King of the Fields

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  “And I in you, your worthiness. Under your leadership we shall have peace.”

  Then Nosek took leave of Laska. Again he uttered words which were unfamiliar to Cybula but whose meanings he could guess. Cybula had always had a liking for the female sex, but it occurred to him that this was the first time a man had so appealed to him.

  As soon as Nosek was gone, Kora jumped out of a clump of bushes and cried, “I heard everything, every word.”

  “Yes, you would have made a good spy.”

  “Everything you said is true. Every word of yours was worth kissing.”

  “Was this not true also of Nosek’s words?”

  “He is false,” Kora answered. “They all are. They make pretty speeches, with flattery, but all they want is to make maidservants and slaves of us. With their smooth tongues they make our daughters surrender themselves, but when the girls’ bellies begin to swell, the sly foxes pretend they know nothing. Nosek is no better than they are. And what’s more, he is not even a man.”

  “What is he, then?” Cybula asked.

  “They say he is fond of men.”

  “You, Kora, have seen this with your own eyes?” Laska asked.

  “Ah, I know. There is no concealing things from me. I see everything and know everything.”

  “Kora, we cannot remain here another winter,” Cybula said. “We will all die.”

  “Yes, I know. Wherever you go, we, Yagoda and I, will also go. We’ll wash your feet and drink the water!”

  The three of them returned to the cave. It was now clear to Cybula that Kora and Laska disliked one another. But why? Yagoda was asleep by the fire. Only a few coals were still glowing. That night Cybula did not lie down between Kora and Yagoda but prepared for himself a separate place to sleep. Laska went to her own bed without a word.

  Cybula was tired, but he was unable to sleep. Nosek had insisted that the Lesniks come down to the valley unarmed. They could take their bows but no arrows. But how could he be sure that armed woyaks would not attack and kill them? Even if Nosek was trustworthy—which he seemed to be—how could a bandit like Krol Rudy be trusted? Cybula could foresee that when he assembled the Lesniks and reported Nosek’s words, they would charge him with being a traitor. They might even want to kill him and Laska. Perhaps it would be better for him to flee now. Cybula had often heard about forest dwellers, people who left their camps and went deep into the woods to live out their years alone, without wives, without children, without huts or tents. All they possessed were bows and arrows. Cybula had toyed with the idea of doing the same. There was no need to share one’s bed with a female. No one ever died from living alone. Cybula had never liked the mindless talk of men and women, their chatter about the gods, the rumors they spread about one another, their gossip. He did not enjoy being a leader of men, but he surely had no desire to be a follower. Yes, this is what I must do, he said to himself. I’ll live alone and die alone. I’ll turn my back on the whole breed of men. Perhaps I should set out right now? Neither Kora nor Laska needs me. Laska has a husband, a krol. And Kora likes all men. She would give herself to a stallion if she could. Cybula felt pity only for Yagoda. Perhaps he should take her along? She would follow him anywhere. Finally, he fell asleep.

  When he woke, the sun was shining outside. A fire was burning between the stones which served as an oven and Kora was roasting meat. She tore the pretzel which Nosek had brought into four chunks—one for each of them. Cybula and the women ate silently. The coming day would tell their fate. The pretzel was stale, but Cybula chewed it slowly and felt he was tasting the flavor of the field, the stalks of wheat. Compared to the meat, he thought, the pretzel was easier to digest. No beast had to be killed in order for him to eat and enjoy his food. After the meal Cybula left the cave to convoke a meeting of the Lesniks. Kora and Yagoda went out to gather roots and fruit. Laska remained alone in the cave. It was dangerous for her to be seen before Cybula could explain to the people that she had come to make peace.

  Laska had not slept well during the night, and when the others left the cave, she returned to her bed. But she could not sleep. In her dreams she saw Krol Rudy dead, Nosek the new krol and she his krolowa, her father a kniez. There was peace between the Lesniks and the Poles. She and Krol Nosek lived in a big house. He took her with him wherever he went, and talked over with her all the events of the camp: whom to reward and whom to punish. She bore him ten children, five boys and five girls. Her father married Yagoda and sent Kora away. Kora committed some sin against him and was put to death. Laska imagined Kora bound with rope to a tree, and a woyak standing beside her waving a sharp sword over her head. For a short time Laska delighted in this dream, but then she began to ask herself, What is it that I have against her? True, she took my mother’s place. But so did Yagoda. No, it is not this. It is that I cannot bear her falsehood, her gossip, her flattery, her looseness. She lies with her daughter’s husband. All the woyaks have had her. How can my father lie with such a whore? Laska fell asleep, and the sound of voices woke her up. Cybula had gathered the Lesniks outside his cave. He came to bring Laska to them, so she could talk to them of Nosek’s offer of peace, and of the answer he had given Nosek.

  3

  The Lesniks Return to the Valley

  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.”

  (2)

  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.”