The Boy Who Wanted Wings Read online

  Aleksy drew in a deep breath, expelling it now in the form of two words: “Do you?”

  “What?”

  “Approve.”

  Silence.

  Face forward, he waited and a few moments multiplied into many. His heart beat fast. He had been too bold. He had embarrassed her and his spirits dropped like a stone.

  Another minute and he sensed some movement in his peripheral vision. He turned and saw that she had shifted in place and was facing him. Her plaited hair flashed gold in the sunlight. “It’s a serious matter,” she repeated. “Aleksy,” she said tentatively, her head angling down a bit as she gifted him with a smile, not a wide one—but a sweet one, a real one. “I approve.”

  Aleksy took the three or four paces toward her and halted. He had little experience at this and silently prayed that he could accurately read her expression. Later, he would wonder where his store of nerve had come from, but for now he had to bend only slightly to kiss her.

  Her lips were soft and yielding. He didn’t attempt an embrace and yet the kiss held some moments. She withdrew then, concern clouding her face. He thought for a moment that her temperament had shifted and she would slap him, but as if something had gained her attention from without, she turned to the crenelle, her eyes narrowing as if finding focus on something in the distance.

  “It is a serious thing, Aleksy, as I said.” Suddenly, she wheeled back to him, her expression dark as winter. “My brothers are here.”

  It was true. Aleksy heard the hollow sounds of hoofbeats hitting dry earth now and looked out to see three figures atop steppe ponies climbing Castle Hill. He turned back to Krystyna, but she was already nearing the stairs. He hurried to catch up.

  Outside, in the bailey, the blinding sun made the three riders appear faceless and dark, like wycinanki figures—papercuts—against a brilliant yellow foil. Aleksy shaded his eyes against the sun in an attempt to make out the identities. Two were her brothers and they were glaring hatred in his direction. The third was Gusztáf, who had no doubt led them here. God’s teeth! He had played that card badly. The surprise early arrivals of the groom from Horodenka and the Halicki brothers from Warsaw—what worse coincidence could he have imagined?

  “Filthy swine!” spat Roman.

  “Get away from her, Tatar!” cried the other brother.

  The brothers threw themselves down from their ponies now. Roman raced toward them. “You’ll hang for this, Tatar!” he shouted. “You’ll hang if we don’t kill you first.”

  The threat was not idle. Aleksy knew of a man in the next village—a Pole by birth no less—who had been brought before the starosta, the local constable, on charges of rape and even though the woman professed his innocence, within a fortnight he was supper for buzzards.

  “He did nothing,” Krystyna said in the few seconds she had before being seized and lifted onto Marek’s shoulder as if she were a Persian rug. Then, as she was being hauled over to where the groom stood by his horse, Krystyna called out the most extraordinary words: “Aleksy, you did so much as promise, you know.”

  Was she so naïve that she didn’t understand the seriousness of his situation and that her brothers could interpret her statement in ways having nothing to do with the art of archery?

  Roman was pushing him now, both hands repeatedly striking his chest, propelling him backwards, toward the doorpost of the tower. Once Aleksy’s back abutted the post, Roman cuffed him hard across the face. If they had been of the same well-born class, the confrontation would cease and a duel would be arranged. As it was, however, Roman struck him again. He went to use his other hand—his left—for the third strike, but in doing so released his hold on Aleksy’s shoulder. Aleksy made the most of the blunder, pushing him forward so as to give clearance for a powerful fist to the jaw. Roman went down.

  Aleksy regretted the impulse at once. There was no telling what might befall him or the Gazdecki family. Roman would not forget. The next thing Aleksy’s senses fastened onto was Krystyna’s calling out. He couldn’t determine what she was yelling. Was she concerned about Roman? Or about him? He allowed Roman to pull himself up but failed to notice that Marek had been coming at him. Had Krystyna’s cry been a warning?

  Both of his arms were taken now and pinned behind his back. Roman’s bloodied face was coming toward him.

