had charge of the sheep pasturing on the mountain clearings of the estate of Lord Gemer.

There was but a poor hut, but to mistreated Petrik it was like a paradise. Ondrejko, whom they called at home Andreas de Gemer, came to the old "Bacha" at the order of the doctor, that he might grow stronger in the mountain air, drinking whey and eating black bread. As it was, Ondrejko did, and did not, have a father--at least he could not remember him. He was but two years old when his parents separated for ever. His mother took him with her when she left, but even then he did not live with her. She left him with strange people whom she paid to keep him, and went alone into the world. The people talked about her; said that she was a famous singer, and that many went from distant places to hear her.

[Footnote 1: Diminutive for Peter.]

[Footnote 2: Diminutive for Andreas.]

[Footnote 3: "_Bacha_"--shepherd overseer.]

Ondrejko remembered only one of her visits, and that she was very beautiful, and brought him a box full of chocolates, a rocking-horse, a trumpet--and who knows what more? After that he never saw her again, and probably would never see her any more. The lady with whom he stayed talked about a law-suit, at the conclusion of which it came about that he belonged neither to the mother nor the father. Finally, he came to the castle of Lord Gemer, and from there the doctor sent him to the mountains because he was like a candle that was ready to go out. About his father he knew only that he was somewhere far away, and had already a second wife and two boys. It seemed to him he was as much of an orphan as Petrik. The dog Fido didn't remember his mother either, because he had hardly begun to run about the kennel when a wild boar killed her. Thus it is not surprising that all three loved each other.

For Ondrejko they built a special room beside the shepherd's hut.

There were three large sheepfolds, and "Bacha" Filina had charge of them all. Ondrejko had in his room a real bed, and a spare one prepared for the doctor when he came to see him; but, because he was rather lonesome, he preferred to sleep with Petrik on the hay, and because Fido couldn't follow them to the loft up the ladder, he at least guarded the ladder so nothing would happen to the boys. Bacha Filina was a large man like a giant. His face was aged and stern; all his teeth were still perfectly white and he had not a single gray hair; but, strangely, his eyebrows began to get gray. But, when he creased his forehead above his eagle-like black eyes which could see everything far and wide, it seemed as if storm-clouds were gathering.

Not only both the boys, but everybody else was afraid of these storm-clouds, even the herdsmen and the sheep, as well as the longhaired, fourfooted guards of the sheepfold. Bacha Filina did not get mad easily, but when he did, it was worthwhile. Though Ondrejko was the son of his lord, Bacha Filina didn't let him get by with anything. The boy had not been taught to obey; however, Filina taught him this hard lesson without scolding him or touching him with even one finger. When the doctor brought him to the mountains he said to Bacha, "What this boy needs is to eat black bread and drink whey. He has been raised on fancy foods and they do not agree with him. It would be good for him to wash in cold water, but he is afraid to get wet. You must not worry about him being a Lord Gemer because it is a question of his health."

"Oh, that!" said the Bacha, wrinkling his forehead, "I am able to handle such a little brat"--and he was. The first few days Ondrejko did not dare resist this big man in anything, and now he would not even dream of it. The boys did not know a more n.o.ble man in the whole world than Bacha Filina. He didn't bother much the whole day what they did, but in the evening before the sheep were gathered, he sat with them in G.o.d's beautiful nature before the cabin, and there they could, even had, to tell him everything. They sat near him, one on the one side, the other on the other, and Fido laid his great hairy head on the knees of his master and looked on so wisely, that it seemed he, too, would want to tell all that happened during the day. He was still a young, lively fellow. You could see by his nose and ears he was not trained very much; his fur was often quite tangled because he started quarrels with the older dogs, Whitie and Playwell.

The first time Bacha found the two boys sleeping together on the hay he frowned and they were afraid of what was going to happen--but nothing at all happened; he only ordered Ondrejko to spread his sheet on the hay and cover himself with a blanket; so they both covered themselves and slept very well in the fragrant hay.

CHAPTER TWO

It was on a Sunday afternoon. The quiet of the holiday was noticeable even on the mountains where, hand in hand, the little comrades walked.

They were nicely washed and arrayed in Sunday clothing, because Bacha Filina would not suffer anybody to desecrate Sunday. Everyone who could, had to go to the next town to church, though it was almost two hours' walk. He himself seldom went; he was not able to take long walks. Once a timber fell on his foot in the woods and from that time on he had pains in it, but since he did not go down to church, he read in his large old Bible. Today he had gone to church and the boys went to meet him. They missed him very much. He ordered them to memorize the reading of the Gospel for the day and each had to recite separately.

Suddenly Petrik became silent; he drew his comrade aside and pointed with a silent nod of the head toward a cut-down tree lying in the woods. There sat Bacha Filina with his head resting in the palms of his hands as if something were pressing him down to the black ground.

"Let us go up to the Bacha," advised Petrik; "he seems to be sad."

"Truly very sad," worried Ondrejko. "Perhaps the sadness will pa.s.s from him when we come to him."

The crackling of dry branches under the bare feet of the boys roused Bacha. He looked around. The children stood a short distance off.

Should they go to him--or not?

"Where are you going?" he called to them. They came running. "Only to meet you, Bacha."

"Well, why did you come to meet me?" His usually rough voice seemed to sound different. "We were lonesome without you," haltingly admitted Ondrejko, and presently they sat on the moss carpet at the feet of Bacha.

"And why, Bacha, were you sitting here so sadly?" Petrik looked surprisedly at Ondrejko, that he dared to ask. Would not Bacha be angry?

