The story begins—when? The calendar of the Romans was not yet known in the land called Poland. The country was divided into many regions, with small settlements of pagans serving various gods. Agriculture was known but not widely practiced. The men hunted and fished, and the women dug roots and with little effort picked berries and fruits which the earth lavished on them in season. There was talk that, while people increased, the animals in the forest and the fish in the rivers and lakes were growing scarce. There were rumors that in faraway places, somewhere along the Vistula, many people were cultivating fields, plowing, sowing, reaping, thrashing. They called themselves Poles because in their language pola meant field.
These people were not one nation. They were ruled by kings called krols, who often fought one another. Some Poles forged iron swords and spears, attacked tribes of hunters, subjugated them, and forced them to work the fields. This is what happened to a small tribe of forest dwellers called Lesniks, not far from the Zakopane mountains. A krol had come riding through with his band of fighters, called woyaks. They killed off most of the young Lesnik men and ordered the survivors to clear the trees from a tract of land, plow it, then sow it with seeds they had brought along—wheat, rye, barley, oats. There the krol settled down with his men and waited for the crops to ripen. The survivors, mostly women and old men, muttered among themselves: “Who has the patience to wait so long?” But still they were forced to plow and to sow. The smallest hint of rebellion was severely punished. The krol with his pans, or kniezes—nobles or knights—could communicate with the Lesniks because they shared the same language, although they spoke it with certain variations.
The krol was a tall man. His eyes were blue and he had a thick mane of red hair and a fiery red beard. His men called him Krol Rudy, the red king. Krol Rudy could have had his pick of the many young and pretty maidens captured by the woyaks, but he had vowed not to marry until the green shoots came up in the fields. Krol Rudy wore a short fur vest, trousers made of animal hides, and leather boots. He and his kniezes had come into the camp on horseback, but the woyaks had arrived on foot, without shoes. Krol Rudy himself had shown the Lesniks how to work the wooden plows.
The old Lesnik men and women predicted that the seeds Krol Rudy planted would rot, be eaten by birds, or freeze in the winter. They warned that those who plowed the soil desecrated Mother Earth, and that the goddess Baba Yaga, who flew about on a broomstick as long as a spruce tree, in her wrath would spread darkness over the world and cause a pestilence to destroy man and beast. But the young women admired Krol Rudy; when he was not shouting at them, he smiled at them. He rode about on a white horse with a fancy bridle and reins. While the Lesniks lived in tents, Krol Rudy and his kniezes had cabins built for themselves, with roofs which kept out the rain and chimneys which let out the smoke. Krol Rudy supervised their construction, making sure that the beams fitted snugly, without holes or gaps.
The young women, as they are wont to do, quickly adapted themselves to the new rulers. They lay with them and soon bore their offspring. The old men and women, on the other hand, complained that the Poles were a band of savage murderers who did not serve the gods properly, abolished old and venerated customs, and disrupted the life of the camp. The old people had one consolation—death. Many of them died that winter, not only of disease, but of distress over the strange new ways.
The winter months dragged on, cold and bitter. Even the Polish conquerors went hungry and had to slaughter some of their horses and eat them. A few women miscarried; many infants died. The woyaks tried to hunt in the forests, but unlike the Lesniks, they were ignorant of the animals’ habits and hiding places. Most of the woyaks had been raised by parents who tilled the soil, and they knew little of trapping animals and fishing. Some of them plotted to desert Krol Rudy and return to their homes. But Krol Rudy had his informers, and he had the chief conspirators beheaded. Besides, other krols were ruling where the woyaks had come from. Once warriors left their homes and took to the road to loot and kill, the way back was closed for them.
Before the cold had set in, the Poles sent the girls and women to pick baskets of blackberries, blueberries, gooseberries, currants, cherries, apples, plums, and whatever fruit generous Mother Earth had produced during the warm months. The women took a portion of the produce to their families, and brought the rest as a tax to the rulers. Krol Rudy had warned that those who took too much for themselves and left not enough for his men would have their hands chopped off. But instead of eating the fruits and the berries, the woyaks used them to make an intoxicating beverage, called vodka. After they drank it, they staggered about half naked, bellowed bawdy songs, shrieked abuses. Later they returned to their huts and beat up their new wives. Some girls who were serving the kniezes also tried the intoxicating drink, and were soon giggling, hiccupping, shrieking, and falling into each other’s arms. The old people grumbled that the krol and his men were undoubtedly possessed by demons. In the mountains there lived a spirit the people called a smok. The smok was part man, part snake, part devil. He played all sorts of tricks on people, dazzled their eyes, confused their senses. At his command was a host of gnomes, witches, bloodsuckers, all of whom carried out his nasty errands. Some old women muttered that Krol Rudy himself was a smok in disguise, and a sorcerer.
