For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a haunting short story by Hungarian author Csenge Fehér, translated by Dorottya Mária Cseresnyés. In this eerie tale, A young woman, ostracized for her otherworldly beauty by the inhabitants of her small town, flees into the forest at the exhortations of her abused and overworked mother. There, she is pursued by a huntsman, here transformed from the noble rescuer of Western fairy tales into a rapacious brute, with none but the creatures of the forest to protect her—men and women whose transformations have left them barely human, ravaged by time. But even they cannot protect her forever—not from the violence the huntsman brings.
There lived I, a girl with black nails and pale soul, in a raven ravine, deep into the woods. My small village―bones banging―was wrapped in a thicket. I was so pretty that I was pelted with dung if I dared to speak, was chased by hounds if I dared walk alone. You’re such a treasure, not even pigs would desire you, they said. In vain did the moonbeams weave your skin. In vain does your river of hair flow after your feet. In vain do your eyes mirror the ashes of the nights―no one will desire you. You’ll be of no use, bear no fruit, grow old alone, what a shame.
I wept and crouched inside the oven, ashamed. I sat in the ashes, smeared soot on my face, tousled my hair. Thus I wandered the village day and night. My mother took me into her lap, soothed me, why do you want to marry, little Csinka, why do you want a child, little Csinka. Your husband will be a drunkard, your husband will beat you and take advantage of you, why do you want to marry. The child will cry, the child will be wicked, he’ll bite your nipples, why do you want a child. The housework will bury you, you’ll be lucky if the roof doesn’t fall on your head too. They suck the blood of the woman until she barely has the strength to live. Leave to the woods instead, unravel your hair, let it become one with the squirming roots of the ground. Lie on dead leaves, gather dew in your navel, let the birds have a sip. Let your eyes be the shiniest of stones inside the bed of the creek. Maybe then you’ll be happy.
I wandered into the woods, shed all my jewels, lost all my clothes. I gave my hair to the wind, my eyes to the creek, my skin warmed the sprouts of the ground. One day there came a huntsman, his eyes flashed sharply far off in the thicket. He noticed a strand of my flowing hair, my snow-like body stretched out on the leaves, the reflection of my eyes in the water. So loudly did he howl that the trees began to whisper with terror. Nostrils trembling, sinews taut, I extricated myself from the ground, the water, the wind, and took to my heels. My hair fluttered behind me like an unwinding whip. The huntsman was after me, he sent his hounds to catch me, they bit and bayed the silence from me. So swiftly did I rush, and across so many icy dawns, that my legs withered to branches, my hair grew into a spider web, my skin was lacy with frost. Tireless, the hounds followed me.
So I ran away, far away, until at midday an old oak tree came my way. I put my face on the moss-grown bark, lay down in the lap of the gnarled roots. As I looked up, I saw an old man cry out from the embrace of a tree, from the squeeze of the bark. His tangled white beard was twisted and turned around the trunks, it covered dens and holes, hid among dead leaves, joined the roots of the ground. Is there a place in your beard for me, old man, I cried. My child, if only you knew how many souls I hold deep in this beard, the old man whimpered.
The howl of the hounds echoed in the mountains. Hide me, old man, hide me, bury my white body, in your world-wrapping beard hide me. My child, if only you knew how many souls I hold deep in this beard, deep in the night, the old man muttered. So I crouched inside his beard, curled up inside the soft hair, eyes winked at me from the dark air.
There came the huntsman and asked the old man. Did you happen to see a bright-eyed lass with thicket hair? Lasses I chase, lasses I catch, perhaps someday I’ll get a match. Well, well, you fine, thorn-eyed huntsman, do you know the number of centuries I have been crying out my pain? Branches have pierced my body, like sinews they grow inside me, acorns grow inside my lungs, I have no skin, only bark covers my flesh. Yet no young lasses have I seen around here, the old man muttered.
Still, did you happen to see a bright-eyed lass with thicket hair? the huntsman asked again. Ay, you fine, thorn-eyed huntsman, if you don’t believe me, dive into my beard, sink to the bottom along a strand of my hair, but what you will or won’t find there—that I can’t tell you, the old man replied. Devil take your beard, the huntsman growled, and with that he mounted his horse, spurred it onward, and just like that disappeared behind the mountains. I crawled to the husk of the beard, climbed to its edge, gave all my thanks. The beard whispered a few sweet words after me.