"Did you think that I was sad?" Bacha stroked the golden hair surrounding the pale face of the child, which in the suns.h.i.+ne looked like a halo on a saint.

"And were you not?" The blue eyes of the boy, like two lovely blue flowers, gazed into the black eagle-like eyes of the man.

"Well, child, I was sad, and you have done well that you came to meet me. While I rest a while, recite to me the Gospel that you have learned."

Both boys, one after the other, recited the parable of the rich man and Lazarus.

"May I ask you, Bacha, to tell me why the rich man did not help Lazarus?" Petrik dared to ask.

"Why? Because his heart was like a stone. The dogs were better than he. Remember that, children, and never do any harm to birds or animals; they are better than we. Now let us go."

Bacha took Ondrejko by the hand and giving his book to Petrik they walked through the woods toward home. High above them in the clearing sounded the bells of the flock, and off and on the impatient barking of Whitie and Playwell, and in between sounded the trumpet of the youngest herdsman, Stephen. He played with such an ardor that it seemed the notes were running over;

"Come, come, ye gentle sheep, Keep out of waters deep; Pasture on meadows green Where gra.s.s grows sweet and clean."

How the trumpet resounded as if some one were weeping in the woods!

Even the echo seemed to answer in the same way.

The boys liked the beautiful tune. They knew the words of this song, but Bacha bowed down his proud head as though some great burden were pressing him down.

After they had finished their simple supper, they sat again as usual in front of the hut, Bacha on a stump and the boys at his feet. They were looking one at the other, wondering if they dare ask for some story. He knew so many of them, and when he was in good humor he knew very well how to tell good stories.

"I beg, Bacha, will you not tell us something?" Ondrejko finally asked, and looked at the same time in such a way at Bacha that he would have to be a very hard man to refuse.

Disturbed from his meditation, Bacha looked for a while into the beautiful inquiring eyes, then with a deep breath he began:

"Many years ago I was a boy like you two. I'm telling you this that you may know what you should never become, if the Lord G.o.d is not to be very angry at you. I will tell you today something about myself which I have not yet told anybody on earth," began Filina. He stopped a moment and the boys waited eagerly for him to go on.

"When I was five years old my mother died. My father brought another mother in the house. She was a young, beautiful woman, a widow. With her came a son from her first marriage. We called him Stephen, and when I look at you, Ondrejko, I always have him before me as he entered our hut for the first time. On his head he had a hat with a long band, a cloak thrown over his shoulder, an embroidered s.h.i.+rt, and narrow trousers. He was like a picture of a saint--so beautiful and so lovely.

"I was my father's youngest child. The older ones died, so I never had a brother, and suddenly he came--and was to be my brother. You love each other--I know. That also reminds me of my childhood. I began to love him more than I could my own brother. We were of equal age, but I was strong and he weak; I was wild and he tame; I was ugly and he beautiful. In spite of this we loved each other, and our parents were well satisfied. They could leave him under my care--because they knew I was able to defend him--and could leave me under his care, because when he was with me I was much more tame.

"Would that it had remained so always. But a proverb says, not in vain, that 'Where the Devil cannot go himself he will send an old woman.' And he sent her to us. It was your father's Aunt, your great-aunt, Petrik. She came once to us and asked me aside if the new mother liked me, and was sorry for me that I was a poor orphan. Said she, 'Who has a step-mother has also a stepfather. Your father doesn't love you as much as he does Stephen.' She didn't stay long with us.

Just as she came, so she went, but she took with her my love for Stephen. Because I was so wild and always did something wrong, my wise father had to punish me often; but Stephen was never punished because he always did what was pleasing in the sight of father and mother.

From that time on I always remembered the words of the great-aunt that I was punished and he not because they loved him, and his mother interceded for him, and there was no one to stand by me. But my step-mother quite often interceded for me. She was a kind woman and never did me any harm, but I wanted her to show more love to me than to her own boy. But that could not be. This wrong thought grew in my heart, and my envy increased from year to year till we were about as old as you two boys; and now comes the sad part which I never shall forget, and that is what is pressing me to the earth unto today."

Bacha pointed over to the mountain opposite them.

"Do you see yonder mountain?" The boys nodded.

"There we used to live at the foot of the mountain. Look toward the West, where the sun is lying down to sleep; there in the valley lived the weavers, to whom from all our homes, the wool was carried to be woven. Two paths led to those huts; the one up and down over the rocks--the other through the valley, easier but more dangerous, because there was a stretch of swamp into which, if somebody fell, he could never get out by himself. One who knew how, could get over by jumping from rock to rock and to clumps of gra.s.s, but it seemed as if some black power wanted to pull one down.

"Once our parents had us carry our wool. Going, we went the upper way, as we were told, but after we delivered the wool to the weavers, Stephen handed me an apple, which the weaver's wife had given him, saying he had another in his bag from his mother. Mother gave me nothing for the journey because I didn't take leave of her, and she didn't even see me when I grabbed my bag. And now, even the weaver's wife had not given me anything. It made me sad. I got angry, threw the apple away, and would rather have cried. Here was evidence, I thought, that what the great-aunt said was true. n.o.body cared for me, at home, nor anywhere else. Everybody liked Stephen, and it always would be so.

"I used to hear some people say that the Devil is walking on the earth, though we do not see him, and whispers to us what we should think and do. If it is true, I don't know, but that he was with me that time and gave me bad, gruesome advice, is sure. Only he could have told me that. When we left the weavers, I said to Stephen, 'Going over the mountain is too far. Let us go by the lower and more convenient path; it is nearer.'

"'But mother said we must go only over the hill,' objected Stephen, 'and father called also from the yard, 'Do not go by the lower way.'"