So many woyaks had died during the cold days and long nights that it almost seemed no one would live to see spring. But all at once the sun broke through the clouds and the days became warm and bright. And all over the fields which the Lesniks had sown, the grain began to sprout—later to be baked into bread, or chleb. The trees blossomed. Starlings, swallows, storks returned from distant places and hastened to build nests or repair old ones. Krol Rudy sent a drummer around to address the people. He called the Lesniks brothers. He told them that enemies were lurking and waiting to lay waste their camp and to set fire to their fields. But he, Krol Rudy, would protect them and foil their plans. He also announced that he had chosen a maiden from among them to wed on the day of the first moon. He wanted to establish a blood bond between himself and the Lesniks. He said the girl he had chosen was named Laska. A cry of joy erupted in the crowd. There was singing, dancing, clapping. The mighty krol had chosen a girl of their stock for his bride.
Everyone in the camp knew Laska, whose mother and two sisters and brothers had perished in the massacre. Laska herself had been raped. Her grandmother Mala, who had hidden in the bushes during the raid, feared that Laska might carry her attacker’s child, but fortunately the girl’s menstrual period had come on time. Together with the other girls, Laska picked fruit and berries for the woyaks that summer, and that was when Krol Rudy had seen her. He asked for her name, and sent her a gift. Now when he announced that she was to be his krolowa, his queen, the women looked around, and only then realized that Laska and her grandmother were not among them.
Laska, it was quickly learned, was ill. She lay on a pile of hides in her grandmother’s tent, her body hot. Mala prepared a potion from a mixture of herbs, but the girl did not respond. When the women came with the good tidings, Mala said, “Laska is going to die. She refuses to eat.” After a while Krol Rudy arrived, surrounded by some of his men. The girl’s eyes were closed, her blond hair disheveled, her face pale. Krol Rudy shook his head. He asked Mala if she had other relatives, and the old woman answered, “Her father is hiding in the mountains. Your woyaks killed everyone else.”
“What is her father’s name?”
“Cybula.”
“I want him to come back. I promise not to harm him.”
“No one has heard from him. He may be dead,” the old woman said. “And to what should he return? Our lives here have been uprooted like trees in a windstorm.”
“When a tree is uprooted, another grows in its place,” Krol Rudy answered. “If Laska does not die, she will be my wife and bear my children. When the wheat ripens in the fields, there will be bread enough for everyone.”
“Soon she will be dead.”
“Give her plenty of water to drink.”
“Tomorrow she will be with her mother and the other spirits in the hollows of the earth. Soon I shall be with them, too.”
Krol Rudy cast a last glance at the ailing girl and left. He wore his sword in a leather sheath. In the land from which he came, near the Vistula, blacksmiths hammered out iron swords, spears, horseshoes. Ships arrived from regions where the Germans lived—Niemcies they were called, mute ones, because they babbled in a language no one understood. Most of the men in Krol Rudy’s tribe tilled the soil and raised crops. The Germans supplied them with scythes and spades, as well as saws, hammers, nails, axes. In exchange the Poles gave them honey, flax, barley, fruits, skins, and wood for lumber. All these transactions were conducted in sign language. Unfortunately, the Poles always warred among themselves. Every few years some new krol or another chieftain would rise up and lead his men on a rampage. They killed, looted, raped, set fire to homes and crops, drove off herds of cattle. Krol Rudy himself had barely escaped with his life during one such attack. Later he assembled a band of woyaks, and together they set off in search of regions where people subsisted by hunting and gathering. It was easy to subdue such people. Bows and arrows were their only weapons. With a sword and a spear the world was open to men who did not hesitate to spill blood or to perish in battle.
Now Krol Rudy and his kniezes left the tent and returned to their cabins. Laska seemed to him almost lifeless. It grieved Krol Rudy that he had not been informed of her illness, but it was his own fault. He seldom confided to his men what he was preparing to do. They were drunk much of the time and could not be trusted to hold their tongues. Each of them sought only what he could gain for himself, whereas he, Krol Rudy, took care of them all. The truth was, he had had his fill of the roaming, the looting, the fighting. He wanted to settle in one place, have wives, children, and rule over a people which had plenty to eat. He was hoping for a good harvest. Those who lived off the fields had to acquire the forethought and the patience not to devour every last bit of grain, and to put aside a portion for sowing.
But harvest time was still a long way off. Krol Rudy regretted having permitted his woyaks to kill so many men. There was no one left to do the hunting. Also, several of his spies informed him that the Lesniks who had escaped to the mountains were preparing a surprise attack. They were waiting for hunger to weaken the camp and then, in the dark of night, they would set fire to the fields and sneak up on the sleeping woyaks.
Who will be my krolowa if Laska should die, Krol Rudy wondered. Other than Laska, there was not one girl in the camp who appealed to him. The young ones were all pregnant, and Krol Rudy had no wish to sow in soil where others had left their seeds. As he walked along and pondered these things, a young girl—barefoot, wearing a skirt made of animal skins—came walking up the path. She could not have been older than twelve. She carried a basket of turnips. Although the sun was shining, the air was cold. A wind blew from the mountains, disheveling her dark hair. Krol Rudy stopped her.
“What’s your name?”
The girl did not answer. She kept looking back, ready at any moment to run.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to eat you. What is your name?”
“Yagoda.”
“Yagoda, huh? Come with me.”
The kniezes all burst out laughing. The girl began to stammer. “I have to bring the turnips to my mother, to the tent.”
“Your mother can wait.”
Krol Rudy held her by her neck. “Don’t try to run away. If you do, I’ll twist off your pretty little head.”
