Everything happened quickly. On the first day the Lesniks discussed the offer among themselves, shouting their suspicions and grudges against Krol Rudy, Nosek, Kora, Laska; calling Cybula traitor, spy, threatening him with hanging, beheading. The next day Nosek appeared among them unarmed, repeating everything Cybula had said the day before. And on the third day most of the Lesniks were ready to go down to the valley. They refused Nosek’s plea that they leave their arms behind, but they swore by the gods that if the woyaks did not attack them, they would not attack the woyaks.
The men walked along, carrying their weapons. The women carried baskets and rolled-up mats in which they had packed household things. Several women were leading goats. A group of Lesniks remained in the mountains. Some of them predicted that those who went down to the valley would descend even farther—to the hollows of the earth in death. Others had decided to wait and see how the first Lesniks fared.
It was a warm day. The farther down they got, the warmer it became. Since they had not taken any children when they escaped into the mountains, they were all adults, except for one child born in the mountains, which the young mother carried in a basket on her back.
Before they set out on their way, Cybula had chosen a tall, long-legged youth, Wysoki, to run ahead to tell those in the valley that their brothers and sisters were coming home. Wysoki’s mother, a widow, had wrung her hands, crying that her son had been sent to a certain death. But Nosek assured her that no harm would come to him. The woyaks all knew that Krol Rudy had offered peace to the Lesniks. Also, it was a law in all Polish lands that messengers were not to be harmed. Wysoki carried a flag—a pole with three notches and a small hide whitened with chalk.
The men walked in silence. One man tried to sing, but when no one joined him, he soon fell still. Some of the women were crying. Cybula had told them that they were coming home as winners, not losers. But still their hearts were heavy. They might have made the way down in one day, but they all walked slowly. Besides, Cybula and Nosek thought it better to arrive in the daytime and not at night. Therefore, it was agreed to spend the night en route and arrive in the morning. They would stop by a wood stream where they could rest, eat, wash the dust from their feet, and refresh themselves with cold drinks.
The night passed. In the morning the Lesniks bathed in the stream, each ate what he had brought along, and together they set on their way. They could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw Krol Rudy, his kniezes, his woyaks, the whole camp, coming out to greet them. The woyaks were singing a song of welcome. The Lesniks who had remained in the camp were crying and laughing, hugging and kissing their returning brothers and sisters. Beverages, pretzels, roasted meat, and fruit were brought out. Krol Rudy had ordered the drummers to drum and the buglers to sound their horns. Children came carrying baskets of flowers.
Krol Rudy had put on his robe and his sword, and on his head he had a pumpkin with wax candles. He was already intoxicated, but still he addressed the crowd. He promised to treat the mountain Lesniks with love, as brothers and sisters, as Poles. He also announced that their leader, Cybula, would henceforth be promoted to kniez. Then Krol Rudy and the kniezes and woyaks drew their swords from their sheaths and swore an oath of loyalty to the men of the fields, the Polish nation. Krol Rudy reminded the camp that soon the harvest would start and everyone’s help would be needed. He also said that huts would have to be built, since the winters were cold and tents were suited only to the warm summer months. He finished his address with a prayer to the gods, and with the promise of a sacrifice—once the harvest was over—to the god of rain, dew, sunshine, and bountiful crops, Chlebodawca.
The Lesniks had never heard of him, but Nosek had told Cybula that this god lived both in the rivers and on land. When he became enraged he called forth a flood, a cloudburst, even hailstones as large as goose eggs from the sky. He could also send out locusts to devour every grain of wheat in the fields. Those who lived near large rivers such as the Vistula, Warta, Bug, Wieprz, could sometimes see him—a giant, his hair and beard curled and the color of straw. When he laughed, thunder rumbled and lightning shot out of his eyes. The clouds were his horses. He flew like a bird and swam like a fish. Sometimes in the morning one could see him bathing nude in the river, and with him all the young maidens who were sacrificed to him—stark naked, with hair that reached down to their hips, with breasts and bellies so beautiful that they blinded all who gazed upon them. Nosek confessed to Cybula, “I myself never saw him.” And he winked and shrugged his shoulders.
Krol Rudy and the woyaks invited all the Lesniks—both those who had stayed in the valley and those who returned from the mountains—to a festive meal. Tables made of tree trunks and benches of hewn wood were quickly set up outside. Women brought meat, vegetables, and fruit from their huts and tents. Krol Rudy ordered that the food be shared, because all Poles were like the children of one father and one mother. Krol Rudy declared the day a swieto, a holiday, and ordered pitchers of vodka and mead served at each table. Those Lesniks who had stayed in the valley had grown accustomed to indulging in these beverages, but the mountain people had not. The drinks raised their spirits, helped them forget their cares, made them sing, dance, kiss, laugh. The men told funny stories, the women giggled and clasped each other’s arms, naked children joined hands in a circle, hopped and danced and stamped their little feet. After the feast a choir of woyaks sang a song to the gods, to the fields, to the orchards. Then they began to dance.
