King of the Fields

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  “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.

  (3)

  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.

  (4)

  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.”

  4

  Journey to Miasto

  When Cybula told Kora and Yagoda that he planned to ride to Miasto with Nosek, to be gone almost four months, Yagoda burst out crying and wailed that she would never see him again. Kora warned him that bandits infested the roads, as well as vicious smoks, babuks, and other devils who dragged people over the mountains to dark pits at the end of the world. But Cybula was firm: he had given his consent to Nosek, who had passed it on to Krol Rudy. Besides, the camp needed horses, wagons, plowshares, scythes, sickles, hoes, saws, hammers, and many other tools for the fields and their new houses. He also promised to bring back gifts for Kora and Yagoda. Kora allowed herself to be placated after a while, but hard as he tried, Cybula could not convince Yagoda that the trip would bring something good to her, to himself, to the camp. It was close to dawn when the three finally fell asleep.

  Soon after sunrise Nosek came to awaken Cybula. Everything was ready: two horses for the men, a third horse to carry their supplies as well as Krol Rudy’s booty. For the first time in his life, Cybula carried a sword at his hip, and wore a hat with feathers, as well as the long cloak, a zupan, worn only by kniezes. He looked like one of the great heroes grandmothers told stories about on long winter nights. Krol Rudy and his kniezes took leave of the two emissaries. Cybula deftly climbed up on his horse. He kissed Yagoda, Kora, and the other women and girls, who came bearing baskets of flowers and fruit. Two rows of woyaks saluted the riders: they pulled out their swords, put them together to form an archway, and shouted words of praise. Nosek distributed to the children pretzels baked of the first harvest’s flour. Krol Rudy came, accompanied by Laska, who, although the weather was warm, had put shoes on her bare feet, as befitted the wife of a king. She kissed her father, and Nosek kissed her forehead and knelt before her. Krol Rudy shouted out, “May the gods be with you!” and he signaled the riders to begin their journey. Yagoda had promised Cybula not to cry, but she wailed nevertheless, even as she accompanied him to the road outside the camp.

  Cybula, who had never left the region in which he was born, knew nothing of the road he was taking. He relied completely on Nosek, who said they must find a stream which flowed down from the mountain and follow it all the way. It was Nosek who had wandered in many lands for years, fought wars, met all kinds of people. Nosek rode on one horse, leading the other along, and Cybula rode behind, his eyes and ears watchful for surprise attacks. One hand held the reins as the other rested on the handle of his sword. The road meandered through a forest. It seemed to be more of a trail, too narrow even for one man, and now disappearing under moss, fallen pine needles, branches, cones. Previous travelers had carved some markings on tree trunks, but Cybula could not understand how these markings indicated direction. It was odd to have left the camp not as a man fleeing his enemies but as a pan, a kniez. And on whose mission? That of his former enemy, a king who had married his daughter and perhaps killed his wife. Even though events happened one by one, as one looked back on them they resembled a clever plan arranged by some godly sage who wanted no one to guess how it would end. If someone had told Cybula on the night of the massacre that the murderers’ leader would become his son-in-law, and would send him to a distant place, entrusted with his precious possessions, Cybula would have thought it madness. Yet the powers had seen fit to decree it all.

  So that the horses were not overtaxed, the two men rode slowly and let them rest, graze, drink. They themselves also rested and ate. On the road they became even closer to each other than before. Each needed the other’s help. When one dozed off, the other stood guard. One evening, after the two had eaten and prepared to spend the night in the forest, off the road, but not too far away, Cybula said to Nosek, “All troubles come from men. What would happen if there were no men in the world? Women would never turn to robbing, and no one would have to fear being attacked in the night. Women are weak and are reluctant to leave their tents after dark.”

  Nosek smiled. Cybula had such strange thoughts. Nosek answered in his simple way, “If there were no men, there would be no women, either.”

  “Somehow I can’t imagine a woman
with a sword or a spear, hurting another woman and stabbing her,” Cybula said.

  “Female animals are just as bloodthirsty as male animals,” said Nosek. “A female wolf would tear apart a deer or a man as quickly as would a male wolf. Our own women kill small animals and fish. They don’t kill each other because we men do it for them.”

  “Yes, true,” Cybula agreed, “but men are different from animals.”

  “They are not so different. Women are lazy; they only appear to be softhearted. They send men out to face all the dangers, and they stay in their huts and warm themselves by the fire.”

  A long while passed before Cybula answered: “You, Nosek, don’t like women.”

  Nosek smiled. “Not much.”

  “Why?”

  “Ah, it’s hard to speak to them. If you say something that displeases them, immediately they raise a hue and cry. And they always complain about men: men don’t love them enough, don’t pamper them enough. Women hate each other, but still they always fall into each other’s arms and claim to be devoted. If one is ill, another comes immediately to fill her place in bed, next to the husband. It could be her own sister!”