“I don’t know. I don’t remember. They beat me, blackened my eye. I couldn’t see. Where is Ben Dosa?”
After some effort, Cybula succeeded in untying the rope. The sun was beginning to rise. The pigs tried to escape through the open door, but Cybula pushed them back with his foot. The crimson light of dawn fell on the sty, and Kosoka and the pigs looked as if they were spattered with blood. Fear filled Cybula’s heart. What an ugly death, he thought. To be trampled to death by pigs. Quickly he left the sty with Kosoka, locking the door behind him with the hook. “Come with me to the stream. We both need to wash the dirt from our bodies.”
His anger drove Cybula to the stream with speed. The dawn arose clear and bright. Birds sang, twittered, trilled. Flowers which had closed their petals for the night now opened again, and their fragrance mingled in Cybula’s nostrils with the smell of his own body. Cybula remembered he had often witnessed cruelty in Kora. When she slaughtered a hen, a duck, a rabbit, she did it with a fury, as if the creature had harmed her and she was taking revenge. During their nightly talks she often urged him to kill his enemies. Cybula considered this chatter of hers as a ruse to arouse both him and herself. There is no telling what a man and a woman may say to one another in the heat of passion. But now he knew Kora was in truth a bloodthirsty animal.
Cybula reached the mountain stream and plunged into the water. The stream had its source in glacial snows, and so its water was ice cold. Cybula caught his breath. But he quickly began to swim, splash, rub his body. Kosoka did the same. Cybula had left his loincloth in the pigsty and he was, like Kosoka, stark naked. He caught a glimpse of Kosoka’s wet body: it was lean, dark, her breasts were small, the nipples erect. Cold water often cools passion, but Cybula nevertheless felt desire for Kosoka. He emerged from the water to warm himself in the sun and signaled Kosoka to join him. But she remained in the water, repeatedly immersing herself, apparently to wash out her hair. Occasionally she left her head submerged in the water for some time, as if she were trying to drown herself. But then quickly she surfaced again. The sun rose in the sky, its heat warming Cybula’s body.
Kosoka still splashed in the rushing waters, and Cybula suddenly realized that he should not have left his loincloth at the pigsty. It would be recognized as belonging to him. Without it, he need never reveal that it was he who had freed Kosoka from her imprisonment. Cybula was well aware that the women in the camp—perhaps the men, too—craved sacrifices. As soon as their own beating stopped, the beaten always turned to beating others. Kosoka was now climbing out of the water—scrubbed, slim, and agile as a doe. Although he had made up his mind to let her escape, Cybula now signaled to her to come to him. Kosoka stood motionless, looking at him. After a while Cybula approached her and said, “Come with me behind that clump of trees.”
Kosoka hesitated. “No, krol, I cannot go with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to be Ben Dosa’s wife.”
“Ben Dosa doesn’t want you. He threw you out of his hut,” Cybula said.
“He wants to wait until I am a Jew. Therefore …”
“Come with me. Ben Dosa is going out into the world to look for some holy tablets. He may never return. He may find his wife and children and go to that city of his, Jerusalem.”
“Wherever he goes I will go, wherever he lodges I will lodge, his God is my God,” Kosoka answered, repeating word for word Ruth’s answer to Naomi. Cybula remained standing, half angry, half ashamed. No woman had ever refused his advances. He blurted out, “Ben Dosa doesn’t want you. He has a wife.”
“He will take me as his concubine.”
“Ah, you are a fool! I have already lain with you, you are not a virgin. I have also saved your life.”
“For this God will reward you. But as for me, I am already as good as Ben Dosa’s.”
“You belong to no one but me. I bought you in Miasto and you’re mine.”
“You bought my body, not my soul.”
In the midst of his predicament, Cybula wanted to laugh. The girl parroted Ben Dosa’s every thought and every word.
“I want your body, not your soul. Don’t be a fool—I am the krol; every woman in the camp belongs to me.”
“The krol who rules over all krols is God in heaven,” Kosoka said.
She began to run along the river, on the path leading to the mountains. Cybula stood and watched the receding figure with bewilderment. She scrambled on her hands and knees like a wild animal. He did not want to chase after her. In any case, he would never have caught her.
