Waltey

Waltey

Mati Crewe

132 Mother Crewe

Myths and Legends of Our Own Land · Charles M. Skinner
Kupi e-knjigo Kupi tiskano izdajo

O besedilu

Mati Crewe

Vir
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land
Avtor
Charles M. Skinner
Jezik branja
Slovenščina
Jezik izvirnika
English
Čas branja
3 min branja
Obseg
2 strani
Naslov izvirnika
132 Mother Crewe

O izvirniku

Myths and Legends of Our Own Land

Obsežna zgodovinska zbirka ameriških legend, ki jih je Skinner zbral in avtorsko rekonstruiral. Bralni jezik je Slovenščina, izvirnik pa prihaja iz vira Myths and Legends of Our Own Land v jeziku English.

Besedilo

Mati Crewe

Mati Crewe je bila v prejšnjem stoletju v Plymouthu na slabem glasu. Govorilo se je, da je za plačilo zvabila neko dekle v svojo staro kmečko hišo, kjer je ležal moški, umrl za črnimi kozami, da bi ji uničila lepoto; obtoževali so jo, da s čaranjem povzroča nerodovitnost zemlje in žene ladje na obalo; skratka, pravili so ji čarovnica in ljudje, celo tisti, ki so se delali, da v čarovništvo ne verjamejo, so se je raje ogibali. Ko se je revolucija končala, je Southward Howland zahteval hišo gospe Crewe in njen aker zemlje, sklicujoč se na zakon o vezani dedni posesti, čeprav se je pravica prvorojenstva v Ameriki, kjer je bilo prostora za vse več kot dovolj, le redko uveljavljala. Toda Howland je bil trmast, ženina hiša pa je stala na dobrem kraju, zato je nekega dne prijezdil pred njena vrata in jo s trkanjem biča poklical ven.

»Kaj počnete tu na moji zemlji?« je vprašal. »Živim na zemlji, ki je moja. Sama sem jo izkrčila in si tu postavila hišo; nihče drug nima pravice do nje.« »Jaz pa jo imam. Ta posest je moja. V petek bom vašo kočo podrl.«

»V petek vam bodo na Burying Hillu kopali grob. Vidim senco, ki se zgrinja okoli vas. Z vsakim dihom jo vlečete vase. Hitro! Domov in spravite se z Bogom!« Na uvelem obrazu starke so se pojavile rdeče lise in oči so ji žarele v vdrtih očesnih jamicah.

»Ne prihajajte mi s čarovniškimi besedami, ženska. V petek se vrnem.« In zavihtel se je v sedlo. Tedaj je materi Crewe na ramo skočila črna mačka in tam obstala ter predirljivo mijavkala. Ženska je poslušala njene krike, kakor da bi bile besede. Sovraštvo v njenem pogledu se je še poglobilo. Dvignila je roko in zavpila: »Vaš dan se izteka. Pokesajte se!«

»Bah! Slišali ste, kaj sem rekel. Če se do petka ne poberete drugam, bom podrl tramovje in vas pokopal pod ruševinami.« »Dovolj!« je zavpila ženska, se vzravnala in spregovorila z rezkim glasom. »Moje prekletstvo naj vas spremlja na tem in onem svetu. Umrite! Potem pa pojdite v pekel!«

Ob teh besedah je mačka z njene rame skočila konju na bok, pihala in ga praskala, prestrašeni konj pa je podivjano oddirjal. Ko je izginjal med zakrnelimi hrasti, so še videli njegovega gospodarja, kako ga zaman skuša ustaviti. Večer se je spuščal z meglo in hladom in še preden je svetloba povsem ugasnila, je mož, ki se je vračal domov, naletel na truplo Southwarda Howlanda, iztegnjeno na tleh.

Izvirnik

132 Mother Crewe

Naslednje strani prikazujejo izvirno besedilo za primerjavo.

Mother Crewe was of evil repute in Plymouth in the last century. It was said that she had taken pay for luring a girl into her old farm-house, where a man lay dead of small-pox, with intent to harm her beauty; she was accused of blighting land and driving ships ashore with spells; in brief, she was called a witch, and people, even those who affected to ignore the craft of wizardry, were content to keep away from her. When the Revolution ended, Southward Howland demanded Dame Crewe's house and acre, claiming under law of entail, though primogeniture had been little enforced in America, where there was room and to spare for all. But Howland was stubborn and the woman's house had good situation, so one day he rode to her door and summoned her with a tap of his whip.

“What do you here on my land?” said he.

“I live on land that is my own. I cleared it, built my house here, and no other has claim to it.”

“Then I lay claim. The place is mine. I shall tear your cabin down on Friday.”

“On Friday they'll dig your grave on Burying Hill. I see the shadow closing round you. You draw it in with every breath. Quick! Home and make your peace!” The hag's withered face was touched with spots of red and her eyes glared in their sunken sockets.

“Bandy no witch words with me, woman. On Friday I will return.” And he swung himself into his saddle. As he did so a black cat leaped on Mother Crewe's shoulder and stood there, squalling. The woman listened to its cries as if they were words. Her look of hate deepened. Raising her hand, she cried, “Your day is near its end. Repent!”

“Bah! You have heard what I have said. If on Friday you are not elsewhere, I'll tear the timbers down and bury you in the ruins.”

“Enough!” cried the woman, her form straightening, her voice grown shrill. “My curse is on you here and hereafter. Die! Then go down to hell!”

As she said this the cat leaped from her shoulder to the flank of the horse, spitting and clawing, and the frightened steed set off at a furious pace. As he disappeared in the scrub oaks his master was seen vainly trying to stop him. The evening closed in with fog and chill, and before the light waned a man faring homeward came upon the corpse of Southward Howland stretched along the ground.