“My poor dears, come here to me.”
And just like that, they do.
As my mother listens they sob out the story of their parents’ murders. They tell how they made their escape with the help of the good Gypsies whom their father (like our own parents) had never treated with cruelty and disdain. Those Traveling People—from whom they had learned juggling years ago—rescued them, gave them shelter. Then, when the leader of those Gypsies returned, he agreed to help them plan their revenge against the evil man who killed their parents.
By the time their story is done it’s so late that everyone needs to retire.
My parents go up to their own room, after we see Appollina and Valentina to the guest chamber prepared for them by our dutiful servants.
“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Appollina says, then leans forward to place a kiss on my cheek.
I can’t think of a word to say as she smiles and then closes the door. But I am looking forward to tomorrow and I suspect the smile on my face is as broad as the one that Paulek is wearing as we go down the hall to our own room.
Soon Paulek is slumbering in our shared bedroom, but I am still wide awake. And if my guess is right, I am not the only one still awake. With Ucta and Odvaha by my side, I go down to the servants’ quarters. There, just as expected, I find four chairs pulled up to the great kitchen table. Two are empty and two are occupied.
Baba Anya is in the first chair. She beams up at me like a mischievous child. Next to her, one great arm around her shoulder is Uncle Jozef.
“Sit,” Uncle Jozef says.
I sit and look over at the remaining empty chair.
Baba Anya and Uncle Jozef turn their heads toward the door.
A mustached Gypsy enters carrying two bottles. He takes the chair at the table’s head, leans his elbows on the table, taps his fingers together, and then, with a small smile, removes his head scarf and the hair that had been pasted to his upper lip. Just as I suspected, it’s Georgi.
I eye the bottles that he places on the table.
“Our oldest wine?” I said. “The hundred-year-old vintage?”
“Rashko,” Baba Anya said, “we’ve been waiting longer than that.”
Uncle Jozef nods. “As the one who bottled it, my cousin has earned at least a sip or two.”
Georgi raises one eyebrow, as self-contained as a cat who’s caught the rat that was stealing grain.
“A friend can never be judged by the coat he wears,” I say, quoting one of Father’s proverbs. “But sometimes the coat prevents you from recognizing that friend right away.”
Baba Anya, Uncle Jozef, and Georgi all exchange a look.
“What if,” Georgi asks, “we were to tell you that we are In-betweeners.”
“In-betweeners?”
“Children of human fathers and Faerie mothers?” he says.
“Ones who have chosen,” Baba Anya adds, “to belong not to the Silver Lands, which never change, but to this world of changes?”
“This more interesting world,” Uncle Jozef rumbles.
“Ones,” Georgi continues, “who decided to be as much a part of this land as trees of Stary Les and the hill from which Hladka Hvorka grew.”
“Ah,” I say.
But why, I think, why disguise your true nature?
“Of course,” Baba Anya says, her voice taking on the cadence of storytelling, “if we were such beings as that, we might hide our near-immortality, which might stir resentment in the hearts of ordinary humans whose lives are as brief and as bright as butterflies.” She smiles at me, a hint of sadness in her smile.
“Instead,” Uncle Jozef says, “we might chose to wait and watch, to help those who, like Pavol, hold the potential for wisdom, who may grasp the Way and stay true of heart and purpose.”
I don’t say anything. Silence, it seems, may be my wisest answer right now.
Georgi produces four glasses with a flourish, and opens the bottle of wine.
“To Cesta?” he says as he pours.
I take my glass and raise it. “To the Way.”
WHEN WE’VE SHARED that drink, I nod to all of them and leave the kitchen. I don’t go up to my room. I have one more errand to run. I enter the great hall and look at the tapestry. One torch is burning next to it, but it also, as is often the case, seems to glow with its own light. For a moment I seem to see something in it. It’s a figure that resembles my brother, Paulek, standing in a doorway that looks like that of our kitchen. Our two dogs by his side, he is about to enter and sit down at the table with Georgi, Uncle Jozef, and Baba Anya.
I blink my eyes and that image is gone. I must have imagined it. I’m sure if I go upstairs I will find him snoring along with Ucta and Odvaha. Just a few doors down from the room where our two princesses now rest. That broad smile returns to my face again as I think of Appollina—the same way, I am sure, that Paulek is thinking of her sister. Time will tell what stories we may share together, but as I look again at the tapestry I think I see two couples holding hands and sitting together on four thrones. Then, as usual, I lose that vision. Wishful thinking, mayhap. But a most pleasant wish.
I go through the hidden door and descend the long stairs. As I do so I think of the story that I was just told.
Are Georgi and Baba Anya and Uncle Jozef truly that old? Or are they merely the offspring of those who came before them, passing the teachings on down? I don’t need to know the answer to that. If I’ve learned one thing in the last few days it is that every question does not need to be answered. A story is not true just because if its literal veracity. It is the message, what it teaches, that counts.
I know now that I have as many faults as anyone. One of them has been being too quick to judge others, especially my parents and my brother, Paulek—who is more like my father than I realized, in the best ways. And Father, I now see, is more than I thought he was. To say nothing of my mother. If I am to continue carrying some part of Pavol’s spirit in this time, I must work to be worthy of the gifts my family and I have been given.
Thinking of carrying gifts, I have carried this one far enough. There, in front of me, is the stool where I first saw it. I place Pavol’s pouch back in its place. It will be here waiting should I need it again, here deep in the heart of Hladka Hvorka, our ancestral home that also has another name. It is one that we do not share with everyone.
Dratchie Hrad. Dragon Castle.
