SĀGA PAR KURŠIEM

Описание: "Un, kamēr vien viļņi sitas pret akmeņiem,
kamēr vējš šalc Kurzemes mežos,
vienmēr būs kāds, kas atcerēsies kuršu vārdu – lepnu kā saule pie apvāršņa,
negantu kā jūra vētrā, spītīgu kā paši kurši…"
Mazliet romatizēts stāsts par senajiem kuršiem.

Those were ancient times when they came here.
The Heruls.
That is what they were called then, but even in those days their hands already knew how to wield both sword and oar.
They were people of sea and land, whose roots were known only to the Gods and the shadows of the ancient forests.
Their language was rough, like the stones of the seashore.
Strange to the ears of other tribes, yet close to the Prussian tongue.
Some even said – they were the same Prussians, only with the salt of the sea fermented in their blood.
Along the Baltic Sea they came north, to where the Livs villages lay in those times.
Here they found a home, and vast was their new land.
From Venta to the distant meadows of the Skalvians and Samogitians, and the hillforts of the Semigallians.
And in time, they were called the Curonians, and this land was named Courland.
Back then, Courland had nine lands – Vanema, Ventava, Bandava, Piemare, Duvzare, Ceklis, Meguva, and Pilsāts.
But the ninth lay near Saldus, where Semigallians also lived, and at times they were brothers in battle, at times enemies.
As all were in those days…
There are many tales about the Curonians.
The runestones of Gotland mention the lands of the Curonians, as do foreign chroniclers, but most vividly they live in the sagas.
There it is told of Egil’s ventures in Courland, where he tasted the bitterness of captivity and the joy of escape.
There it is told of the fire of Curonian swords in Danish and Swedish lands, and there is even a legend that it was the Curonians who burned down ancient Sigtuna.
At first they spoke with the Swedes and Danes in markets, but the talk of the marketplace is short, soon replaced by the language of the sword, and the time of raiding came.
Hundreds of Curonian ships set out to sea.
They feared no one, but struck terror into their enemies.
And their enemies respected them.
And called upon them for help against their own foes.
As did the Swedish king Sigurd Ring, when in the Battle of Bråvalla the blood ran as water in the sea.
And once the Danish king Horik came to Courland with many ships and a great host of warriors.
But half of them sank into the depths under Curonian swords and axes.
The Curonians brought home chests of silver, precious armor, and slaves in chains.
Yet later, at Apuolė, came the Swedish king Olof with an army of men as countless as blades of grass in the meadow.
For nine days they fought.
For nine days the ditches of Apuolė were filled with Swedish blood.
When the Curonians’ strength was spent and no help came, they gave back Horik’s plunder.
But the Swedes could not linger here for long…
But every ending has a beginning.
The greedy gaze of the Christians fell upon the Baltic lands.
The church that the men sent by the Danish king Sweyn Estridsson built in Courland was, for the Curonians, an empty place.
It stood abandoned, and now only the wind and the forest know its site.
Then came the cunning German merchants and deceitful missionaries,
with sweet words and shining gifts.
After them came knights with swords…
At times the Curonians made treaties with them.
At times they cast them out from their hillforts.
At times they joined them in campaigns against others.
But peace with the newcomers was like ice on a spring river – thin and easily broken…
Thus began the war…
For many years they fought against the overwhelming might of the German and Danish crusaders.
Hillforts fell and rose again.
German Riga was besieged, but the promised allies betrayed them, never came, and Riga endured.
There were victories…
There were defeats…
But the enemy’s strength was unbreakable.
Thus ended the free rule of the Curonians, but not the Curonians themselves.
Interwoven with the other peoples of this land, like threads in a woven cloth, one day they cast off the foreign chains.
And as long as the waves strike against the stones,
as long as the wind whispers in the forests of Courland,
there will always be someone who remembers the name of the Curonians –
proud as the sun on the horizon,
fierce as the sea in storm,
unyielding as the Curonians themselves…