“My mother is hungry.”
“Your mother will eat later. I will give you some bread for her.”
The girl still resisted, but Krol Rudy pressed her throat with his thumb and index finger. With his left hand he grabbed her basket and handed it to one of his companions. He led the girl to his cabin—a large room, floorless, the walls constructed of unhewn beams. A square opening in one wall served as a window, and was covered with an animal’s bladder, which let in light. On a table lay swords, spears. Dried meat bulged out of sacks—sides of calves, sheep, hares. The room smelled of mildew, rancid fat, and rotting fruit. The kniez put down the girl’s basket and disappeared. Krol Rudy said, “Don’t be afraid, Yagoda. This is the room of a man, not a bear’s cave.”
“Mother …”
But this was all the girl managed to utter. Krol Rudy threw her down on a pile of hides and raped her. She cried out, but he clamped her mouth with the palm of his hand. Then he stood up on his bloodied legs and called out the name of a woyak. The man opened the door.
“Take the wench away. Give her a pretzel,” he ordered.
When the Lesniks escaped to the mountains, they took their bows and arrows with them. There were fewer animals in the mountains than in the valley below, but the men hunted enough to keep them from starving. The mountains abounded in caves that gave them shelter. Their leader was Laska’s father, Cybula. A short man, all skin and bones, he was almost bald—except for a few scraggly hairs. He became their leader because he was skillful and clever. He had the name of a marksman. His arrows penetrated deep into an animal’s flesh. He had a knack for weaving and casting fishnets and setting traps. He cracked jokes about idlers, cowards, and fools in the camp. He even dared to poke fun at Baba Yaga, the smoks, and the other spirits and gods. He knew how to keep up the camp’s spirits. He was short and nimble, could scamper up the tallest tree, turn somersaults, imitate the howls of wolves, the snorts of boars, the calls of birds. Sometimes he entertained the camp by mimicking old women’s talk, their moans and groans, the curses and blessings they heaped on one another, their laments and complaints against men. Even the death of his wife and his children in the last massacre could not defeat him.
However, when there was talk of hitching men to plows and coaxing the earth to bring forth wheat, barley, and other such grains, Cybula would turn serious. He argued that as long as men hunted and fished they were free to move from one place to another, to live as they wished, and to leave to women the tasks of keeping the home fires burning and raising children. Men who tilled the soil grew attached to it like trees. They stayed in their tents as women did, and begged the earth to yield up those accursed grains. There were rumors, moreover, that in some regions the kniezes and the pans had divided the land among themselves and made those who worked the land their slaves. Why can’t we live as our fathers and grandfathers lived? Cybula would ask. It was not necessary to tickle and scratch Mother Earth to make her produce. That which she had to give, she gave of her own accord every summer.
Long before Krol Rudy invaded the camp, the Lesniks were debating the merits and shortcomings of tilling the soil. True, in the last few years food was growing scarce. Old people remembered times when there were many more animals and fish. But was this really so? Old people often invented stories, and often their memories were not reliable. Every winter they swore that the cold was never as severe as this year, and every summer they said the same about the heat. True, more people were starving these days. But could barley and wheat eradicate famine? Death took whomever it wanted. Were it not for death, the world would be crammed full of people clear up to the sky.
Most of the Lesniks agreed with Cybula, and together they plotted to destroy Krol Rudy and his men. They agreed that a man would be sent down to spy on the valley, while the others readied themselves for the war to follow. But meanwhile, spring arrived, and the Lesniks took time to welcome it with prayers and chants. In years gone by, spring had been welcomed with gifts to the spirits and gods. A young virgin was chosen to be sacrificed on a stone altar, and later the men dipped their fingers in her blood. The women were never permitted to witness the ceremony. But since there were no virgins among those who had escaped to the mountains, hymns and incantations were offered instead.
At this time Cybula learned that Laska, his daughter, had survived the attack and now lay ill in her grandmother’s tent. He immediately insisted on going down as a spy, but the Lesniks refused to listen. If he should be discovered and killed, who among them could take his place? Another man was sent instead; he brought back the news that Laska had recovered, and that she was to marry Krol Rudy on the day of the new moon.
One dark moonless night, while Laska lay sleeping in her grandmother’s tent, she imagined she felt someone touching her lightly. She woke up with a start, ready to scream; then she heard her father’s hushed voice: “Don’t be afraid, daughter. It is your father.”
Old Mala was also awakened, and when she learned who their visitor was, she said, “Leave her alone, Cybula. If the woyaks find you here, they will tear us to pieces. Laska is going to marry Krol Rudy. You know I have lost everything, and she is all I have left.”
“Who is this you are marrying, daughter? A man who has killed your sisters, your brothers, your mother?”
“What do you want?” answered Laska. “I was sick. They had already prepared a grave for me. I can’t go with you to the mountains, I am too weak. Besides, I can’t leave Grandmother alone. He will take his revenge on her.”
“Come with me, both of you. The cold days are over, it is warm in the mountains. Come and live in my cave. My brothers, the hunters, are preparing to come here and wipe out Krol Rudy and his men.”
“When will they be coming?” asked Mala.