Cybula had never seen such dancing before. First the woyaks half squatted; then they leaped like frogs, turned somersaults, stood on their heads, walked on their hands. The sun’s rays alighted on Krol Rudy’s beard, and it seemed to be on fire. He yelled, “Niech zye Polska!—Long live Poland!”
And everyone answered, “Niech zye!”
“Niech zye Krol Rudy! Niech zye Krolowa Laska!”
“Niech zye Kniez Cybula!”
They had placed Laska between her husband, Krol Rudy, and her father, Kniez Cybula. They placed a pumpkin with candles on her head, also. Next to Cybula sat Nosek, while Kora and Yagoda were put at the far end of the table. Krol Rudy once again was addressing the crowd. His face was strangely red, and he was shouting, “Kniez Cybula, since you are Laska’s father, you are my father also. It was she who persuaded me to make peace. She was lying in bed with me, and she pulled at my beard and said, ‘Krol of mine, I want peace.’ And I said, ‘If you, my krolowa, want peace, then go to the mountains and make peace.’ She thought I was joking, but a word from Krol Rudy is like a word from the gods. Our enemies accuse us of tearing open the earth’s skin and uncovering her when we plow. But we Poles say, ‘The earth is like a virgin: if she is to be seeded and fertilized, she has to be torn open. The earth, like a woman, wants to bear fruit and to be opened.’ Is this not true, Kniez Nosek, my great and learned friend?”
“Yes, true,” Nosek murmured.
“And you, Kniez Cybula, do you agree with me? Speak the truth, don’t be afraid.”
“In this I do agree with you,” Cybula said.
“From this day on, you are a Pole, a Polish kniez. And I am a Polish krol. Our kingdom here is small, but it will spread and expand and become large. A day will come when we will belong to one nation, the greatest and strongest in the world. And all the other nations will serve us and worship our gods, and our fields will cover the earth. Is this not true?”
“True! True!”
“And one more thing …”
As he said these words, Krol Rudy suddenly stopped speaking. He shivered and fell facedown on the table. Cybula was frightened. He thought that his protector had been struck dead. But the other kniezes burst out laughing. They knew that this happened whenever the krol was drunk. “Put him down on the grass,” Nosek ordered some woyaks who stood nearby. “And pour cold water on his face.”
When Cybula saw the field the first time, it had seemed immense to him, stretching far into the distance. But now, when he saw it in daylight, it became clear that the field could never feed the entire camp. At best it would provide a snack of bread to be eaten with the meat. The other Lesniks knew this, too, and even kidded Cybula for being a victim of Polish claptrap. One of them asked, “Was this, then, worth shedding so much blood?” Another said that to feed the whole camp a lot of forest would have to be cleared. The gifts of the forest would be lost forever—blackberries, blueberries, strawberries, mushrooms, logs for building, wood for heating and cooking. Also, if the forest was cut down, the birds and animals would run away. There would be no more meat, no pelts. But all this was useless talk. Meanwhile, Krol Rudy ordered every man, woman, and child to cut wheat, tie it in bundles, thresh it, grind it. Only small children, those who were ill, and women about to give birth were not required to work. Even the kniezes and Krol Rudy himself worked during the days of the harvest.
Krol Rudy ordered that the skeletons that were used as scarecrows be taken away so that women with child should not see them and bear monsters or dead children. The Lesniks who had stayed in the valley had labored for a long time: they plowed, sowed, weeded. And now everything had to be done to ensure a plentiful crop. Prayers were chanted to the gods, the sun-god was called upon to shine and the clouds not to make rain. During the woyak attack, many of the gods had been smashed or set on fire. But Lesniks who had the necessary skill made new gods from clay or carved them from wood: male and female gods, shapes of birds, oxen, deer, even wild boars. In the beginning the woyaks tried to force their Polish gods upon the Lesniks, but Nosek persuaded Krol Rudy to let the Lesniks worship their own. Besides, the woyaks themselves were not of one mind. Each came from his own neighborhood and worshipped his own gods.