  Marek called out to the groom orders for him to start for home at once, leading the steppe pony upon which Krystyna had been placed.

  Aleksy looked toward Krystyna who struggled with the groom, but her hands had evidently been tied to the pommel of the saddle. Suddenly Roman was cursing and Aleksy took a strong blow to the face, then another, and another. He struggled to stay conscious, to hold himself up. “We could drop you from the tower, Tatar, but we’d rather see you hanged.” A punch now to the stomach took the wind from Aleksy and he bent over. “You’ll see what becomes of defilers!” Roman’s leg came up suddenly, his knee slamming into Aleksy’s groin. Marek released him and he fell to the ground.

  He lay on his side, his body folded up like a grasshopper’s, his eyes clenched tight in pain. He felt a darkness closing in, a painless vacuum, and he welcomed it.

  Someone kicked him now, squarely in the ribs.

  “What did you promise her, Tatar?”

  “What?”Aleksy opened his eyes. One would not fully open. With the other, he saw Roman glowering high above him.

  “Unless you want to die now, tell us what you promised her.”

  Aleksy struggled for the words, for his mind to work. “Nothing.”

  “Liar!” Roman kicked him in his stomach. “Tell us.”

  “You want to live, yes?” This was Marek’s voice.

  “She asked—”

  “What—what did she ask?”

  “To learn the bow.”

  “The bow?” Roman asked, incredulously.

  Those were the last words he would remember before slipping into unconsciousness.

  When he awoke, hours later, it was to the gritty-gravelly—yet somehow soothing—voice of Szymon, who had come to fetch him home. He was being settled into a wagon. He attempted to lift his head from his supine position. “Szymon—”

  “What is it, lad?”

  “My bow and quiver?”

  Szymon had to assure him twice over that nothing had been left behind. His bow and quiver were gone.

  Nine

  The next thing Aleksy would recall was seeing shadows of treetops passing overhead against a night sky dotted with stars and a half moon. Szymon was taking him home in his wagon. He was laid out like a corpse. How had the day so rich with promise and excitement come to this? As the vehicle rattled on, every rut, every pit in the road shot currents of pain ripping through his body. I should pray, he thought. He had once asked Szymon—who did not attend Sunday Mass—if he prayed. Attempting to soften his croaky voice, Szymon said, “I do pray when I breathe, my boy. And when I breathe, I pray.” Aleksy had not understood his answer then, thinking it a kind of word puzzle—and it remained one. He closed his eyes against what was happening to him and welcomed a kind of emptiness that had no need of prayer or thought. Only breathing.

  He awoke much later, sensing he was on his cot in the alcove off the kitchen area of the cottage. The familiar sharp but sweet scent of fresh dill—for his favorite soup—and caustic smell of cooking cabbage comforted him. He could hear voices in the kitchen but the sense of the words eluded him. His father’s voice sounded angry, his mother’s querulous, and Szymon’s placating. There would be hell to answer for, sooner rather than later.

  Aleksy slept undisturbed through the morning and intermittently during the afternoon, occasionally aware of his mother close by for brief moments, her lips whispering prayers, the scent of onion in the air. The interrogation started in the late afternoon with the arrival home from the fields of his
father and brother.

  The little family gathered at his bedside. “For the love of God, Aleksy, what possessed you—daring to ride the young masters’ horses? Szymon be damned for allowing it” And so began the litany: Did you not know the risks? The situation in which you placed yourself? The family? Have you lost your senses? And to be found with the count’s daughter? What is the meaning of this? What went on? Nothing? You could be executed for such a nothing. Was this a planned meeting between you? What do you mean you’re not certain? It was not the first meeting? Did you lay hands on her?

  Admission of the kiss caused his father to blink in disbelief, turn away, take a few steps, halt, pivot and advance toward the bed, his voice building. “By all that’s holy and the wounds of Jezus Chrystus, no matter what she may have implied, you must know your place, do you hear?” He stopped just short of the bed, his face aflame. “And you struck the count’s son, for God’s sake!”

