Spring Festival

Heather drink Long ago forgotten, But it was sweeter than honey, Stronger than wine. In cauldrons it was brewed And drunk by the whole family Little honey-makers In caves beneath the ground. The Scottish king came, Ruthless to his enemies. He drove the poor Picts To the rocky shores. On the heather field On the battlefield The living lay on the dead And the dead on the living. Summer came to the land, The heather bloomed again, But there was no one to make The heather honey. In their narrow graves In the mountains of their land The little honey-makers Found their refuge. The king rides along the slope Above the sea on his horse, And seagulls soar beside him Level with the road. The king looks gloomily And thinks: "All around The honey heather blooms, But we do not drink the honey." But then his vassals Noticed two - The last honey-makers, Remaining alive. They came out from under the stone, Squinting at the white light - An old, hunchbacked dwarf And a boy of fifteen. To the steep seashore They were brought for questioning, But none of the prisoners Said a word. The Scottish king sat Motionless in the saddle, And the little people Stood on the ground. Angrily the king said: "The whip awaits both of you, If you don't tell me, devils, How you make the honey!" Father and son were silent, Standing at the edge of the cliff. The heather rustled above them, The waves rolled in the sea. And suddenly a voice sounded: "Listen, Scottish king, Let me talk to you Face to face." "Old age fears death, I will buy life with betrayal, I will reveal the secret," The dwarf said to the king. His sparrow-like voice Sounded sharp and clear. "I would have revealed the secret long ago, If my son had not interfered. The boy does not care about life, Death means nothing to him. It would be a shame for me To sell my conscience in front of him. Let him be tightly bound And thrown into the abyss of water And I will teach the Scots To make the ancient honey." A strong Scottish warrior Tightly bound the boy And threw him into the open sea From the steep coastal cliffs. The waves closed over him, The last cry faded. And an echo answered him From the cliff, the old man: "I spoke the truth, Scots, I expected trouble from my son, I did not believe in the resilience of young people, Who do not shave their beards. But I am not afraid of the fire, Let my sacred secret die with me, My heather honey."