“Anytime. Maybe even tomorrow.”
“What should I do, Grandmother?” Laska asked.
Mala sighed. “You are too weak to climb up the mountains. You will stumble along the way and fall, and the vultures will peck your eyes. Laska, marry Krol Rudy and let him fatten you up with his pretzels and his smoked meats. When you recover your strength, you will be yourself. I myself will soon be dead, and you won’t have an old woman to drag across the mountains.”
“Grandmother, you may be right,” Cybula said, “but meanwhile, the krol will lie with her and make her belly swell up.”
“Others have already lain with her,” said Mala. “She was raped on the night of the raid. It’s a wonder that she is not carrying someone’s child.”
Laska was silent for a long time.
“Does Krol Rudy know this?” Cybula asked.
“No, he doesn’t,” Mala answered.
“When he finds out that I am not a virgin, he will instantly kill me. Better death than this life we live,” Laska said.
Cybula waited a while, and then he said, “I’ll be back. We’ll all be back.” And he left as quietly as he had arrived. He walked along the ground, watching and listening. His ears picked up the faintest rustle. His eyes pierced through the darkness like a wolf’s. He suddenly spotted a small girl emerging from a tent. She had come out to relieve herself. Cybula waited. When she stood up, he pounced on her, quickly covered her mouth with his hand, and began to drag her with him. The girl struggled and gasped for air. He half carried, half dragged her, and soon they were outside the camp. In a sack he was carrying some rope, the hide of an animal, as well as a bow and arrows and a roasted bird. He removed his hand from the girl’s mouth and said, “Try not to scream, or I’ll strangle you on the spot.”
“Mother …”
“Who is your mother? Who are you?”
“My mother is Kora and I am Yagoda.”
“Kora is alive? I am Cybula.”
“Let me go. My mother …”
“You must come with me. If you don’t come willingly, I will tie you up and drag you by force. I am not your enemy. My brothers, the hunters, and I will soon be coming to kill all the Poles. We will set Krol Rudy on a stake and pierce him all the way to his head. Your father, Kostek, and I were like brothers. We used to hunt together. On the day you were born we planted a branch from a cherry tree near his tent. It was I who persuaded him to name you Yagoda.”
“My mother won’t know what’s become of me. She’ll sob and wail and tear her hair.”
“She’ll know. We have our spies and we’ll let her know.”
“Let me go.”
“No.”
Cybula took the rope from his bag and tied it around Yagoda’s waist. Whenever she started to whine, he slapped her mouth and she fell silent. When they were far away from the camp, he set her down, tore a chunk from the bird, and gave it to her. When they had finished eating, he threw her to the ground and raped her. Later he asked, “Who did this to you before me, the woyaks?”
“No,” she answered. “Krol Rudy himself.”
The Lesniks, the Poles, and the other tribes who spoke more or less the same language had various customs for contracting a marriage. In some tribes the men bought their wives, in others they kidnapped them. If the young couple belonged to separate tribes, the groom lived with the bride’s parents after the wedding and only years later moved his family back with his wife to his own native tribe. Sometimes the marriage was arranged strictly by the parents, and the young couple first met on the day of their wedding. An animal was sacrificed to Baba Yaga, or some other goddess, and then the groom showed off to the bride’s father his skills as hunter and marksman. Brides had to be guarded by young maidens, day and night, against any intrusion of evil spirits. In former times a bride could be burned at the stake for losing her virginity before her marriage. With the rise of fieldwork and the rule of kniezes and pans, a bride often was forced to submit to a pan before submitting to her husband. Sometimes the marriage ceremony itself was bound up with rites for invoking rain and for expelling the demons who hid in fields and in bundles of wheat. One tribe even staged a mock funeral—bride and groom were led to their graves accompanied by hymns and laments—in order to fool witches and sorcerers who robbed grooms of their vigor and gave brides long bleedings. On the day before her wedding, the bride wove sprays of flowers into her hair, then circled the camp from tent to tent to invite the people to the ceremony. In every tent she knelt before the invited guests and kissed their feet. The groom was meanwhile regaled by his friends with jokes, teased with advice, and challenged to duels. Some hunting tribes had a custom of putting the young couple to bed but not allowing the groom to touch his bride until the stargazer signaled the arrival of the proper moment.
Because Krol Rudy and his kniezes and pans stemmed from diverse regions, and because so many young Lesnik men were dead or in hiding and the women pregnant with their enemies’ offspring, Krol Rudy decided to marry Laska without fanfare or ceremony. The pans simply accompanied him to Mala’s tent, and there Mala turned Laska over to her husband’s care. The old grandmother murmured a few silent words under her breath, and no one could tell whether she blessed the union or cursed it. The Poles were by this time entirely intoxicated. They waved their swords at Krol Rudy, and for a while it seemed that they meant to prevent his marriage. But Krol Rudy overcame them, and they moved aside and let him pass through.
Krol Rudy’s house was still not finished. During the summer the stench had grown even more overpowering, and through the four-cornered opening in the wall all sorts of flies, butterflies, moths, and bees had flown in. In the corners cobwebs were hanging. Because he stored food supplies in his house, field mice scurried across the floor. His woyaks were growing drunker and louder. The last of their horses had died, and they were skinning it, preparing to eat it. Krol Rudy could suppress his yen for the bitter drop, but he could not repress his bitter feelings. That one of the mountain men had managed to steal into the camp and carry Yagoda off meant that the woyaks he had assigned to watch the camp were sleeping.