  Aleksy put up no defense, and so his father tired after half an hour and left, his orders that Aleksy stay clear of Lady Krystyna vociferously meted out. His mother lightly touched his hand before leaving his bedside to go about the preparations for the evening meal. Damian—a kind of amazement in his blue eyes—was left to help Aleksy hobble outside to the privy.

  Aleksy was made to convalesce for two days during which time the family moved about with nerves on edge, fearful that at any time a summons might arrive from the starosta—or if not from the Lord Constable—from Count Halicki himself.

  On that second day, Tuesday, he reached a conclusion. He would not sit around waiting for things to happen to him. A few more days and he should be in good enough health and appearance to take to the road. He would not spend his life toiling in the Halicki fields, living in a cottage and village owned by others, occasionally being tormented by the sight of the girl in yellow. No, he had made up his mind, settling on Saturday to set forth. He would take his fate into his own hands on Saturday.

  By Thursday, Aleksy’s bruised ribs allowed him to move about slowly, and while he was nearly free of real pain, his father insisted he stay indoors so significant were the bruises and lacerations about his face. Questions from other villagers would not be welcome.

  At mid-afternoon, a knock came at the door. Aleksy was alone. His mother was working in her garden and Borys and Damian were in the fields. He stood, heart thumping, certain that the moment had come—and resolved to face up to what might come. He had done nothing so terrible. He would accept his fate. He went to the door and threw it back. His gaze was drawn downward.

  Idzi had not yet seen the results of Sunday’s outing and so he stared at Aleksy’s face for a long moment. Then he whistled. For once he was at a loss for words.

  “Looking for me, Idzi?”

  “Did you get hit with a board? That one eye is a badge worthy of veneration. Like the rainbow, it is.”

  “Never mind. What do you want?”

  “Someone’s looking for you.”

  “Jezus Chrystus—who?” This was the summons, he was certain. Would Lord Halicki vent his spleen on him—or on the entire Gazdecki family?

  “In the barn.”

  “Who?”

  “Can’t say.” Idzi pivoted now, his short legs pumping quickly as he made his way toward the out-buildings.

  When Aleksy reached the barn, he looked back to see Idzi across the way, at the corner of the hen house, his tousled head turned in his direction, his expression impossible to read. Aleksy blinked and the little man was gone.

  Uncertain of who or what awaited him, Aleksy drew in a deep breath, opened the barn door and entered. The door swung closed behind him. Idzi had been too serious for this to be a joke. What if the Halicki brothers were here, eager to take further revenge? He peered into the semi-darkness. All was silent. Aleksy trusted that Idzi was too good a friend for this to be an ambush.

  “Hello,” he called in a hoarse, tentative voice.

  A rustling sound came from the darkness at the rear of the barn. Aleksy shifted his eyes, straining to focus.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  Luba came bounding forward, circled around him, leaning into his legs. “Hey, girl, what’s the excitement about?”

  Someone who had been hidden in the shadows moved out into view now, the light blue gown and wide-brimmed sun bonnet taking shape as the figure moved toward him. Amidst the usual smells of the barn, he now caught a whiff of perfume—hibiscus, he guessed.

  “Lady Krystyna!”

  She moved forward quickly now, the bell-shaped gown gliding as if she were a specter. It was clear even in this light that she was struck by the damage to his face. She let out a little gasp. “What have they done to you?”

  Aleksy’s heart thundered in his chest to think she had come to him. “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “It is something. Why, I would not have one of our farm animals treated in such a way.”

  “Another day or two and no one will notice. Listen, this is dangerous for both of us. We can’t be found here. If your brothers should—”

  “They’ve gone off on their maneuvers. Oh, I am so ashamed of my brothers, Aleksy—they were fools to think—”

  “Think what?”

  “That you and I—” Was she coloring? It was impossible to determine in the dimness.

  “I know.” He did know, too, and the knowing hurt.

  Krystyna gave a little laugh. He could not tell whether it was at the abridged topic at hand or at Luba, who collapsed in a heap as if bored. “Beautiful,” she said, nodding toward the dog.

