Hazatérés — Homecoming

I am in no hurry to get to the library this morning. My current assignment is so exciting that I am already tired just thinking about it: sorting and digitizing a collection of old records that nobody has touched in over fifty years.

I have a degree in history, yet somehow I spend most of my working hours doing things that have very little to do with research. Today, I get to spend eight hours in a dusty basement.

Great.

I have a dust allergy.

Eventually, I arrive. I blame the metro for being late again. Damn things are never on time! The porter nods agreeably while I hang my damp trench coat and hands me the keys.

After pouring myself a cup of coffee, I head downstairs to find the storage room.

The door is locked with a padlock, the kind that needs a skeleton key. I turn it, expecting a fight, but it clicks open on the first try.

I find thousands of records piled on top of each other. Some are in boxes, others lie directly on the floor. A small window lets in enough daylight to reveal the dust smothering the air. It smells of mice. I hope there are no rats, although the chewed corners of several sleeves suggest otherwise.

Whoever stored these things clearly had no intention of seeing them again.

I flip the light switch and drag my equipment inside. Everything is covered in dust and cobwebs. My wife won't be happy about my trousers.

But what can I do? The library has finally decided to digitize its collection, which means somebody has to identify, catalogue and clean every record before transferring the audio. That somebody, apparently, is me.

I understand the importance of preserving historical material. I really do. I just wish the library would let me research something instead of making me spend weeks cleaning up somebody else's mess from half a century ago. I wouldn't be surprised to find a dead Russian soldier.*

I pull a chair towards the first box and take out a record.

Shellac. Seventy-eight revolutions per minute, judging by the label. At least it's intact. The label says 1908, although I wouldn't trust the date. Whoever catalogued in this library had a generous relationship with accuracy.

I spend the next few hours sorting through folk songs, political speeches and recordings of people whose names mean nothing to me. Most have catalogue numbers, although the handwriting on some of the sleeves is nearly impossible to read.

By lunchtime, my nose is running, my coffee's gone cold, and I've barely made a dent in the first box.

Then I find a record without a label.

Just a word written by hand across the paper sleeve:

Hazatérés.*

Homecoming.

I turn the sleeve over, looking for something more. But nothing.

I take out the disc and examine it under the light. The surface is scratched but otherwise looks playable.

I put it aside with the records waiting to be transferred.

The recording room is on the second floor, which means I have to carry the records up two flights of stairs. Of course, there's no elevator. By the time I get there, I am already considering a career change.

By late afternoon, I reach the record marked Hazatérés.

For a few seconds, there is nothing but the familiar crackling. Then music begins.

It sounds like drumming in the distance. There's a low, uneven sound in the background, something between humming and chanting. It rises and falls without rhythm.

A man's voice comes through.

He speaks in Hungarian, that much I understand. But the words are difficult to make out, partly because of the drumming and partly because of the way he pronounces them.

I increase the volume.

The man stops speaking. For several seconds, only the crackling remains. Then he begins again.

It might be in a regional dialect. Maybe székely*. Or the recording equipment was terrible. Either way, I have another thirty records waiting for me.

I save the file, make a note about the poor sound quality and put the disc aside.

At dinner, my wife asks how work went.

"Dusty."

"Anything interesting?" Being a stay-at-home wife, she's always curious even about the most daunting details.

"Not unless you find dead politicians and terrible folk music interesting."

She laughs and asks whether I remembered to buy bread.

I haven't.

Later, while brushing my teeth, I catch myself humming.

It's the melody from that record. Or whatever that noise was supposed to be.

Hazatérés.

I haven't heard it more than twice, yet I clearly remember it.

The next morning, I return to the recording room before going downstairs for another batch of records.

I open the recording in the audio software and select the passage where the man starts to chant. I reduce some of the background noise and play it again.

Now it sounds like the man is speaking from the bottom of a well. I try a different setting, keeping the pitch closer to the original.

Better.

I recognize a word. Then a few others.

...the breath I draw...

I take a piece of paper from the printer and write them down. After half an hour, I have six words, three of which I'm not entirely sure about.

By lunchtime, I have nine.

Three days later, the other records are still waiting.

My supervisor asks if there's a problem with the equipment. I tell her I've come across a recording that needs further examination.

It's not exactly a lie.

The desk beside my keyboard is covered with papers filled with words, question marks and corrections.

...the flesh fresh well or dwell ???

I searched through several collections of Hungarian folk songs and spoken charms. None of them contains anything quite like this.

I put my headphones back on.

The man speaks again, then comes the same long pause. I've counted seventeen pauses. Every time he finishes a phrase, there's a pause.

It's nothing like the hesitation of someone thinking about what to say next. These pauses are too deliberate.

It's almost like he's expecting an answer.

I listen again.

This time, instead of concentrating on the words, I pay attention to the silence between them.

The man’s voice stretches into something rough and unnatural, but I can make out the final phrase now. I write it down, then compare it with the words that came before. The grammar is unusual and sounds old-fashioned. I need to check on this.