Besides their own local gods, the Lesniks shared a few gods in common. One was a huge ancient oak. Its trunk was so thick that five men surrounding it with their arms outstretched could barely touch fingers. Its roots spread out in all directions, its branches were large. There was a deep hollow in the oak, burned out by lightning. It was the custom of young maidens to gather around the oak on warm summer evenings, pour holy water on its roots, and sing songs. Old folks would tell how, long ago, a giant with three heads and a tail fell down from the sky. No sooner did he see the oak than he made up his mind to uproot it. But the oak did not budge. For three days and three nights the giant struggled, but he could not overcome it. On the third night he let out a dreadful roar and fell down dead. Flocks of scavenger birds came flying from all corners, and it took from one new moon until the next before they could devour the giant’s body. From that time on, the oak became a god. Its acorns were placed in children’s cribs to give them vigor and health. There were old women in the camp who believed that the opening in its trunk led to where the dead dwell. There was also a clump of holy lime trees not far from the camp. On a stone altar in their midst, every autumn a child was sacrificed to Baba Yaga.
Yes, the Lesniks did not forget their gods. There were several old women who spoke the gods’ tongue, and people sought their advice in matchmaking, healing the sick, fighting an enemy. One wrinkled old witch could bring up spirits of the dead and make them foretell what is to be.
On the night before the harvest, the young maidens assembled around the holy oak, chanted a lengthy prayer, sprinkled water on its roots, rubbed their hands and faces with its bark. Short prayers were also said at the clump of lime trees. The next day the camp was awakened with the beating of drums and sounding of horns. This was to be the camp’s first harvest.
Krol Rudy and the kniezes allotted the work: men would reap with scythes, women with sickles. The woyaks warned the reapers to cut the wheat straight, not to spoil the straw, which would later be used for making thatched roofs. That day the gods were with the Poles. The sky was clear, with not even a puff of white. Krol Rudy himself grabbed a scythe and reaped. With his strong voice he sang as he worked, and the others, picking up the tune, sang and worked with him. Cybula was given a sickle, not a scythe, since he was short and not young anymore. Nosek taught Cybula to work slowly or he would soon tire. The reapers reaped and the balers tied up the wheat in large bundles. Flocks of birds soared up from the field, then flew back and around it. They screeched and squawked with voices that sounded almost human.
Cybula worked briskly, eager to show that he was as skillful a reaper as he had once been a hunter. But he was growing very tired. He was beginning to see that chasing an animal in the woods—shielded by shade-giving trees—was one thing, while working in an open field was something else. He had not brought a hat with him, and he had no hair to cover his head. The closer it came to midday, the hotter the sun blazed. The joints in his arms were aching, his legs could barely hold his body. “What is this? Am I getting old?” Cybula asked himself. From time to time he lost his breath. He sweated profusely and was so drowsy that he could keep his head from nodding only with the greatest of effort. Kora and Yagoda, who worked nearby, were throwing him curious glances. Large drops fell from his forehead. His throat was dry and his knees buckled under him. Kora came over and said, “My kniez, rest a while.”
“Don’t call me kniez. My name is Cybula, and it will stay my name until I die.”
“Your head is as red as a beet—all sunburnt. Don’t you have a hat?”
“All I have is this bald pate.”
“You are also hoarse. Wait, I’ll bring you some water.”
“Where are you off to? Why did you stop reaping?” a woyak shouted at Kora, waving a whip over her head.
“I am going to get water for Kniez Cybula. His head was burned by the sun.”
“Go back to work! An old woman will be by shortly to bring water to those who are thirsty.” And the woyak gave Kora a lash on the bare calves of her legs.
Some of the reaping women laughed, others gaped. Kora had many enemies among them. Yagoda ran up and shouted at the woyak, “Why are you hitting my mother?” Cybula knew that he should confront the woyak, defend Kora. But all his courage had left him. With one arm he tried to shield his head from the broiling sun; he felt its rays were scorching his scalp, his forehead, his neck. The light blinded him and whirled dizzyingly in front of his eyes. A nauseous fluid flooded his mouth. He knew that if he provoked that mean woyak, he would taste the sting of his whip also. He, Cybula, was ashamed. He had been singled out and disgraced. Cybula searched for Laska among the reaping women, but apparently she worked far from where he stood. Some of the men had taken off all their clothes and were working naked; many urinated in public; even women crouched to defecate without any shame. Then someone brought him a drink of water in a wooden ladle. Cybula looked for shade, but as far as his eye could see, there was not a tree or a tent in which he could hide from the god of the heavens. Of what worth was a speck of life to the sun-god, who lived forever, but he, Cybula, was already on the brink of death. “Death, the redeemer of all futile hopes, you are my true god! I will serve you until my last breath!” a voice in Cybula cried out.