Well, this is what happens when you act kindly to slaves, Cybula thought. I should have left her to die in the pigsty! Soon Cybula’s anger turned against Ben Dosa. You buy a little shoemaker for a few coins, and immediately he becomes a teacher. Such a man could certainly have killed God or his son: the thought flashed through his brain. He stood and waited as if he believed that Kosoka might return to him. But she had already vanished into the woods where the stream twisted between bushes and trees.
(5)
Cybula should have hurried back to the camp. He had promised Bishop Mieczyslaw to eat the morning meal with him, and to gather the camp together so that the bishop could speak about his god. But Cybula was ashamed to be seen in the camp stark naked, particularly in the presence of a learned man who dressed in such finery.
What do they want of me with their silly beliefs? Cybula thought. A band of Jews quarreled about some god in Jerusalem, and this bishop comes here to denounce them. Let them both go to the devil, the bishop and Ben Dosa! We are burdened with enough cares without them. As Cybula began to retrace his steps, he heard the sound of horse hoofs. He saw Nosek on a brown horse and Laska on a white one riding along the trail. Kora had often told Cybula that his daughter loved Nosek, but he had taken it to be mere women’s gossip. It was common knowledge that Nosek liked men, not women, and that he had dealings with that handsome boy Wilk. Moreover, Laska had a child that was not yet weaned. A fatherly shame overcame Cybula, and a fear that the couple might see him. He quickly hid himself in the bushes. It was strange, but he had often thought that if Krol Rudy died, he would like to give his daughter to Nosek. Nevertheless Laska’s conduct irked him, all the more so because she was hiding from him what the entire camp suspected. Cybula crouched down low, trying to avoid being seen by the two riders. His heart thumped and a bitter fluid filled his mouth. This was indeed a cursed day, he thought. It seemed that he had roamed about for many hours, but it was still daybreak.
The two riders reached the stream. They talked and apparently joked with each other, because Laska was laughing. They dismounted from their horses and tied the animals to nearby trees. Nosek threw off his loincloth from his hips, and after a while Laska removed her clothing. For the first time since she had married Krol Rudy, Cybula saw his daughter undressed. Her breasts had grown large, swollen, the nipples red. A tremor shook Cybula’s body. But why? Did he expect his daughter to look unlike other women? For a long time the two stood by the stream, as if hesitating whether or not to enter the water. Cybula expected them to kiss, embrace, fondle each other. He wished that they would, and at the same time felt ashamed. Then Nosek threw himself into the water and was followed by Laska. Cybula’s palate was dry. He felt disgraced, as if he had seen something he should not have seen. He amused himself with women whenever he wanted, and moments ago he had tried to seduce Ben Dosa’s woman. “But why do they hide the truth from me?” Cybula asked himself. He remembered Ben Dosa’s discourse on the two spirits which belonged to each man, a good one and an evil one. When Cybula said he had never seen the two spirits, Ben Dosa answered that they lived deep within each man, deep in his heart. Yes, within each man a battle raged. There were many men in the camp he could have killed had he not suppressed his anger. Had he carried his sword this morning, he would surely have slain Kosoka for denying him her body. For an instant he imagined himself shooting an arrow into Nosek’s head, even into Laska’s.
“Well, I mus
t go home. A party of men must be out looking for me,” Cybula told himself. Suddenly a playful thought came to him. Why not take Nosek’s loincloth? Nosek and Laska had swum far from where he stood, beyond the point where the stream bent sharply to the left. There was no time for reflection, he would have to do it quickly. With the speed and agility of a young man, Cybula ran to the spot where the two had left their clothing, grabbed Nosek’s waistcloth, and sped off toward the camp. He continued to run for a long time, feeling light, nimble, as if he had truly become young once again. Finally he stopped to rest and to put on Nosek’s loincloth, which he found a trifle tight. When he pictured to himself Nosek searching for his garment, incredulous that it could have disappeared, Cybula wanted to laugh. “He will probably think some ghost stole it away.” His gloom lifted. Even if his own loincloth was found in the pigsty, they would not know to whom it belonged.