I find myself repeating the phrase along with the recording, trying to get the pronunciation right. When I reach the end, it finally makes sense. I got the whole sentence.

"I give you the breath I draw, the eyes with which I see, the flesh in which I dwell."

“Yes!” I punch in the air, pleased with myself.

I write down some notes and close the file. There are still dozens of records waiting for me, and I have already spent far too much time on one of them.

I spend the upcoming days pretending to work. I digitized some of the records, but mostly I keep tossing them around the table while constantly thinking about the recording.

Hazatérés.

Was it a performance of some kind? A call-and-response chant? If so, where was the other person?

At dinner, my wife asks how work went.

"Terrible. I barely touched the collection."

"Why? Did something happen?"

"I found something interesting."

She looks up from her plate. "Tell me about it."

I feel sorry for her. Since she stopped working, nothing happens in her life, and I feel like she tries to live through me. So I tell her everything about it.

"It's an old recording. A man speaking in a weird accent, probably from the beginning of the last century. I've spent three days trying to decipher it, and I finally got the last sentence today."

"And what does he say?"

I tell her.

"Maybe it's a prayer," she suggests.

"Maybe. Or some kind of ritual. I haven't found anything similar in the sources I've checked."

"You sound excited."

"I am not."

She smiles and returns to her dinner.

Later, while brushing my teeth, I catch myself humming the melody again. I stop, annoyed with myself, and spit into the sink.

I really need to get that recording out of my head.

The next day, I decide to take the recording home with me to play it to my wife. It bothers me that I can't correctly categorize it in the system. Maybe she has an idea about it.

And my wife is a folklorist, though non-practicing. She'll be happy to help me.

I slide the shellac disc into its sleeve, wrap it in my coat to protect it, and put it in my bag.

At home, my wife is late. Probably still shopping for dinner. So I have the flat to myself. I put the disc on the table and take out my laptop. The digital file is already there, but I want to show her the original.

The turntable wasn't used in a long time, so I dust it off and place it on the smoking table.

Hazatérés.

What a strange name for the recording. I set it on the turntable and lower the needle. I want to make sure it works, so I don't disappoint my wife.

Luckily, it works.

The crackling starts. Then the drumming, the low chant, and the man's voice.

I know the words now. The man finished the first sentence, and I reach for the needle.

And then, I hear my own voice.

My hand freezes in the air.

The recording continues. The man carries on with the next phrase, his voice as rough and distant as before.

Then I hear my own voice again.

I lift the needle.

For a few seconds, I stand there, staring at the record.

That was my voice. Not a voice that sounded like mine. It was mine.

I know because I recognize the way I pronounced the sentence yesterday, with a slight hesitation before the last word. I remember sitting alone in the recording room, headphones on, pleased with myself for finally understanding the last sentence.

But it's impossible.

I wasn't recording anything. The microphone wasn't connected. I was listening to the digital file.

I stop the turntable and go straight to my laptop. I find the file of the recording and play it.

The man speaks.

Then silence.

I lean back in my chair.

There is a perfectly rational explanation for this. There has to be. The software might have overwritten something. Or I made a mistake when playing the recording.

But how?

How can I accidentally record myself on a shellac while listening to a digital file? And most oddly, how can I record myself perfectly in the pauses?

My phone rings, making me jump, and I nearly knock the disc off the table.

It's my wife.

"Are you home?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Everything all right?"

I look at the record.

"Of course."

"You sound strange."

"I'm tired. That's all."

She tells me she'll be home in about forty minutes.

I end the call, then I sit down at my laptop and search for the phrase I transcribed, followed by the words Hungarian folk ritual.

The first results are useless, but then I find a reference to a collection of folk beliefs from the nineteenth century. The text is scanned poorly, but I recognize a few expressions similar to my transcription.

The passage concerns a táltos*.

Of course.

Every Hungarian child has heard stories about the táltos. People born with unusual abilities, sometimes with extra toes. Healers who communicate with spirits and fight supernatural battles. Depending on the region, they were either blessed or cursed.

Most of the document is familiar folklore. Then I come across a story about a táltos who promised to return.

According to the accounts, he had left something unfinished in the world of the living. Nobody seems to agree on what it was. One version claims he had promised to save his village from plague. Another suggests he had been searching for a woman who died before he could marry her.

The interesting part is how he returned again and again. He used a ritual to possess another person's body and continue living in it.

I laugh.

Wonderful. I've stolen a record from the library and spent my evening reading fantasy stories.

I close the site.

A few minutes later, I open it again and keep reading.

The account mentions a spoken invitation. The dead man could call from the otherworld, but someone living had to answer him.

I take my transcriptions out of my bag and read them again.

No.

It's a coincidence, nothing more. I must have messed up something with the equipment.

My wife arrives while I'm at the computer. I close the window before she can see what I'm reading.

"Still working?"

