THE SON OF KRIVIŲ KRIVAITIS

KRIVIŲ KRIVAIČIO SŪNUS

Tankios, neįžengiamos girios ošė Neries šlaituose, kur stovejo galingojo lietuvių dievo Praamžiaus šventykla.....

English Translation by GLORIA O’BRIEN

Dense, impenetrable woods rustled on the Neris River banks, where stood the sanctuary of the Lithuanians’ mighty god Praamžius. Only narrow paths trod by bison,aurochs and elk wound through the thicket, where one might easily meet one of these, or perhaps even a shaggy bear, but never a human being, as the forests were ruled by beasts and the powerful gods.

In the midst of an ancient oak grove, encircled by the Neris and Vilnelė rivers, stood the famous Romuva (pagan sanctuary), sacred to the honor of Praamžius, where the eternal flame had burned for ages, never extinguished, day or night, winter or summer. Here lived Krivių Krivaitis (the high priest), whose every word was obeyed, not only by the other kriviai (priests) and vaidilutės (consecrated maidens tending the sacred flame), but by all Lithuanians, even the Grand Prince.

Krivių Krivaitis was very powerful, as the people all believed that the greatest god, Praamžius, spoke through him; every word was accepted as the decree of the gods, and all hurried to carry out his bidding.

Krivių Krivaitis lived with his beautiful wife in this sacred oak wood, sacrificing to the gods, announcing and explaining their will, acting as judge and peace-maker amongst the people. All came to him for advice and justice, and even the Grand Prince often visited the Šventaragio valley, for a word of wisdom or welcome advice.

Though he served the gods faithfully, fulfilling their will without question, they did not grant him life’s greatest joy – children. But he loved his wife dearly and didn’t reproach her or the gods, or complain against fate.

But life is far more apt to strew man’s path with pain and sorrow, than with bright moments and joy. And so it happened with the highest priest. One summer’s day, his wife died, and he, a forty-year-old, was left all alone, as the Lithuanians’ religion strictly forbade a priest to marry a second time. All the kriviai, vaidilai and vaidilutės felt great sympathy as they watched him, head bowed in sorrow and heavy thought, walking through the sacred oak grove.

Each morning, after offering prayers to Praamžius, he would wander far along the banks of Neris and Vilnelė, until it was time to return to the eternal flame, to sing hymns in praise of the gods. He avoided people, gazing into the depths of the river, listening to birdsong and rustling trees, wondering at the shining stars in the night sky, and sometimes forgetting some of his grief.

And so the inclement autumn arrived, its strong winds tearing leaves away from the oak trees, and then the winter, with its snow-storms, ice and frost. It was more and more difficult to maintain the sacred flame, and guard it from wind and rain. The hot flame of the eternal fire must flutter lively, shining as the spirit of the entire Lithuanian nation.

No longer did Krivių Krivaitis wander along the riverbanks, now hidden by deep snowy hills, the rivers’ waters clad in thick sheets of ice. All sheltered at the sanctuary’s flame and its warmth. On clear nights, he walked through the oak grove, imagining his wife’s eyes looking down at him from among the stars.

At last, the grim winter passed, and spring’s sun sparkled over the high banks of the Neris. The snow had melted, revealing the year’s first violets. One early morning, having sung a hymn welcoming Aušrinė (the Morning Star), Krivių Krivaitis walked along the bank of the Neris, to meet the approaching spring, admire its magic, fill his lungs with its fresh, lively air, perhaps to meet someone along the way, to soothe his sorrowing heart. He knew that spring was bringing him gifts, but didn’t know what they might be.

He glanced at the violets, at the row of cranes flying across the bright sky, at Neris and Vilnelės foaming current singing an unknown song, and his heart, so long troubled by grief, finally lightened. Just as the ice melted, which had imprisoned the earth and rivers, so also did his grief begin to soften and his visage to brighten.

Suddenly he heard a song, a song so unexpected that he froze in place, unable to move. Years ago, his wife used to sing this song, softly stroking his hair, which was then black as a crow’s wing, not woven with silver strands, as now. The song was carried on the heartfelt tones of a woman’s lovely voice.

He took a few steps and saw a young girl standing on the bank of the Vilnelė. She had picked a handful of early violets, and was twining them into her long, thick blond braids. She was no more than eighteen years of age, as beautiful as Aušrinė, striding each morning across the purple skies.

Propelled by an unknown force, Krivių Krivaitis stepped closer, and a dry branch cracked loudly under his foot. The girl jumped like a frightened deer and, seeing the august personage of the highest priest, ran into the wood. Another second, and she was gone.

Krivių Krivaitis stopped and wiped his perspiring brow. He carefully gathered a few of the violets she had dropped, pressing them to his chest. “O mighty Perkūnas! – he whispered – “ What is happening to me! Why did I forget everything, when I saw that lovely face, those bright eyes, and crown of braids adorning her head?” He continued to stand by the riverbank for a while, but no one appeared and, saddened, he returned to the sacred oak grove. The next morning, irresistibly drawn to the same place, he walked and waited for a long time, meeting no one.

Several weeks passed. Spring hurried by, strewing its green gifts all along the way. The lilacs had bloomed and faded, and the birches had

arrayed themselves in their bright green leaves. Silver wildflowers and golden marigolds carpeted the forest. All of Nature seemed like a bride dressed for her wedding. As Krivių Krivaitis walked along the riverbank, choirs of songbirds trilled merrily, but his heart was heavy.