He saw Kora and halted. Yes, Kora had come out to look for him, exactly as she had that night when the woyak Lis attacked him. He regretted that he had freed Kosoka; it would cause Kora much grief and anger. But how could he have acted otherwise?
Cybula called Kora’s name and waved his arm at her. Kora shouted, “Where do you spend the nights? I open my eyes and you are not there! Yagoda was also worried about you. I am beginning to think you are a sorcerer, or maybe a monster!”
“Yes, Kora, that is what I am, but keep it a secret.”
“What sort of loincloth is this?” Kora asked. “It is not the one I gave you.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Where is your loincloth?”
“I threw it away, into a heap of garbage,” Cybula answered.
“Why? It was a gift from me. And whose is this?”
“Nosek’s.”
“Are you joking again?”
“No, it is the truth.”
“Have you spent the night with Nosek?”
“Yes. He has sent Wilk away and he has taken up with me.”
“I beg you, Cybula, speak to me honestly.”
“I left the hut at daybreak and I saw Nosek and my daughter, Laska, riding together on two horses. I followed them to the stream and I saw them bathing there. I crawled to the place where they left their clothes, and I took Nosek’s waistcloth,” Cybula answered.
“Did you see him entering her?”
“That I did not see.”
“Did they embrace, kiss?”
“No.”
“I always told you she loved him. What was your purpose in swapping your loincloth for his?”
“No purpose, but I did not say we swapped.”
“My mark is on yours. He will know that you followed him.”
“I did not swap loincloths. I took his, and I threw mine away.”
“Every time you leave my bed at night, something happens to you. Wilk is waiting for you in the camp. You were supposed to eat with the bishop and to call a gathering afterward. Instead, you go tracking down your daughter’s footprints! I told you long ago to put an end to Krol Rudy. Why should she languish with that boor if she loves Nosek?”
“Kora, if my daughter wishes to consort with Nosek, I will not forbid it. But there is no reason to kill a man for that.”
“What? And how many men and women did he kill? More than the hairs in his red beard.”
“As long as I am krol, there will be no killing of an innocent man.”
Kora looked at him, astonished. “I don’t understand you.”
“I don’t want to kill anyone. I will also not permit a sacrifice in this camp. Remember my words, Kora, and do nothing without my knowledge.”
Cybula ordered the camp to assemble, and Bishop Mieczyslaw addressed the gathering that morning. He wore a long zupan, his blond hair reaching his shoulders. With his strong and loud voice, he pronounced each word slowly and clearly. He unrolled a scroll and read to the assembled people the story of Mary. How she was betrothed to Joseph, how the holy spirit caused her to conceive, how the angel warned Joseph to flee to Egypt with his wife and his son. He told about John the Baptist, who preached in the desert, telling the Jews to repent because the kingdom of heaven was at hand. He preached that you were to love not only your friend but also your enemy. When the bishop told about the Jews who persecuted Jesus and handed him to the Romans to be crucified, a tumult arose in the camp. Someone shouted, “Ben Dosa is a Jew. He is the one who killed God!”
Cybula broke in. “This happened a long time ago. Ben Dosa was not yet born then. Isn’t that true, Bishop Mieczyslaw?”
The bishop waited before he answered. “Yes, he himself did not kill God. But the Jews have remained a stiff-necked people. They don’t want to know the truth.”
“Where is Ben Dosa? Why is he not here today?” someone shouted.
“He hides in his hut like an ostrich,” an old Lesnik answered.
The bishop resumed his sermon. He told the story of Jesus, reading it from his unraveled scroll. From time to time he looked up at the gathering and added a few words of his own.
“Bring Jesus to us and to our camp,” another woman shouted. “Let him be our god!”
“I have brought Jesus to you!” Bishop Mieczyslaw answered. “Not his body, but his spirit. Let us all kneel before him and serve him!”