Krol Rudy had promised Cybula a house, but the building had not yet begun. Meanwhile, he lived with Yagoda in Kora’s fire-ravaged hut. Since he had sunstroke and could not work, he lay on a pelt in deep sleep. The sun had set by the time Kora and Yagoda came to wake him. The men and women who did the harvesting lit a fire near the field, then gathered around it, sang, danced, roasted meat on the coals as well as ears of wheat. The young women danced in a circle, and the old ones told stories about little red people who lived under the earth, about mermaids who were half women and half fish, about children born with hair and teeth who returned to earth after death to play evil pranks on the living. One old woman told about a man who went out to urinate one night and the earth swallowed him up; days later, his voice was heard calling from the depths, but no one could reach him. Another woman told about a wench who was digging for roots one hot summer day, when suddenly a whirlwind picked her up and carried her off forever. Another told the story of a starving young mother who was no longer able to suckle her infant. The distraught woman went into a tent where she kept a bagini, a goddess, knelt before her, and prayed for help. Suddenly warm milk began to flow from the goddess’s clay breasts, and the child was nourished until it was weaned.
In the camp there lived an old man, Rybak. It was said that he was a hundred years old and that he could remember a time when the Lesniks had neighboring camps. Rybak had belonged to a tribe which called itself Rybaki, the fishermen. They had a lake full of fish. During one of the wars, Rybak was taken prisoner and for years served the Lesniks as a slave—a woodchopper, a water carrier. One day his master chose him to be his daughter’s husband, and Rybak was a free man. He remembered a summer when the sky was overcast for three months straight. The days were as dark as the nights. The sun never showed itself, and people began to believe that a jealous god had extinguished it. In the months when usually it was hot, that year it snowed. The trees never bloomed and their branches remained bare. There was no grass, and oxen, cows, horses, sheep, and pigs all died of hunger. The vines produced no fruit and the earth no vegetables. Entire tribes starved to death. Even the fish in the rivers perished, since they, too, needed the earth’s plants. A sorceress foresaw that the end of the world was coming. But suddenly the sky cleared and the sun shone. One day it was winter, and the next, summer came. That night old women saw a brightly lit ship in the sky, with shimmering sails.
One old woman remembered a summer when it never rained. Men and animals died of thirst. Bits of fire dropped from the sky. There was lightning, but no thunder. Hot winds blew up from the south and set trees on fire. So hot was the earth that people who walked on it barefoot scorched their soles. A huge serpent fell down from the sky not far from the camp. The stench from its carcass brought sickness, and an epidemic spread throughout the camp.
Even though Cybula was still somewhat ill from the sunstroke, as well as the disgrace he had suffered that day, he came out in the evening to join the merrymaking. He expected to be mocked with laughter and catcalls, but everyone asked about his health and wished him a speedy recovery. Some women smeared his skin with ointment. Nosek came to see him, and the two men sat late into the night talking about the plight of the camp. No, there was not nearly enough wheat to feed the people. They would need more fruit, berries, mushrooms, and meat. Without hunting and hunters, people would starve during the winter months. Cybula tried to apologize for not having been able to finish his work in the field, but Nosek comforted him by saying, “We had enough harvesters. All we need is more wheat to harvest!” It was already past midnight when Cybula returned to the hut, to Yagoda and Kora. He had sworn to serve the god of death, but the desires of the living still burned in him.
Nosek, speaking for Krol Rudy, reached an understanding with Cybula. All matters pertaining to fields—when to plow, sow, harvest, how much wheat and roots to set aside for beer and vodka—were under the kniezes’ control. In matters relating to the Lesniks only, Cybula was in charge. Cybula thus became what he was before: the elder of the Lesnik camp. New huts were needed before the rains and snow began. Old huts needed repair. The time for every man to do as he pleased was over. Hunters needed some kind of payment for sharing their catch with others. Guards had to be posted against woyaks who continued to steal and to rape. Children were born and no one knew who fathered whom. Most of the women had been raped by more than one woyak. If the camp was to become truly Polish and live on the fruits of the land, large tracts of forestland would have to be cleared, roots of trees pulled out or burned, rocks carried away. But who would take on this work of his own free will? A way had to be found to provide for those who worked. And finally, it was not only woyaks who were guilty of misdeeds. Thieves, robbers, rapists arose among the Lesniks as well—evil always bred more evil. Someone in the camp would have to serve as judge and make sure that justice was done.
