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The Boy Who Wanted Wings
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Table of Contents
The Poland Trilogy by James Conroyd Martin
Also by James Conroyd Martin
Acknowledgments
Historical Note:
Glossary
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Reading Group Guide
The Poland Trilogy by James Conroyd Martin
Check out The Poland Trilogy: https://goo.gl/93rzag
Based on the diary of a Polish countess who lived through the rise and fall of the Third of May Constitution years, 1791-94, Push Not the River paints a vivid picture of a tumultuous and unforgettable metamorphosis of a nation—and of Anna, a proud and resilient woman. Against a Crimson Sky continues Anna’s saga as Napoléon comes calling, implying independence would follow if only Polish lancers would accompany him on his fateful 1812 march into Russia. Anna’s family fights valiantly to hold on-to a tenuous happiness, their country, and their very lives. Set against the November Rising (1830-31), The Warsaw Conspiracy depicts partitioned Poland’s daring challenge to the Russian Empire. Brilliantly illustrating the psyche of a people determined to reclaim independence in the face of monumental odds, the story features Anna’s sons and their fates in love and war.
The Boy Who Wanted Wings
Copyright © 2016 by James Conroyd Martin All rights reserved.
First Edition: August 2016
http://www.JamesCMartin.com
Edited by Mary Rita Perkins Mitchell
Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics
www.streetlightgraphics.com
Art:
Front cover: Husari Szarza
Back cover: Husaria
Interior: Husaria.Polska duma
By Halina Kaźmierczak
http://www.kazmierczak.netgaleria.eu
Title page:
Polish Eagle, drawing
By Kenneth Mitchell
Interior art:
Wycinanki, Polish folk papercuts
By Frances Drwal
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
While some charcters are based on historical personages, this is a work of fiction.
Also by James Conroyd Martin
The Poland Trilogy:
Push Not the River
Against a Crimson Sky
The Warsaw Conspiracy
and
Hologram: A Haunting
Acknowledgments
I wish to express my deep and sincere appreciation to those who have given of their time, expertise, and enthusiasm along the road to this novel, especially Lorron Farani, Judith Sowiński Free, Scott Hagensee, Linda Hansen, Halina Kaźmierczak, Leonard Kniffel, Kitty Mitchell, Mary Rita Perkins Mitchell, Faye Predny, John Rdzak, Radosław Sikora, Miltiades Varvounis, Cheryl Wolgamott, and loyal members of Portland’s 9-Bridges Downtown Saturday Meetups.
~For my loyal readers,
with sincere thanks~
THANK YOU for reading The Boy Who Wanted Wings
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Historical Note:
On the eve of September 11, 1683, a massive Ottoman horde was besieging the gates of Vienna and had been doing so since the previous July. Now, however, they were just hours from capturing this capital of the Holy Roman Empire. The Turks’ intent was to bring Islam to all of Europe, and this city was seen by East and West alike as the gateway. They had already achieved success in Greece, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, and Serbia. With the window of time closing for Vienna, the walls were about to be breached on September 12 when the vastly outnumbered Christian coalition, led by Polish King Jan III Sobieski and his famous winged hussars, descended Kahlenberg Mountain to engage the Turks in an attempt to lift the siege.
Is it merely coincidental that Al-Qaeda terrorists chose September 11, 2001, for their horrific attack on New York and Washington, DC? Or had the Battle of Vienna—as seminal in human history as the 1066 Battle of Hastings—inspired a symbolic message that the time had come to resume the struggle of 1683?
Glossary
Dog’s blood!: Damn, Damn it!