The bishop fell on his knees, and the entire camp followed suit. Even Kora and Cybula knelt on the ground. Then the bishop began to sing. The words were in an unfamiliar language, but the melody was pleasant and soon everyone sang along. Bishop Mieczyslaw made the sign of the cross with his hand, and his listeners tried to imitate him. The bishop addressed them in the Polish tongue: “All of you gathered here—men, women, children—have undertaken this day to adore God in his son and in the holy spirit. From this day on, you are no longer heathens, you are faithful Christians. God will erase and forgive all your sins. From this day on, Jesus is your shepherd, and you are his sheep. Those who serve idols will, like the Jews, burn in the fires of hell. But your souls, my brothers and sisters, will fly to heaven and repose under God’s wing. May you all be blessed from this day and forever in the name of God, his son Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
“Tak, tak, tak [yes, yes, yes]!” voices rang out.
“Come here tomorrow at the same hour and I will sprinkle your heads with the holy water.”
“Tak, tak, tak!”
Some women were weeping loudly, others wiped their eyes. Suddenly Laska cried out, “Holy man, take me to Jesus Christ!”
“You are with him, my daughter. His spirit hovers over your head!” the bishop answered, a tremor in his voice.
“I want to be with him in heaven!”
“Laska, be quiet!” Cybula called to her.
“My daughter, the way to heaven leads through faith and love,” the bishop said. “Our Lord said, Call no man on earth your father, because only God in heaven is your father.”
“I am your father, you have none other, not in heaven and not here on earth!” Cybula said.
“You, krol, are her father in body, but her true father is her spiritual father.”
The camp was silent. All at once a shrill squawking was heard, like the cawing of a crow. But it was not a crow, it was an old woman, Paskuda, the witch. She was small as a child, hunchbacked, and she had only a few tufts of white fuzz on her bare scalp. Her tiny face was as yellow as wax, wrinkled like a cabbage leaf. She hobbled, always leaning on a stick for support. She stretched out a crooked finger, tipped by an overgrown and sharp nail, and pointed to Cybula.
“Holy man,” Paskuda half wheezed, half shrieked, “a father does not commonly sell his daughter to enemies, but Cybula sold his to a murderer and now to Nosek, and the two of them ride horses in the woods. Children died because of these sins, and so great was our hunger that their own mothers ate …” Paskuda fell into a fit of crying. She tottered and almost fell to the ground, but one of the Gorals caught her and held her up.
“Bishop Mieczyslaw,” Cybula said, “this old woman has lost her mind. She
is a witch, she drinks her own urine.”
“What she says is the truth!” called out the Lesnik who held Paskuda. “Cybula is a zdrajca, a traitor. He made a pact with the murderers. He became their kniez, and condemned the rest of us to die. He went to a place where smoks and demons live, and with Krol Rudy’s booty he bought this Jew who killed God, and a bitch who was raised by wolves and howls like one of them.”
“Pipe down, you old man! You gorged yourself on their bread with your rotten teeth and you asked for more!” a woman interrupted him. “You are angry because Cybula is our krol and our god, and because we’d give our lives for him. While from you we flee because you stink like a corpse …”
“Monster! Freak! Bitch!”
“Leper! Scarecrow!”
Everyone began to shout all at once, to wave fists, stamp feet. Young children cried, older ones attacked each other, imitating the adults. But then a frightful shout was heard: “Look! Over there!”
The entire camp froze. Every eye turned in the same direction to see Kulak carrying Krol Rudy on his back. The krol was barefoot, his naked body clad in a zupan. Tufts of red hair protruded from his long ears and from his flat nose—swollen, red, with the blue veins that come with drink. Many believed Krol Rudy dead. Others swore he had become a werewolf, who was tied to his bed at night to prevent him from devouring his subjects. Krol Rudy had apparently awakened from his long hibernation. Several in the crowd again fell to their knees, followed almost immediately by the rest of the camp. Only the bishop, Cybula, Nosek, and Kora remained standing. Krol Rudy was still among the living!
“Niech zye krol—Long live the krol!” someone shouted. And the whole camp repeated, “Niech zye!”
“Niech zye Polska!” Krol Rudy answered. And Cybula, in the midst of the uproar, suddenly found it odd that this savage, Krol Rudy, was his daughter’s husband and his own son-in-law. At that moment his life seemed a mockery. He nodded his head at the former king, his son-in-law, who had awakened from the throes of death. He could scarcely believe that a man could carry Krol Rudy’s body and not collapse under its weight. But Kulak stood firm, his massive feet rooted to the ground.
King of the Fields Page 16