"Just finishing something."

"You said that an hour ago."

I look at the clock. She's right.

After dinner, we go to bed, but I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the drumming.

At some point, I smell smoke.

Woodsmoke, mixed with damp earth and something sour.

I sit up.

The bedroom is dark. My wife is asleep beside me.

The smell disappears.

I must be more tired than I thought.

The next morning, I return the record to the library.

I don't listen to it again. I don't even take it upstairs. I return it to the storage room with the rest of the digitized records.

Then I get back to work.

When I reach for my coffee, I notice dirt under my fingernails.

I rub my thumb against my index finger. The dirt smells of earth and smoke. For a moment, I feel like remembering digging a hole beside a wooden fence. At the same time, I know I've never done that.

I can feel the cold soil touching my hands. I know there was a horse tied to the fence.

Someone is calling my name.

I drop the cup.

Coffee spreads across the desk and onto my trousers.

"Wonderful," I mutter. "My wife will be happy."

Over the next two days, I find three more accounts of the same táltos.

One places him in the seventeenth century. Another describes a healer who appeared a hundred years later, using the same name, claiming he returned from the past. A third mentions a man accused of practicing forbidden rituals in a village in Erdély* that no longer exists.

Different people, obviously, but the names repeat. The stories change, and the legends borrow from one another. This is exactly why historians don't treat folk tales as reliable records of events.

But certain details remain the same: a scar on the left hand, a promise that must be fulfilled before he can rest.

I stare at the last sentence.

I look down at my left hand, but there is no scar. There never was.

But I can feel one.

That night, I search for ways to reverse the ritual.

I don't believe in any of this, obviously. I'm simply looking into the historical context. If the recording contains an invocation, there must be another to reverse it.

One source mentions that the spirit cannot enter a body by force. The living person must accept the spirit freely.

I think of the word I shouted in the recording room.

"Yes!"

I wasn't answering him. I was celebrating. Anyone could see that.

Another account suggests the invitation alone is not enough. One must have a firm belief in the ritual to empower it.

I read it three times.

Then I find a ritual meant to drive an unwanted spirit away.

I copy it in my notebook.

My wife finds me standing in the kitchen with a sheet of paper in my hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

She looks at the paper.

"Are you reading poetry?"

"Something like that."

"You've been acting strangely all week."

"I'm just tired."

"You keep saying that."

I put the paper down. She watches me for a moment before she returns to our bedroom. I should follow her. I should explain what's happening, or at least tell her that something is wrong.

Instead, I pick up the paper again.

I repeat the first line several times.

The kitchen feels colder as I continue. Somewhere behind me, a floorboard creaks.

I stop speaking.

There is no one there.

I stare at the words in my notebook.

It is supposed to send the spirit back to the place where it came from. I don't know if I translated it correctly, but I have to try.

I have to try.

The thought makes me stop.

Why?

Why do I have to try?

What am I doing? I didn't believe in any of this. I never had.

Yet, here I am, standing in my kitchen, reciting an old charm to protect myself from a dead man whose existence I have no reason to believe in.

Except... I do?

I look down at the paper again.

And suddenly, I remember.

I remember standing barefoot beside the river, waiting for my woman who never came. It was the winter when the children started to die. I remember the first time I crossed into the otherworld, and the terrible effort it took me to return.

I remember all the others.

Their voices, their hands, the unfamiliar weight of their bodies.

Some lasted longer than others.

This one has been particularly stubborn.

I put the paper on the table and laugh.

The kitchen is warm. There is food in the cupboard, clean water from the tap, and a whole city waiting beyond the window.

I flex my fingers.

They look younger than I expected.

From the bedroom, a woman calls my name. For a moment, I can't remember what it is.

Then I smile.

God, how I've missed being alive.

word-count: 2994

I wanted to share a few cultural and historical details for readers unfamiliar with Hungary:

1. The dead Russian soldier: In Hungary, joking that you wouldn't be surprised to find a dead Russian soldier somewhere is a satirical way of describing a place so messy or neglected that anything might be buried beneath the clutter. The expression reflects Hungary's history of Soviet occupation and is used as dark humor rather than a traditional proverb.

2. Hazatérés: Hungarian for homecoming, pronounced approximately HAH-zah-tay-raysh, with the stress on the first syllable.

3. Székely: Also known as Szekler in English, the Székely are a Hungarian-speaking community historically associated with Transylvania. Their regional varieties of Hungarian preserve distinctive linguistic features, including some archaic forms.

4. Táltos: A figure from Hungarian folk belief, traditionally associated with extraordinary abilities, unusual signs at birth, visions, healing, and supernatural battles. Some scholars have linked these traditions to ancient Eurasian shamanic practices. Although the táltos belongs to genuine Hungarian folklore, the particular legend of a man who repeatedly returns from the dead by possessing others is entirely fictional and I made it up for this story.

5. Erdély: The Hungarian name for Transylvania, a historical region in present-day Romania.