The Lesniks in the mountains could easily trample the fields or set them on fire or do any manner of damage. Several of his pans had told the krol that it was senseless to dally and wait for the harvest. The woyaks were fit for smashing heads, burning homes, raping women, but when it came to work, they were lazy. They were accustomed to roam and to plunder, not to settle down and toil. Some of them had already been insolent to the kniezes, even to Krol Rudy. There were many woyaks and only a handful of kniezes. Several of his most powerful kniezes had died during the winter. Some of the woyaks had gone partly or completely insane. They stopped using human language and grunted or roared like animals, laughed, wept, attacked old women, and were unfit for hunting or plowing. Several of them should have been flogged to death or hanged, to set an example for the others. But the kniezes knew that any punishment could set off an uprising among the hungry woyaks.
Krol Rudy had pinned all his hopes on the harvest. But there was not much rain during the spring. It was foolish to be taking a wife and thinking of children when so many perils confronted him. However, Krol Rudy refused to give up. Should he wander still farther? Attack still more small camps and destroy them? He, Krol Rudy, had wanted to bring bread to those people who spoke a language similar to his own. He had wanted to make of them one nation—a nation of Poles. Often he awakened at night and lay on his bed, unable to sleep. His own bodyguards could have entered and finished him off. Quite a few chieftains and krols had come to such an end. He had heard of a land where krols were crowned for a single year, after which they were put to death. He had heard of a place where the krol married for only a year or two. As soon as the queen gave birth to a child, she was declared a goddess and beheaded by the krol himself, so that when her body died, her spirit either soared up to the gods and prayed for her people or else plunged into the depths where the dead rule and became a queen of the underworld.
When now Krol Rudy brought Laska to his cabin—in keeping with custom, he carried her over the threshold—the room’s stench made her grimace and ask for some water. Her illness had left Laska weak and pale. Krol Rudy brought out meat and a pretzel, but she could not eat. Every now and then a kniez or a woyak stuck his head through the opening in the wall to see whether the krol was lying with his bride. Krol Rudy covered the hole with a pelt, carried Laska to his bed, and lowered himself down on her. But he found he was entering through an open door. He struck her face, and she confessed that on the night of the raid two woyaks had raped her.
“Who are they? What are their names?” Krol Rudy demanded.
“How should I know? It was dark, and my mother was lying near me in a pool of blood. They hurt me and left.”
“They never returned?”
“Never.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Krol Rudy gave her a shove, pushing her off his bed. He said, “You may not know who they are, but they know who you are. And tonight they are laughing at me. Everyone knows my shame by now, but I don’t know whom to punish.”
“How could they know you’d choose me to be your wife? They slaughtered and raped in the dark of night.”
“You are making excuses for them?”
“No.”
Krol Rudy would have liked to stand up and strangle Laska, or to plunge a sword into her breast. But he restrained himself. It was not her fault, and it would cause an uproar in the camp. He should have chosen Yagoda, not Laska. Yagoda was a virgin. But Cybula had carried her off into the mountains. Krol Rudy asked, “Are you pregnant?”
“No, my period came.”
He helped her to her feet and carried her back to his bed. The thought that a woyak might chance by and kill him did not frighten him. How could one fear death and the grave when out of the earth sprang so much life? An odd thought began to take shape in his mind: when he died, he would like to be buried and to have a field planted over his bones. Perhaps man would stop shedding the blood of animals and nourish himself on the bounties of soil, sun, rain.
Cybula had been following the tracks of an animal. By its footprints, he knew it was a large beast, probably a “he.” But what sort of beast it was, Cybula could not decide. What was more, its tracks led consistently down the mountain, all the way to the valley. That made Cybula suspicious, because the mountain animals did not travel so deep into the valley. It must be an animal he had never encountered before. He did not bring Yagoda along this time, because she was having her period. Cybula followed the footprints, spear and bow at hand, ready to aim for the animal’s rump the moment he saw it. But then a bizarre thing happened: the tracks suddenly vanished, as if the animal had grown a pair of wings and flown away, or else the earth had swallowed it up. Cybula was tired and sat down, and he took out a chunk of smoked meat. His meal made him drowsy, and soon he was fast asleep. The light of the full moon woke him up. A breeze carried the animal’s scent to his nostrils—a scent he had never smelled before—and he rose and followed it, not so much to capture the animal as to see what sort of creature it was. The hunters often told tales of animals that outwitted men with magic or with tricks.
Suddenly Cybula stopped short, as if thunderstruck. Before him stretched a vast field of wheat, its spikes already high, and the stalks packed close to one another. The moon showered its silver beams on the field. Some who had escaped from the camp had told him that Krol Rudy’s crop had failed, that the soil was too rocky, the wheat grew sparse and short, the husks were empty. But it seemed they had lied to him, or else what his eyes were seeing was a dream. With the tips of his fingers Cybula crushed a husk of wheat and tasted the kernels. They had an unusual flavor. A longing to plunge into the field took hold of him, a yearning to lose himself in the lush growth. He was often told by the older hunters that those who plowed the earth bruised it, and the grains that it brought forth were poisoned. But over this field hovered something godly and blessed. A bright light shone from the moon, as if day and night had intermingled and become one. To Cybula it seemed that the sky had never been so crowded with stars as on that night, as if it were a field itself, strewn with sparkling crops.
