The Legend of the Treasure of Kyapatsa

At the very edge of the village of Khyapatsy, where its only street ends, a hill rises. On the hill stands an ancient castle. Now, only ruins remain, and in its dark towers, only owls and bats nest.

The villagers tell amazing stories about this castle. About a hundred years ago, every day exactly at noon, a rusty bolt would slide open. The heavy doors would creak open, and an old man would step out onto the threshold. His long white beard reached below his waist. He wore a jacket with puffy sleeves, short trousers, a red cap on his head, and shoes with buckles. The old man would groan as he sat down on the steps of the staircase to warm his bones in the sun. And his bones were very, very old—no one knew how old he was, and he himself couldn’t have counted the years.

At this hour, all the children of Khyapatsy would run to the castle. They would climb onto the old man’s knees, tug at his beard, and pull the red cap off his head. But the old man never got angry with the children. And sometimes, when the sun was especially hot and his bones stopped aching, he would wink slyly at the kids, and they would start dancing and pleading:

"Show us, grandpa!"

"Let us in, grandpa!"

"Let us play, grandpa!"

The old man would rise and enter the dark doors, and the children would tiptoe after him. They would pass through echoing halls and vaulted corridors, then descend a narrow staircase for a long time. The old man would struggle to push open an iron door. The children would step over the threshold, and the door would slam shut behind them. And every time, their mouths and eyes would open wide in amazement. For in the dungeon lay the treasures of Khyapatsy. Piles of ancient gold and silver coins lay scattered, and chests with open lids were filled to the brim with precious gems. The stones shone so brightly that the dark dungeon seemed as light as day.

The old man allowed the children to play with the treasures. The boys would jokingly stage battles. Some waved swords with golden hilts, while others shielded themselves with enormous, intricately patterned shields. The girls adorned themselves with jewels and wore expensive headdresses. Their dresses were old and tattered, but the girls instantly seemed to turn into little princesses.

The old man, watching all this, would chuckle softly. Then he would take a silver bell in his hand and ring it. The princesses would turn back into little ragged girls, the brave warriors into ordinary boys. Everyone would quickly put the treasures back in their places and leave the dungeon. And never did any of the children take even a single coin or stone with them. Only once, a seven-year-old boy, who had entered the dungeon for the first time, slipped a coin with a square hole into his pocket to use as a sinker for his fishing line. And, miraculously, the iron door refused to open. Then the old man said:

"Whoever took it, must return it."

The boy, blushing, tossed the coin back into the pile. The door immediately swung open.

But one dark night, three thieves managed to sneak into the castle. These thieves were afflicted with a terrible disease—they were consumed by a thirst for wealth. They had come from far away, because in the lands they came from, there was nothing left to steal. They had already stolen everything that could be stolen.

These thieves were clever; they could open any door without a sound. They wrapped their shoes in felt and covered their faces with masks. But still, the old man woke up. He came out to meet them and asked:

"What do you want here, good people?"

The thieves, seeing that they were dealing with a frail, unarmed old man, grew bold.

"They say this castle holds treasures!" they shouted.

"That is true," replied the old man. "But why do you want the treasures?"

"I will build myself a palace with a hundred rooms, hire a hundred servants, and live there alone," said the first thief.

The second thief said:

"And I will buy a large ship and sail to all the countries. In each one, I will eat only what the ruling king of that land eats."

"Well, I’m not so foolish," said the third thief. "I won’t waste my share of the wealth. I’ll hide the gold and be happy just knowing I own it."

"Allow me to say something," the old man spoke. "You are foolishly dividing what you will never obtain. Leave now, before I lose my temper."

"Why are we wasting time listening to the ramblings of this old fool!" shouted the first thief. "What can he do to us!"

"You’ll find out soon enough!"

And the thief felt with horror the strength in the seemingly frail old man’s arms. The old man grabbed all three by the scruff of their necks and dragged them out the door. As if by an unseen force, the first thief was flung upward. Luckily, he managed to grab onto a passing cloud. He only returned to earth three days later, when the cloud burst into rain.
The old man threw the second thief even higher—onto a lightning bolt. And so, he came riding down on that lightning bolt when a thunderstorm broke out a week later.

As for the third thief, the old man hurled him so high that he has yet to return to earth.

Where did the treasures in the castle of Chiappazza come from? Who was the old man guarding these treasures, and where did they go? The villagers might tell you if you ask them very nicely.

They say that once upon a time, the castle of Chiappazza belonged to a noble family of ruling lords. The last lord of the castle rarely lived there and never for long. He did not host merry, noisy feasts, nor was he captivated by the smiles of beautiful women or the conversations of wise old men. More than anything in the world, he loved to gallop on his trusty steed, lance in hand, to meet his enemies and cross swords with them in fierce combat. In short, the lord of the castle was a warrior.