Dniestr—Dnyehstr: a river in Southeastern Poland, now in the Ukraine, that empties into the Black Sea
Dwór—dvoor: manor house of the Polish nobility
Halicz—Hah-leatch: a historic city in Southeastern Poland, now in the Western Ukraine
Hussar—hu´-zar: (Polish hussar or Winged Warrior) a heavily armored shock cavalryman, often a lancer
Husaria—hu´-zar-ia: plural of hussar, the elite of the Polish cavalry
Janissary—an Ottoman infantry soldier
Kołacz—kaw-watch: a special decorative wedding bread or cake
Kontusz—kaw-ntoosh: a long, robe-like, decorative garment worn (over a żupan) by noblemen of the Polish Lithuanian Commonwealth
Kraków—Krah-koof: a city in Southern Poland on the River Vistula; from the twelfth century to 1595 the national capital
Kwarciani—kfah-rchia-nee: elite hussars assigned to the “Wild Fields” on alert for unrest and raids from Tatars and Cossacks
Pacholik—pa-ho-leak: military retainer; plural: Pacholicy—pa-ho-lea-tsi
Rotmistrzr—rot-measts: military company commander, usually a nobleman
sipâhi—sipâ-hi: an Ottoman cavalryman
Sukiennice—su-kie-nnea-tse: the Cloth Hall, centerpiece of the Market Square in Kraków
Szlachta—shlach´-ta: the Polish gentry; minor nobility (six to eight per cent of the population)
Towarzysz—tova-jish: military companions, or knight-officers, accompanying a company commander (rotmistrzr)
Wycinanki—Vih-cee-nahn-kee: Polish folk papercuts
Żupan—żhu´-pahn: a long, lined garment worn first by noblemen of the Polish Lithuanian Commonwealth, then by males of all classes
Vi
ena d’Austria By Giuseppe Longhi
The Relief of Vienna, 12 September 1683 By Frans Geffels Wien Museum/Courtesy of Wien Museum
One
Southeastern Poland
May 1683
As the coach trundled along, days out from Warsaw, Krystyna took little notice of the passing countryside, wondering instead how Mother Abbess Teodora reacted when she opened her underskirt drawer only to find a dead rat.
“What the devil are you smiling at?” her brother asked.
“Nothing… Oh, I do wish Papa had you bring the open carriage.”
“The open carriage?” Roman’s mouth gaped. “Between Warsaw and Halicz? Are you daft? Did you learn nothing at convent school?”
“I did,” Krystyna snapped, eyes flashing at her brother, who sat rigid on the padded bench across from her as the coach rattled on. “I learned that after five years there, I should be very glad to come home.”
“Why, on the way to Warsaw the rain fell in torrents for two days running,” Roman said, persisting in his own line of thought. “Did you wish me to arrive drenched to the skin? The open carriage would have been a bucket on wheels.”
She gave out with a little laugh. “But it’s sunny enough now. Oh, Romek,” she said, employing his sobriquet, “it was a wish, nothing more.”
He looked at her as if puzzled, shrugged, and settled back against the cushion.
She smothered another laugh. He had taken her literally, as had so many of the Carmelite nuns. At sixteen, she was—at last and for good—coming home to Halicz. It had taken some doing. She sat back now, tilting her head toward the window, watching the landscape glide past as she had imagined so many times in her cell: the strong, evergreen sentinels on the slopes of the Carpathian Mountains, the verdant green fields, the herds of oxen, and the gentle turns of the sparkling, elegant River Dniester. They were nearing Halicz. It was all too wonderful. The week’s grueling travel and dreary lodging places were forgotten. She glanced back at Roman, whose eyes were closing despite the relentless racket and jarring grind of the carriage wheels. He couldn’t understand that she would have liked to be in the open carriage, sans bonnet, the wind slapping at her face, the scents of spring lifting her, and the sights of Southeastern Poland flying past her. The freedom was at once her nectar and ambrosia. She had been recalled to life.
As the coach came around a turn, her gaze fell upon Castle Hill and followed the winding, weedy path up to the ruins that sat atop it. Her heart caught. She had climbed the heights years before, a lifetime ago, wandering through its broken walls and dilapidated interior, stumbling among stones and splintered glass, richly imagining herself as sovereign of the land, the rabbits and red squirrels her subjects. Those days came back to her like found gold coins. Her holiday visits home in recent years had been short, affording no time for the castle, and the previous winter had been the harshest and snowiest in decades, precluding any visit for nearly a year.
Castle Hill faded into the distance. The perfume of May lilac enveloped the coach, a scent redolent of springs past and childhood. Summer was on the horizon. Shivering, she pushed from her mind the memory of how cold and damp her cell was throughout the long, dark winter behind convent stone walls and allowed herself to slip into a reverie as scenery sped by in a dazzling blur.
The carriage had only just passed through one of the villages owned by her family when her eyes lighted on something and she shouted out for the driver to stop at once. Jumping up from her seat, she called again, louder, as her brother roused himself from a sleepy trance.
“What are you doing, for God’s sake?” Roman growled.
“It’s the flowers—the white and the blue wildflowers—here, near the road. I want some for my room.” The carriage ground to a halt and Krystyna flung open the door, ready to tumble out without benefit of the drop-down steps when her brother grasped her upper arm, holding her in place.
“Let me go, Roman!” she cried, holding to a post, disallowing herself to be directed back to safety; neither did she strain to leave the coach. Her gaze became fixed on two men—boys, really—in the field, not far from the road, farmers who had been readying the soil for planting, but who were now staring back at her. They stood, these young men, still as scarecrows, their straw hats in their hands. Had they doffed them for her? Her gaze was drawn to the dark-complexioned one, so striking was his smile and look of surprise.