It was not in Cybula’s nature to bow down and worship either men or gods. But he fell to his knees and paid homage to the field as one would to a god. He inhaled deeply, taking its aroma into himself. He murmured a prayer to the hidden power which brought so much wonder out of the womb of the earth.
Cybula stood up and began to move deeper into the valley. He wanted to see the hut (or perhaps by now a big cabin) where Laska lived with Krol Rudy, but he thought that a guard was sure to be stationed there. It pained Cybula to think that his only daughter lay with her mother’s murderer, kissing and fondling him. A bitter taste filled his mouth. Men made wombs for their enemies. In a way the same was also true of sons. The very best that man possessed was given away to strangers. Cybula continued to walk. The night turned colder, the moon hid behind an elongated cloud with scales resembling those of a fish or a snake. Suddenly Cybula found himself standing before Kostek’s scorched hut. Kora was there, Yagoda’s mother. It was then that Cybula knew why that strange vanishing animal—a night spirit probably—had led him to his home of old: to bring Kora to Yagoda. He had no time to lose. Everything had to be done with haste. He threw himself at the door and pushed it open. The moon illuminated the room, and Cybula could see Kora’s half-clad body asleep. She lay on a pile of hides. The air smelled of rotting meat, garlic, urine. With one hand he grabbed Kora’s throat, and with the other he covered her mouth. “I am Cybula,” he hissed. “Come with me.”
He tried to drag her along, but she resisted, trembling and choking. In her terror she could not grasp who he was and what he wanted. A terrible cry broke from her throat. She clung to his leg, pulled him down, fighting with him. She tore at his face with her nails. He wrestled himself free, and with his fist he struck her forehead, her nose, her skull. He was terrified that the woyaks might come by and tear him limb from limb. He realized he had lost his spear and his bow. He dropped Kora and ran outside. He crouched on the ground and searched for his weapons. The sweat blinded his eyes. He heard a ringing in his ears. A sweet-sour fluid flooded his mouth. “I must not weaken!” he resolved. At that moment it was as if a flash went through his brain, and he collapsed.
When he came to, someone was bending over him, trying to revive him. It was Kora. She helped him to his feet. She held tightly to his hand and tried to pull him after her. He remembered the weapons he had lost, but it would be madness to turn back. A great shame overcame him for his weakness. Together he and Kora passed by the field once again, and he caught a glimpse of it. The moon had disappeared.
The field seemed to lie in a deep, restful sleep. Only now did Cybula notice that Kora was stark naked. He took out a pelt from the sack that hung on his hip and wrapped it around her shoulders. They stood facing each other in the chill of the night. He was so agitated he could hardly speak. “It is I, Cybula,” he said. “I am your friend, not your enemy. I came to take you to Yagoda.”
“Cybula! My Cybula!”
Kora trembled with excitement, as if she only now realized who he was. She flung her arms around him, nearly throwing him off his feet. She kissed him, embraced him, wet his face with hers. Her body exuded a female kind of fever. She pressed him to her with such force that he could hear his ribs crack. She wailed. “They killed everyone: Kostek, our brothers, our sisters. Children’s heads were rolling on the ground! The wrath of the gods came pouring down on us! Baba Yaga …” And Kora began to tear her hair and sway to the left and the right. Cybula snapped, “Be quiet! They’ll hear you and …”
“Why did this happen to us? It was a punishment, a punishment! The earth was red with our blood. A curse and a shame! And where were our men? They scattered like mice and left us alone.”
“Kora, no one expected them. They came in the night like wolves. I opened my eyes and the whole camp was on fire …”
“Brother of mine, father, friend! Every night I lay in my bed and spoke to you—to you and to Yagoda. She had awakened and gone outside. I waited, and she did not return. I looked everywhere but could not find her. I was sure the woyaks had killed her and thrown her body away. Only later did one of your men come to tell me that she was with you. My savior, my god!”
“Come, Kora, let us go!”
“I fell asleep and dreamed about you. Every night you came to me in my dreams. You and Kostek, Kostek and you. Then I would open my eyes and find somebody pulling my arms, my legs, my hair. They defiled all of us, they enjoyed our suffering. They ripped open fat Yonda’s belly and put a rat inside. She writhed in pain, and they spit on her face …”
“Kora, enough …”
“Where are you taking me? Master of mine, son-in-law. I have always loved you—since we were children. You were supposed to be my husband, you belonged to me. But your Yasna came running and took you away. Came like a she-wolf, dug in her claws, and dragged you to her lair. She left me with an ache and an empty heart. But you remembered, you did not forget. And now Yagoda will carry your seed. Your child will suck at her breast. It is a miracle, an omen from the gods that our love did not die.”
“It is true, Kora, I longed for you.”