  “Beautiful,” Aleksy repeated. He was not looking at Luba.

  Krystyna glanced up at him, eyes assessing. His forwardness was not lost on her, but—dismissively—she returned her attention to the dog. “She’s like a great gray and white pillow gone all to shreds. How old is she?”

  “Just three.” He was thankful for the dim lighting of the barn because he felt his face flushing. It seemed that only he was embarrassed.

  Her eyes, dark now in the gloom but etched green in his memory, took hold of his. “I came to tell you that they will not harm you—any more than they’ve already done, at least. It took some doing. Now you must keep to your bargain.”

  Aleksy stared in silence some moments before giving a subtle laugh laced with irony. “It will be some little while before I could hope to teach you. I’m embarrassed to say I have neither bow nor quiver. I’ve made a good number of bows, but I’ve sold or given them away. That is, except for a child’s bow I made when I was eight.”

  Krystyna countered with her own unique giggle. “What is that in the corner by the door, then?”

  Aleksy shifted his eyes to the door. His jaw dropped. There to its right, leaning against the doorpost, stood the bow and the quiver.

  “They took it,” she said. “That is, Roman did. I heard him say he had never seen one as fine. I thought it should be returned.”

  “Thank you, Lady Krystyna. Won’t they be angry?”

  “I hope they are! I hope they are mad as Hell is hot! I’m not afraid. When shall you give me my lesson?”

  “Right now, yes?”

  “Here?”

  “Why not?”

  “Wouldn’t it be better in a few days? When you are feeling better? I could meet you in the forest. On Sunday!”

  “No, I can’t.” Forgetting the random muscular spasms in the area of his ribs, as well as the admonitions of his father, Aleksy was already rushing to make an archery butt out of a cylindrical hay bale.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes,” he snapped cavalierly. “Now, we’ll need light.” He went to open the double doors, allowing entrance of a great shaft of sunlight. Picking up the bow and quiver in one fluid movement, he returned to her and touched her gently at the elbo
w, directing her where to stand. “Let me show you first.” He stood at her side. “I must warn you that if you persist in learning how to shoot properly you will acquire two calluses on your bow fingers.”

  Krystyna took his hand and inspected his fingers. “A small enough sacrifice,” she intoned, “but it so happens I have my riding gloves.” She turned and ran toward a far stall that held a dapple-gray horse that Aleksy had not noticed. “I brought Daffodil today,” she called back. “Too tame a creature, but the Turks were ruled out by my father and I wasn’t about to walk.”

  Her touch had set off a flow of electricity that ran up his arm and rippled through his whole body. His face flushed hot.

  “You didn’t think I walked, did you?” she asked as she hurried back. Coming to stand before him, she looked him in the eye and said, “Well, maybe I would have, who’s to say?”

  Could this be anything other than flirtation? Both heart and mind faltered. He had no words.

  “Do I need both?” she asked.

  “Both?”

  “Both gloves, Aleksy. Do I need to wear both?”

  He looked down at the brown kid gloves. He felt foolish. “No, just one. Do you do most things with your right hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then wear the left one. The arrow could damage the leather, however.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. Dropping the right-hand glove onto a little heap of straw, she drew on the other.

  He took the end of a length of hemp cord from a compartment in his linen quiver, picked up the longbow and attached the cord to the nock in one end, bent the weapon—with the ease of an archer who had spent years strengthening his back, shoulder, and arm muscles—and attached the cord to the other nock. “The tension in the cord is essential,” he said as he withdrew a homemade arrow made of ash, just to make small talk. “For strength, the nock on the arrow and the ones on the bow are made of split elk horn. Now, I’ll show you how to load. You stand erect with feet shoulder length apart. Keep the bow lowered at first and nock the arrow. You’ll be using three fingers. Then you bring the arrow up, like so, extending the bow a bit, and draw, bringing the cord back to your ear if possible—with all your might—aim and let fly.”