Since Cybula was the one Lesnik everyone trusted, most of this burden fell on his shoulders. He often remarked that were it not for Nosek, he would have collapsed under the weight. From morning until evening people assailed him with their demands and complaints. Some had received a smaller share of wheat or straw than others. One family was promised a new hut, while another had only a roof repaired. There were now more than twice as many women in the camp. Mothers and widows had neither the time nor the strength to dig holes, chop wood, carry logs, put up roofs, tasks which required men. To persuade men to build huts for families not their own meant that a new order had to be set up, one which would provide fairly and amply for everyone.
Cybula often had to laugh to himself. He had never foreseen what entanglements the fields would bring with them. He now appreciated how simple it had been in his former life, when a hunter, and his family, ate of his own catch, built his own hut or tent, set up his own traps, took care of his own beehives. The fields, and those who forced them on the Lesniks, brought with them a partnership which the people did not want and the gods perhaps did not approve of. Sometimes Cybula thought that the only way out of their plight would be to get rid of all the woyaks and return to the old ways. But that would bring on another bloodbath. Moreover, there were rumors that the Poles in different regions were growing steadily stronger and their kingdom was spreading far and wide.
It became known that not more than ten days’ ride from the camp, the Poles had built what they called Miasto, a town. Fields, gardens, and orchards extended in every direction, as well as camps called gospodas which belonged to a kniez, a lord, a pan, or whatever the owner called himself. The owner had a large house—a gospoda—built for his family and servants. He had woyaks to guard him from his enemies. He owned herds of oxen, cows, horses, sheep, pigs. Dwelling in Miasto were artisans: shoemakers, tailors, furriers, hatters, coopers, blacksmiths, tinsmiths, carpenters, and others. There were also kupiecs, merchants, who traded one kind of merchandise for another, keeping a portion for themselves. They had stores in which they weighed goods on scales or measured them with sticks. From regions where the Vistula flowed into the sea, merchants came to buy wheat, honey, hides, horses, sheep, wool, even slaves, and paid for them with articles produced by the Niemcies, the Germans—the mute ones. They babbled in a language no one understood, but these foreigners could build ships, tan hides, spin threads, extract from the earth mineral stones or sand, which was later smelted in ovens and made into glass, mined lead, copper, tin.
Both Niemcy and Polish krols had foundries where coins were made of silver or gold. The coins were called pieniadze (money) or zloto (gold). Even though the Lesniks had nothing to sell, Nosek persuaded Cybula to ride with him to Miasto simply to see what it was like. Not all Poles were savages like Krol Rudy and his woyaks. There were many who could speak to the Germans, the Czechs, the Russians, and even with people who lived across the sea. Cybula could only listen to Nosek and gape.
Alone in their corner of the world, surrounded by forests, far from other tribes, the Lesniks—like a worm in horseradish—believed their burrow to be the whole world. But a new time was coming, with new ways. Men were no longer limited to hunting and fishing. They dug into the bowels of the earth and found treasures there. They sailed ships over the rivers, lakes, and seas. Wheelmakers made carts, wagons, bryczkas. In the winter some men traveled in sleds. Nosek told of soldiers who fought wars with chariots. He also told Cybula about writing: an animal’s hide was tanned and made into parchment and then, with a quill, people drew marks on it which others could read. Nosek spoke of faraway places named Persia, Greece, Rome, Egypt. In the land of Africa black people lived. Some countries had strong fortresses with towers, and krols who wore crowns on their heads. Beautiful women wore garments of silk and satin, adorned themselves with chains, bracelets, earrings, necklaces, nose rings. There were wise men called astrologers who knew what happened high up in the heavens. Nosek uttered names which the tongue could not pronounce. Nosek also told Cybula that in his many wars, during his plundering days, Krol Rudy had amassed a large treasure of silver and gold which could be bartered for oxen, sheep, clothing, shoes, weapons, coaches, saddles, and whatever else the heart desired. Krol Rudy was prepared to entrust Nosek with part of his riches and send him to Miasto to exchange his gold for goods. Nosek was willing to take Cybula along. The journey would not be altogether safe, because bands of robbers lurked on the roads. Miasto itself swarmed with thieves and murderers, but a clever man could steer clear of these dangers.
Cybula chose to mull the trip over in his head before agreeing to go. It was not easy for him to leave the camp; he always missed Yagoda whenever he had to leave her alone. But Nosek told him that no woman could make this journey. Nosek also asked him to make up his mind before the rains and the snow began, because he found his way by the sun or the stars, as did the men who sailed on the seas. There was no topic Cybula could not discuss with Nosek, except the riddle of why men and animals suffered and died. Whenever Cybula asked about this, Nosek would reply, “Only the gods can answer.”