Onward I marched, onward I wandered, and came upon a well by the midnight hour. I rested my face on the cool well-brim, I lay down on its moss-grown stones. As I looked down the well, I saw a crone sitting at the bottom, I heard her moan, rattle, shriek. Dear old crone, is there any water left in the depths of the well, I shouted. My dear child, if only you knew what streams spring from the depths of this well, she screamed.
The howl of the hounds echoed in the mountains. Hide me, old crone, hide me, bury my white body, in this dark water hide me. My dear child, if only you knew what streams spring from the depths of this well, from the depths of my legs, the crone whispered. Thus I mounted a bucket and descended to the bottom of the well, hid under the skirt of the crone, and glanced up from there. Fluids sprang from the depths of the well, from the depths of her legs. I took a deep breath, the froth buried me. Only her full-moon-face glistened beneath the dark water.
There came the huntsman and shouted at the crone. Did you happen to see a bright-eyed lass with thicket hair? Lasses I chase, lasses I catch, perhaps someday I’ll get a match. Well, well, you fine, thorn-eyed huntsman, what do you think I see from the bottom of this well? All I do is be silent, all I do is bring forth water, only the animals drink from my water, the crone whispered.
Still, did you happen to see a bright-eyed lass with thicket hair, old crone? the huntsman asked again. Ay, you fine, thorn-eyed huntsman, if you don’t believe me, jump into this well, dive beneath the foaming water, but what you will or won’t find there—that I can’t tell you, the crone replied. Devil take your well, the huntsman growled, and with that he mounted his horse, spurred it onward, and just like that disappeared behind the mountains. I swam to the surface, climbed up to the well-brim, gave all my thanks. The well murmured a few sweet words after me.
Onward I marched, onward I whirled, when, at dawn, I found a dead white bird. I buried my face in the feathers, rested in the embrace of the claws. So great was the white bird that its open wings rivaled the basalt columns, so great was the white bird that just one of its feathers could have matched the height of a pine. Is there a place for me under your wings, white bird, I cried. But the bird couldn’t speak.
The howl of the hounds echoed in the mountains. Hide me, O white bird, hide me. I’ll crouch under your feathers, bury my white back in your down, the worms of your body will lie beside me, warm my body, and fall asleep dreaming of blood. No longer does your beak chatter, no longer do your wings flutter, your claws have fallen asleep forever. Hide me, O white bird, hide me! But the bird couldn’t speak. With nothing left to say, I dived deep into the feathers, deep into the milky thicket.
There came the huntsman and asked the bird. O white bird, did you happen to see a bright-eyed lass with thicket hair? Lasses I chase, lasses I catch, perhaps someday I’ll get a match. But the bird was silent. Ay, you bird, this is all I ask: did you see my dear love pass? But the bird couldn’t speak. The huntsman grew furious, dismounted his horse, and dived into the feathers. He felt as though he were swimming in milk, as though he were swimming in snow, as though he were soaking in curd. The huntsman vanished in the thicket of feathers, in the shady hollow of wings.
I vanished too. Bird’s wing, crone’s water, old man’s beard—nothing could hide me. We found each other under the heavy blanket, the huntsman and I, lying on feather pillows, two trembling bodies. And as the lights aligned in the sky, my blood poured onto the black earth, what a shame.
Translated from the Hungarian by Dorottya Mária Cseresnyés
Csenge Fehér (1996) is a Hungarian author and software developer. She holds a degree in Hungarian Studies from Eötvös Loránd University. She has been publishing regularly since 2019, and her short stories have appeared in several Hungarian journals. In 2023, she was awarded the National Debut Prize of the Hungarian Writers’ Association and was selected as an author for the KMI 12 program. Her first volume of short stories, Body, Unbound (A kibomló test), was published in 2021. Currently, she is working on her first novel.
Dorottya Mária Cseresnyés (1999) is a Hungarian literary translator. She holds a degree in English Studies and Literary Translation at Pázmány Péter Catholic University and will be completing her MA next year. In 2024, she was selected as a Travel Fellow for the annual ALTA conference organized in Milwaukee, WI. Her translations have appeared in several Hungarian journals, both in English and in Hungarian. She focuses on contemporary women writers and indigenous voices.