Cybula shivered. His teeth chattered. Was it from the cold or from desire? His stomach tightened. He bent his head down low. In the midst of all his trials and pains, old desires of his were being rekindled. More than once he had imagined Kostek dead, Kora a widow, Yagoda an orphan. In his lust he had lain with both mother and daughter. But those had been just dreams. Gods or elves listened to every worthless trifle, every whim and wish, and sometimes fulfilled his desires. Kora took his arm and pressed it to her breast. She kissed him and her hair tickled his cheek. She asked, “Is there no cave somewhere near here?”
“Yes, a little farther.”
“Looks as if dawn is breaking.”
“Yes.”
Cybula raised his eyes to the sky. Stars were going out one by one. Birds awakened, each with its own call. In the east a cloud reddened, like a sore about to burst. In the west the edge of a cloud began to glow. The great and mighty gods took care of heaven. It was the minor godlings who looked after every drop of dew, every pebble on the ground. He, Cybula, had lost a spear and a bow, but he had regained a woman. Now, with everything in ruins, women no longer required wedding ceremonies; men no longer had to send gifts to brides—the old customs had crumbled. All they needed was a cave. He had longed for her when they were still children playing husband-and-wife. He used to pretend to go hunting and bring her a fox, a marten, a rabbit. She would pretend to roast a bird for him. Together they crawled into the bushes, tickled each other, and murmured words whose meanings they did not understand. Now Kora’s daughter was his wife, Kostek was dead, and Kora, his mother-in-law, was looking for a cave after all these years of hidden passion.
All at once the sky was splashed with crimson. The sun arrived shining and wet, fresh from bathing in the sea. A flock of birds flew up to meet it, squawking a birdish good morning. Cybula glanced at Kora: she was only a bit shorter than he was, her loose brown hair now sprinkled with crimson, her face thin, her cheeks hollow, her long neck lined with wrinkles and veins. He observed her belly, her hips, the calves of her legs. The pelt covered only her shoulders. A submissiveness looked at him out of her large dark eyes, a willingness to surrender to him with a love whose fire was never extinguished.
When Cybula had set out the morning before with his bow and his spear, Yagoda had asked him how long he would be, and he had shrugged his shoulders. Now, as day ended and Cybula had not come back, Yagoda grew worried. A daughter of hunters, she knew that animals were not hunted at night. Yagoda lit a fire in the cave and roasted a piece of meat, but she had no desire to eat it. Shadows danced on the rock walls. Outside, the air was cool, but inside the cave reigned a wintry chill. Had a wild beast attacked him, or a woyak? There was talk in the mountains that the woyaks were planning to climb up and slaughter them all. Sitting by the fire, wrapped in a pelt, Yagoda made up her mind that if Cybula did not return by morning, she would put an end to her life. True, she could let the other Lesniks know that Cybula had not come back, but their caves were too far from hers and she was sure to lose her way in the mountains. It also seemed to her that some of these men had been looking at her with hungry eyes. Every one of these witless men repeated the same tasteless joke: “Yagoda, I’d like to eat you up.” (Yagoda, in the language of the Lesniks, meant berry.)
Most of the Lesniks were light-haired and blue-eyed; she, Yagoda, had dark skin and brown eyes. The tribe’s jesters said she resembled a porcupine, a mouse, a squirrel. The few women who managed to run away from the Poles were blabbers, backbiters. They poked fun at each other, whispered in each other’s ears, gossiped that this one did not keep herself clean, the other could not cook or roast, the third was unfaithful to her husband, the fourth was too thin, too fat, too foolish, too sly. When they dug roots or picked fruits, they struggled to outdo one another in speed, dexterity, in extracting the best from the earth or the tree. But Yagoda did not try to join in with them. They envied her because Cybula had chosen her to be his wife. “What did he see in you?” they would ask her. “What is it that you have there between your legs?” And they would wink, and hint, and give each other knowing looks.
She, Yagoda, was so different from them all. She was, at the same time, both childish and too earnest. She was almost thirteen years old, but she played like a girl of five or six: she gathered pinecones—not to burn them for heat, but to use them as toys. For no reason at all she picked thistles, poisonous berries, mushrooms, colored pebbles, tiny eggs of unknown birds, butterflies, feathers, plumes, and other such childish things. She made believe that a tree was her dead father, Kostek, and she spoke to it and even kissed its bark. She had similar fantasies about her mother, Kora, who remained in the camp. Sometimes Yagoda pretended that her long-dead brothers and sisters were still living, and she spoke to them, danced with them, played hide-and-seek with them.
Since the woyak raid, and after what Krol Rudy had done to her, Yagoda’s life was like one long dream. Her mother, Kora, believed in a spirit called a domowik. She often said that a domowik lived with her, hiding out among the trees, the bushes, the pelts. He brought her wood from the forest, found food, carried water from the spring for her. Mother Kora allegedly inherited him from her father, Chmielnik, and her mother, Trawka. Kora swore that once, when she had some ailment in her eyes and could not see, a domowik had climbed into her bed and with his tongue licked her eyes all through the night. In the morning, when she opened them, she saw clearly again. Yagoda often searched for this domowik, wanted to make him her own spirit as well, but he eluded her. Only from time to time did he make his presence known, when he rustled through the logs that her father had chopped, or splashed the water in the barrel. Sometimes, when Yagoda went out to relieve herself behind the hut, he tickled her buttocks. Sometimes he blew a whisper in her ear, but what he said she did not know. When Yagoda complained to her mother that the domowik avoided her, Kora promised that he would disclose himself to Yagoda after her, Kora’s, death. Or else in a time of danger.