One day, quite unexpectedly, he again heard the same song, and saw the girl who had stolen his heart’s peace. Parting the branches of a thick bush, he saw her, seated, with her feet dipped into the water, twining a wreath from vari-colored flowers. Totally occupied, she did not realize she was being observed.

She was startled when he stood beside her, but calmed as she recognized the highest priest, honored by all the nation as well as herself. She knew of his misfortune, and her sympathetic young heart felt his deep grief and unhappiness.

Bowing low, eyes cast down, she stood before him; he stroked her golden hair, and invited her to sit beside him. She replied, as openly as a trusting child, to his gentle questions about her life and her family. She was eighteen years old, an only child, and remembered her mother not at all, as she had died when the girl was only two years of age. Her father had perished on the horns of an aurochs during a hunting party with the Grand Prince. She found shelter with her aunt, her mother’s sister, who had a little cottage at the edge of the Vilnelė. During winter, she and her loving aunt spun thread and wove fabrics; in summer, they collected mushrooms and berries. They had a cow, and grew apples, pears and berries. People eagerly bought their woven products, sheets, towels and sashes, and, though they had no wealth, they were both contented and happy.

They conversed for a long time, both feeling as though they had been the closest of friends for many years. Krivių Krivaitis, for the first time in his life, almost forgot his duty to sing the evening hymns to the gods and invoke their help and advice for all.

They met again in the same place, the next day, and each day after. He would bring her a small gift: an amber necklace, a silver ring, lovely pins or hair clasps made by a talented artisan. She in turn sang many songs for him, related fairy-tales and legends she had learned from her old aunt. She grew a bit bolder and, with childlike trust, nestled against him, stroking his beard, weaving flowery wreaths for his gray head, or feeding him berries from her little hands. Soon, words of love were spoken, and they knew the sweetness of a first kiss.

Krivių Krivaitis was a wise man, and understood the mortal danger of their attachment. According to the ancient tradition of hundreds of years, the Krivių Krivaitis could not marry a second time. Having disobeyed this law, he must be burned to death, and his beloved must be buried alive. The wrathful Perkūnas was pitiless with those who broke his laws.

But just as it would be impossible to hold back a wildfire in a dry field, so their love would not be extinguished. The following spring, as the cuckoo called through the forest, their son came into the world, at once their greatest joy and deepest sorrow. They rejoiced in their beautiful child, but were sad that they must hide him from others, could never speak of their love, living always in worry and fear.

Krivių Krivaitis searched his mind over and over again for a way to allow the boy to be raised by his mother, and permit his father to visit them each day. Finally, he had a plan.

Every spring, Grand Prince Vytenis came to hunt in the Šventaragis Valley. The ancient forest, with its natural beauty and, most important,

its abundance of wild game, attracted the prince to the banks of the Neris, where he could rest from his worries in fighting Lithuania’s enemies.

Krivių Krivaitis decided to wrap his son in silk adorned with golden ornaments and wreaths and garlands of flowers, then place him in an eagle’s nest that had been built high in an oak tree. As the tree stood at the edge of a path trodden by game, where the prince was apt to wait for an aurochs to show itself, it was certain that the infant in the nest would be seen. And it was equally certain that the prince would call for the Krivių Krivaitis to explain the will of the gods.

A few days later, the forest was alive with the voices of hunters, beaters and hounds, as the prince headed towards his favorite place and made ready to signal the start of the hunt. Suddenly there was the cry of a child. The prince raised his head and saw something shining in the eagle’s nest high in the tree. He sent a servant to climb up and investigate, and the man was seen to carefully extract an infant! The child was laid down at the prince’s feet, and as the prince bent to look at him, the boy, seeing a bearded face much like that of his father, left off crying and smiled. The prince’s bajorai (nobles) said that surely this child was a message from the gods, but how were they to know if it was a benevolent message or something other? The Krivių Krivaitis was sent for.

The prince asked Krivių Krivaitis to consider and explain the mystery. The high priest didn’t answer immediately, as his heart was leaping in his chest: These next moments would decide the fate of those he loved, and his own. He began a long prayer to Praamžius, asking for an explanation for the miracle. Finally finishing his prayer, which all had listened to with great respect, Krivių Krivaitis picked up the child and gave him to the prince.

“Great prince! The gods favor you and have sent you this child as a blessing, and you should accept this gift, for you and all of Lithuania.

The gods have destined this child to take my place, when I have traveled to the kingdom of Praamžius. Teach him well, to be the servant of the gods, so that he may be a worthy mediator between our gods and the people.”

The prince was pleased with this prediction, and asked Krivių Krivaitis

to be the guardian of the child so miraculously found. The priest again prayed to the gods, and received their agreement to the prince’s plan.

Krivių Krivaitis took his son back to the sanctuary, where he soon brought the boy’s mother to raise the child and teach him. To commemorate the amazing discovery of the child in an eagle’s nest, (erelio lizdas) the prince named him Lizdeika, and the place where he had been found crying (verkiant), was named Verkiai.

The favor of the gods continued further. Lizdeika, on his father’s death, became the Krivių Krivaitis, married the daughter of grand prince Vytenis, and made his own name and that of Lithuania widely famous. It was he, Lizdeika, Krivių Krivaitis, who interpreted the dream of Lithuania’s grand prince Gediminas, about a howling iron wolf, and foretold the creation of the great city, Vilnius.

Source:

From “Lietuvių Padavimai”,

A collection of Lithuanian legends edited by Pranas Sasnauskas

Published by “Vaiga” in Lithuania 2004

© EnglishTranslation - Gloria O’Brien 2007

This article was printed in Bridges Jan/Feb 2007

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