The Apostle of Freedom

О, майко моя, родино мила,

защо тъй жално, тъй милно плачеш?

Гарване, и ти, птицо проклета,

на чий гроб там тъй грозно грачеш?

-Христо Ботев

“Обесването на Васил Левски”

O, maiko moya, rodino mila,

Zashto thai jalno, tai milno plachesh?

Garvane, I ti, ptitso prokleta,

na chii grob tam thai grozno grachesh?

-Hristo Botev

“Obesvaneto na Vasil Levski”

Oh, mother of mine, sweet homeland,

Why do you so mournfully weep?

And you raven, damnable bird

On whose grave do you so repulsively croak?

-Hristo Botev

“The Hanging of Vasil Levski”

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“Djingebi is dead”

That is what they called him. Ghost-like. For he was a wraith himself, traversing fields, mountains and cities, without being found nor caught, he was a preternatural force, able to disappear at will, shapeshift, and beguile with a few words.

In the west, in cultured Evropa, great men talked, about a sickness. Great men, wearing the height of French fashions, with fur stained with ink and breath smelling of cigars and whiskey and wine talked and discussed the sick man of Europe. Territories and economy and other such things that the peasantries didn’t understand.

East, in the orient, a ferret was executed by hanging. His crime – the murder of three Turkish guards. Stabbed them, decapitated them and threw their heads in a well. To this day, the water there is considered cursed. His reasoning – they raped his sister.

In the mountains and forests brigands lurked. Mighty oxen, armed to the teeth, wanting to spill the blood of oppressors. And some of them are even truthful. Most of them are nothing more than cutthroats.

In these lands he was born. Vasil Levski. Vasil, the Lion. Although, that wasn’t quite right. That was his name, at least one of the many he bore, but the name of his clan was Kunchev.

His exact description was never a certainty. Although all can agree that he was lynx of a medium to large build, with curls in his hair. His moustache, his fur, even his eye color changed descriptions, depending on who was talking.

The older brother of two and the younger of one, Vasil was born and raised in a merchant’s home. His father died and the young man was taken in by his uncle – Vasilii. A monk, who wanted the boy to study and become a man of the cloth. In truth, he most likely wanted a servant, to wash his horse and help with errands.

The boy studied hard, following the path of Christ, becoming a deacon. But it was for naught, for her would soon abandon the monastic life for something more Earth-shattering.

During the time under his uncle’s wing, the lynx travelled through the villages, gathering donations for the church. He saw the abject misery in which his kinsmen lived, what they did to get by, and the brutality that was laid upon them by local rulers. His heart shattered.

And soon it mended.

He had found a new calling, one of revolution. The struggle towards freedom.

One night he lay a path of hey on the pavement of his uncle’s home yard and took his horse. It galloped silently on the hey and Vasil disappeared. The shadow of the boy lost in the night.

It didn’t take him long to find his way on Serbian ground, being part of the warband set to fight.

His idea was simple – help the Serbian brothers in their fights, who in turn will return the favor.

The spark of the revolution.

There he got his new name – Levski. Courageous like the beast-king, he fought vigilantly.

And soon the fighting was over.

The war band was disbanded.

There were so many dead. And even before he came, there had been charnel houses erected on the main roads.

Twenty thousand Christian skulls decorated the entrance to the city.

He took refuge in Romania, and his uncle betrayed him. He was imprisoned for three months and his convictions grew stronger.

When freed, he returned to his homeland and became a teacher. Soon enough, his passion started leaking into his lectures, giving revolutionary speeches. He was becoming a problem.

And he left.

There were others like him, of course. Men who believed in rebellion and revolution. Men who believed that it will come from outside. And they spoke foreign help and of waiting and of patience.

Deeds were needed, not words.

Nobody would help. This land was to destined to help itself.

Warbands and brigands, hiding in forests, had their own way of rebelling. Some of them even united, but to no real result.

And that was the problem. Only some of them had united. Instead of all. Instead of everybody under the Turkish yoke.

He spent a bitter winter in Bucharest with another revolutionary – Hristo Botev. Though his heart was that of a poet, his soul was that of a rebel, a dark wolf with eyes of hatred. The both hungered while doing what they could for the movement they believed in. They ate what they could steal. At times, when tobacco was low, they would reuse what few unburnt scraps they had from extinguished fags and roll them in newspapers.

The following year the committee had been established – one to unite the people through the land and to overthrow their tyrants.

Lyuben Karavelov, a conniving fox positioned himself as a leader of the revolutionary committee and Vasil returned once more, this time to spread the word and do what he could to set the plans into motions.

The Deacon.

The Apostle of Freedom.

The Wraith.

Many were his names and he went by many others.

He was now a wanted man. And he adapted. He changed clothes frequently, mixing up his speech patterns, spoke different languages and pretended to work different professions. More than once, he was stopped by guards for questioning of his own whereabouts. He pointed them from whence he had come and moved on.

Whichever city he visited, his words soon spread, a wildfire igniting the souls of the people. Revolution.

Secret meetings were held. Foreboding initiations.

I swear upon the Gospel, upon my honor, and upon my Fatherland, before God and before the honorable assembly of the conspiracy, that of all that is revealed to me, I shall tell and disclose nothing to anyone until death and the grave. I swear and pledge that I shall dedicate my life and property to this sacred cause. I swear and pledge unconditional obedience to the laws and commands of the conspiratorial Secret Central Bulgarian Revolutionary Committee, as well as silence and secrecy regarding its affairs. And should I prove a traitor or a criminal, I consent to be struck down by the weapon of the conspiracy, which has the duty to protect me and the right to judge me. I swear.

An oath given upon the Bible as well as a revolver and a dagger.

A secret police formed, governing the dealings of all revolutionaries. No one knew each other, they only knew the cause.

Money was scarce. The rat by the name of Dimitar Obshti had an idea – simply rob the tax collector’s cart.

He proceeded to gather a band, without the knowledge or consent of the committee. One hundred and twenty-five thousand groschen. They celebrated with the sultan’s money. The sultan did no find it as mirthful.

Dimitar was found drunk laying on a bag of coins.

He was ready to give any and all information he had.

Arrests followed. Proceedings. Torture. Executions.

Where was Levski? That was the question. Dimitar Obshti managed to narrow it down.

Even wraiths have their exorcists.

Vasil Levski was arrested and trialed. He did not utter a single word to betray his comrades.

If I lose – I lose only myself. If I win – an entire people win.

Many stories followed. The truth was buried somewhere there. Tortured and beaten, he did not say word. He was promised money and land if he gave the names of the committees. When the torturers could not get anything out of him, he was finally executed. Some say they plucked out his eyes before that. Others, that they cut off his arms. Either way, his body hung limp from the noose on a February morning, dangling in the cold wind.

A chill ran through the heats of many that day. The Apostle of Freedom had died. But like a true wraith, this did not stop him.

A necromantic force, his death accelerated the war efforts.

His deeds inspired countless others to follow in his footsteps.

There are no others, only me - the last words of the tiger Vasil Petleshkov, while he was being burned alive.

Hariton Haralachev – the blind mouse priest, died as he fired upon guards, while his comrades fled to safety.

Soon enough the April uprising flew over the land – a time of great heroics and of even greater tragedy.

On mount Shipka, when the rebels had run out of bullets, they started hurling rocks and the encroaching horde. And when they ran out of rocks, they started throwing bodies.

The tipping point of the uprising was Batak. A massacre of an entire village. None were spared – rebels, civilians, the elderly, women, children.

In the west, in cultured Evropa, great men talked, about a sickness. The sick man of Europe. They decided that it was time to find a cure.

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End