On this night, when Cybula did not return, Yagoda spoke to the domowik. She told him all that had befallen her and begged him to help find Cybula. She spoke out loud, asking, “Is he still among the living? Or is he already in the hollows of the earth, where it is always dark? Is he together with father Kostek and my grandfathers and grandmothers? I miss him, domowik. Without Cybula I don’t want to live,” Yagoda said. “Make me as I was before I was born—nothing. I don’t want to remember that Krol Rudy raped me. I don’t want Cybula to know that it really happened. I want to become nothing, I want to cease to be …”
So drowsy did Yagoda become that she slipped off the log on which she was sitting and remained lying on the bare stone floor. Sleep overcame her, and she did cease to be. But something remained alive—a bubble, a hair, a cobweb from which she hung like a spider. She was too heavy for the web, but she did not dare to let go, because below her yawned a bottomless pit: if she let go, she would fall and sink into the abyss.
When Yagoda opened her eyes, daylight was streaming in through the opening of the cave. The fire had gone out and only ashes remained. Her feet felt numb and she could not stand up. She forgot where she was. She could not at first remember her name. Suddenly she remembered—Yagoda. Cybula had not come home last night; he was dead. Yagoda could not even cry. I’ll never leave this cave again, she thought to herself; here is where I’ll die. She usually arose hungry, but this time her tongue was coated and her throat constricted, and she could not even swallow her own saliva. She closed her eyes once again, and immediately began to dream. She was no longer in the mountains but in another camp, where a massacre apparently had taken place. Men were lying everywhere, their throats slit, and she could see women with their bellies ripped open. How odd: one of them seemed to be giving birth and a calf’s head protruded from her thighs …
Yagoda slept for a long time. Whenever she started to awaken she remembered that Cybula had not returned, and again she went off to sleep. Her head, pressing down on her shoulders, felt as if it were a heavy rock. One instant she was awake, the next asleep. Again her wanderings began: strange camps, unfamiliar faces. Yagoda was searching for her cave, and people were showing her paths, trails, crevices in the earth which would lead her back. But she knew that instead of drawing nearer, she was drifting farther away …
Yagoda opened her eyes, and by the reddish light outside, she knew it was dusk. She sat up and shuffled toward the opening. The sun had set behind the mountain. Birds were sitting on the branches of trees. Yagoda walked out naked and went to the stream to bathe. Though the water was ice cold, Yagoda immersed herself in the rushing current. Cybula had told her that the stream flowed into a larger river, and the river into the sea. Two-headed giants, with long tails and four arms, lived there. Every time Yagoda plunged into the water, she opened her eyes to look for Topiel, the spirit said to dwell at the river bottom with his wives. When she raised her head from the water for the fifth time, she heard someone calling her name. The voice seemed familiar, but she was not certain to whom it belonged. Soon another voice joined the first. Two half-naked people jumped into the stream. Cybula grabbed Yagoda in his arms and someone else—Kora, her mother—hugged her with a wild cry.
That evening the news spread among the Lesniks in the mountains that Cybula had returned with Kora, Yagoda’s mother and Kostek’s widow. They hastily gathered outside Cybula’s cave, bringing with them food and drinks squeezed from fruits. The night was warm and they sat outside on the ground. Cybula told them how the tracks of an unseen animal had led him down to the valley, and how he had rescued Kora. He spoke about the field, the blessing that the gods had bestowed upon the land. Cybula had brought with him a few stalks of wheat, which he showed to the Lesniks against the light of the moon. Every Lesnik took a stalk and examined it. Some dug out a kernel and tasted it. Several of their spies had brought back the news that the wheat grew poorly, and that nothing would remain of the crop but empty shells and chaff that the wind would blow away. But the wheat which Cybula brought back was good to the taste. Cybula said that yes, the Poles were murderers, but the grain they brought with them was not at fault. It held in it seeds that would grow and multiply in years to come. The work in the fields was not done by the woyaks, Cybula said, but by the old men and the young women who remained alive in the camp. He mentioned something else: most of the young women in the camp were carrying the offspring of these woyaks and it would be an injustice for the unborn children to be made orphans before they came into the world.
The Lesniks listened silently. One of them blurted out, “You are defending the murderers because they made your daughter their queen.”
“No, not true,” Cybula answered. “For my sake you can go ahead and kill Krol Rudy, but don’t forget the woyaks have iron swords and spears, which we do not. They are not going to sit with folded arms and wait for you to kill them. A new slaughter will start and the first victims will be our sisters and daughters.”
“What is your advice?” asked another.
Cybula did not answer immediately. “My advice is that we make peace.”
The talk went on for a long time. Several of the Lesniks were whispering quietly into each other’s ears. Cybula caught the word “traitor.”