One day, the lord received news that Saracens had landed on the coast and attacked a seaside town. Without delay, the lord gathered his soldiers and hurried there. But it was too late. The Saracens had plundered the town, burned it to the ground, and sailed away on their ships, carrying off a rich bounty.

The lord rode in grim silence through the ruined, smoldering streets when suddenly he heard a pitiful cry, as if coming from beneath the earth. The lord dismounted and looked around. It took him a while to think of peering into an abandoned, dried-up well. By the light of a torch, he saw a small boy at the bottom. How the frightened boy had ended up there, he couldn’t say. The lord took pity on the child, placed him on his horse, and brought him to his castle.

When the boy grew up, the lord made him his squire. And there was no servant more loyal or devoted than he.

Rinaldo—for that was the foundling’s name—accompanied his master on all his campaigns. He always fought side by side with the lord. Fortune is fickle in the heat of battle, but when two care for each other, death passes them by. More than once, Rinaldo shielded his lord with his own body, and more than once, the lord deflected a sword aimed at Rinaldo’s head.

This went on for many years. One day, the lord’s soldiers were pursuing an enemy in the distant mountains. The enemy managed to escape into the gorges. Night fell, and the place was unfamiliar, so the lord decided to wait for dawn. Rinaldo noticed a cave at the foot of a steep cliff, gathered branches, and made a comfortable bed for his master. He himself lay across the cave’s entrance, his weapon at his side.

That night, the lord must have been restless. The squire heard his uneasy footsteps on the stone floor of the cave and, lifting his head, saw the flickering flame of a torch dancing under the low arches.

In the morning, the lord emerged from the cave gloomy and preoccupied. Instead of pursuing the enemy, he turned the troop around.

From then on, Rinaldo’s life changed. That night, the lord had discovered untold riches in the cave. For seven years, he transported the treasure on a white, lame mule from the cave in the distant mountains to the dungeon of his ancestral castle. And since the lord had no servant more loyal or devoted than Rinaldo, he entrusted him with guarding the treasure.

Rinaldo sadly noticed that his master’s once generous and noble nature had changed drastically. He had become miserly and distrustful, no longer rushing to aid the oppressed or seeking glory in battle. When the lord was at the castle, he spent entire days alone, locked in the dungeon with the treasure.

In the eighth year, the lord set out again for the mountains on his white, lame mule. As he left, he said to Rinaldo:

"Remember: no matter what happens to me, you must guard the treasure. I swear you by the fire that burned your hometown and spared you, I swear you by the sword with which I deflected death from your head three times three—guard the treasure! If even the smallest part of it sees the light of day, you will die!"

The lord rode away and never returned. Rinaldo waited for him for a long time, then stopped waiting. He lost track of days, months, and years. Down in the village of Chiappazza, old men died, young couples married, and children were born. From afar, Rinaldo saw funerals, christenings, and wedding processions. But for him, nothing changed. He guarded the treasure.

One night, he heard the whistle of a storm and the howling of the wind. Trees cracked and broke. In all his long, long life, Rinaldo had never seen such a storm. Rain fell not in drops or streams, but in torrents. Thoughts of what was happening down in Chiappazza kept the old squire from sleeping.

As soon as a gloomy dawn broke over the land, the old man rose and peered through an arrow slit. What he saw was more terrible than a battlefield after a long fight. Where Chiappazza had stood, muddy waters raged, churning logs and remnants of household goods. Here and there, the ruins of houses still loomed above the water. And on the hill, by the castle walls, huddled the miserable, freezing villagers.

The old man flung open the castle doors. In the fireplaces, where no fire had burned for so many years, logs crackled. As the children warmed up, they began running through the echoing halls with joyful cries, but the faces of their parents remained grim. One stormy night had taken what generations had toiled to build. They had lost their homes, their crops were ruined, and their livestock had drowned. The old squire silently watched the weeping women. Then he spoke:

"The treasure of Chiappazza is cursed. I have guarded it for many, many years because my lord commanded me. It has brought no happiness—not to my master, not to me, nor to those who owned it before. But perhaps the time has come for gold and jewels to help those who deserve it. I will not open the dungeon doors, for that would open the doors to envy, robbery, and murder. I will give you as much as you need to rebuild Chiappazza. When he left, my lord said that if even the smallest part of the treasure saw the light of day, I would die. So be it! My old life has long been of no use to me."

The old man descended into the dungeon and brought out a sack of gold. The women wiped away their tears, and the men straightened their shoulders. The old squire smiled at them and said:

"Still, I did not guard the treasure in vain."

These were his last words. At that very moment, he fell onto the stone floor of the hall and died.

The old squire gave the people only a small part of the treasure. What became of the rest of the hoard? No one knows for sure. Some say it turned to shards and coals. The castle has fallen into ruin and is almost destroyed. No one goes there anymore. Only occasionally does a bolder peasant hide hay there to keep it dry from the winter rains.

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The Legend of the Treasure of Kyapatsa

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