The moment hung fire. She stared, as did they.
At last, Roman loosened her grip and forced her safely back into the coach, dropping her unceremoniously onto the bench, her yellow gown billowing about her like a flower in full bloom. She noticed that as he reached out to pull closed the door, he paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing, forehead crinkling in disapproval. He was taking note of the two young men.
Suddenly he slammed shut the door, gruffly urged the driver on, and slid closed the leather window shades. He sat now across from her, his mouth a flat line of seriousness, his eyes—a midnight blue—honing in on hers, the emerald green eyes over which a few of the nuns had marveled. Not Mother Abbess Teodora, however. “Reckless,” she would have hissed, had she borne witness to this little episode. “You are a reckless girl, Krystyna Halicka.” Well, she would not have to hear that husky, grating voice again. Not for talking during morning prayers. Not for stealing down into the cold room after bedtime for something sweet. Not for peering out the window at a group of passing cadets. She sighed in relief.
As for her brother, she could read his smug expression. He was relieved, but he was also congratulating himself on having avoided a scene that would have marred her homecoming and no doubt brought blame down on his curly blond head.
“Wildflowers, indeed,” Roman intoned with the sarcasm of a school master.
Krystyna knew she should thank her brother, her elder by three years. She drew in her breath now—and extended her tongue as daintily as if she were to receive Holy Communion.
Two
Southeastern Poland
Halicz
Aleksy Gazdecki sat at table, absently watching his mother, Jadwiga, remove dark bread from the bread-oven, a built-in necessity in every cottage, no matter how poor. Hungry as he was, even the tantalizing aroma of bread direct from the white oven—coupled with the sharp whiff of bigos that had simmered all day in a pot above the kitchen grate—could not stir him. He was lost in thought about the unusual scene that had unfolded that afternoon.
“Aleksy!”
His mother’s raised voice propelled him to the present. He hadn’t heard the high-pitched whine outside the door, but his mother had. Her large frame was turning toward him. “That dog of yours is not welcome here. It should be with the sheep. No beggars here—we have little enough.”
“The sheep are tucked in, Mother.”
“And who’s to protect the hen house from that fox that took our fattest hen the other night? Tell her to be off, Aleksy.” His mother turned back to the business of ladling out the bigos, the hunters’ stew containing scraps of pork from their Sunday meal four days earlier. Sauerkraut, mushrooms, onions, apples, and peppercorns produced its heady scent.
Aleksy rose from the table and started toward the door, but at that moment it opened and his father and brother entered, allowing Luba to make a mad scramble for safe harbor under the table near Aleksy’s chair, well hidden from his mother’s eyes and swift broom.
Damian’s hungry gaze was glued to the steaming bowls so that he was oblivious to the dog’s movement, but Aleksy’s father seldom missed the flight of a fly and didn’t miss Luba’s covert entry. He nodded for Aleksy to abort his mission and return to his seat. Above his broad nose and grizzled moustache and beard, his eyes glittered with blue mutiny. Aleksy retreated to his place, allowing Luba, a Polish lowland sheepdog of medium size with a long shaggy coat of white with gray patches, to place her muzzle on his boot.
“Really?” Jadwiga asked.
Without further prompting—and with as much relish as for his plate of bigos—Damian launched into the telling of the incident of the girl in yellow who had nearly fallen into the ravine.
“It’s been five or six years since I’ve seen her,” his father estimated. “I imagine she’s grown to be a young lady.”
“It happens in a heartbeat, Borys Gazdecki,” Jadwiga told her husband. “I was a mere fifteen when you set your cap for me.” Her gaze shifted to Damian. “So you were taken by the sight? Remember, she’s of the szlachta and not meant for the likes of you. ”
Nor for me, either, Aleksy thought. He had been taught early on to watch his step with members of the szlachta—the lower nobility. He sent up a fervent prayer not to be brought into the conversation.
Pulling on a piece of bread, Damian chewed, the light blue eyes considering his mother’s words. The short span of time expanded for Aleksy, who knew what was to come—Damian always talked too much—and grew uncomfortable by the moment. A heat came into his face. He held his fork but had yet to use it.
“I’m spoken for, as you know, Mother,” Damian said.
“Indeed—but boys are boys and your Lilka is way over in Horodenka,” Jadwiga said, “so there’s nothing to keep you from ogling a yellow dress hereabouts, is there?”