PAVOL’S LEGEND
Sestnast
PAVOL THE GOOD and Karoline the Wise sat looking back at the kingdom they had ruled together with kindness and wisdom for so many years. On the other side of the river, the glittering fields of the Silver Lands waited.
“Now it is the turn of our children,” said Pavol.
“And their children’s children after them,” said Karoline.
“May peace and justice be with them, said Pavol.
“And also our good friends who remain to guide them,” said Karoline.
“And our very big friend too,” a slightly sarcastic voice added from next to them.
Pavol reached over to pat the neck of Jedovaty.
“True enough,” said Pavol.
“And you will be with them, also, my lord,” Karoline said, leaning over to place a kiss on her husband’s cheek. “Pavol will return when he is needed.”
Pavol nodded. “You, as well, my love,” he said, returning the kiss.
“What about me?” Jedovaty asked. “After all I’ve done, have I not earned the right for part of my spirit to remain and guide them?”
Pavol nodded again. “You are right, my friend. A faithful horse may be of use when, as it seems inevitable, the Dark Lord will seek to return.”
Jedovaty shook his head. “Not a horse. How about a dog? A dog gets to sit inside and sleep at the foot of the bed.”
“A very big dog?” Karoline asked.
“Why not two dogs?” Jedovaty added.
Pavol raised an eyebrow. “But with only half of your sarcasm?” Then he nodded a thi
rd time. “Why not, indeed. And, for that matter, why not two Pavols?”
Karoline smiled. “Or two princesses?”
Then they crossed the river.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
RASHKO: Prince of Hladka Hvorka
PAULEK: Prince of Hladka Hvorka, Rashko’s his younger brother
FATHER: King
MOTHER: Queen
GEORGI: head retainer at Hladka Hvorka
BLACK YANOSH: weapons master
ZELEZO: castle blacksmith
JAZDA: head groom
HREBEN: stableboy, Jazda’s son
GRACE, GRACE, GRACE, AND CHARITY: castle maids
UNCLE JOZEF: village wise man
BABA ANYA: village herbalist, storyteller, and midwife
TERAZ (APPOLLINA): first juggler
ZATCHNI (VALENTINA): second juggler
PRINCE PAVOL THE GOOD (OR FOOLISH)
THE DARK LORD: his adversary
UNCLE TOMAS: Pavol’s mentor
BABA MARTA: Tomas’s wife
JEDOVATY: Pavol’s steed
SEDEM: the seven-headed dragon
BARON TEMNY
PRINCESS POTESHENIE
LASKA: the princess’s cat
TRUBA: Temny’s herald
PEKLO: bald, scar-faced mercenary
SMOTANA: blond spade-bearded mercenary
PLACES
CIERNY LES: the Black Forest
HLADKA HVORKA: Smooth Hill, their castle
MESTO: nearby (and only) town in the kingdom
STARY LES: the Old Forest
SLOVAK VOCABULARY
Ahoj: hello
Ako ti je: how are you?
Ano: yes
Babovka: a type of cake
Bezhte: run
Blbec: Idiot
Blyskat: lightning
Boj: fight
Brana: gate
Bratcek: small brother
Capitan: captain
Cas: time
Chlieb/Chleba: bread
Cierny: black
Citaj: read
Csakaj: wait
Dakujem: thank you
Davaj pozor: be careful
Dobre: good
Dospej: grow up
Dost: enough
Do videnia: good-bye
Dvere: door
Dvihat: to raise
Dvihatch: gateman
Dyka: knife
Hotovo: ready
Hreben: comb
Hyb sa: move
Jazda: ride
Jedovaty: poisonous
Je mi luto: I am sorry.
Kamarat: comrade
Kolac: pastries
Kruzit: to circle
Lepshi: better
Les: forest
Matka: mother
Mesto: town
Milacik: darling
Napred: forward
Nerozumiem: I do not understand
Nie: no
Odvaha: courage
Otec: father
Otvorte: open
Pan: sir, mister
Petcheny chlieb: baked bread
Pockaj: wait
Pod: come
Pomoc: help
Poteshenie: pleasure
Pozri: look
Prejdi: pass
Prepac: sorry
Prestan: stop
Prosim: please
Pridi: come
Pyrva: first
Sadni si: sit down
Sedem: seven
Sedliak: peasant
Skala: big rock or boulder
Smrt: death
Spat: sleep
Stary: old
Stavka: strike
Strom: tree
Svetlo: light
Synovec: nephew
Tam: there
Temny: dark
Teraz: now
Trojky: triad
Truba: trumpet
Ucta: honor
Udriet: hit
Ukashte sa: show yourselves
Utok: attack
Vd’aka: thank you
Velke: big
Vietor: wind
Vitaj: welcome
Vyborne: wonderful
Yedz: eat
Zachinat: to begin
Za nitch: it is nothing (you’re welcome)
Zapekane rezne: Wiener Schnitzels
Zastav: stop
Zelezo: iron
Zial: sorrow
Zly: bad
Zmiznut: to disappear
Znova: again
Zobudit: to wake up
NUMBERS
Jeden/Jedna/Raz: One
Dva/Dve: Two
Traja/Tri: Three
Styria/Styri: Four
Pat: Five
Sest: Six
Sedem: Seven
Osem: Eight
Devat: Nine
Desat: Ten
Author’s Note
BY JOSEPH BRUCHAC
DRAGON CASTLE is a fantasy novel. Its plot and characters are products of the author’s imagination. However, the language of its characters and the overall country in which its imaginary kingdom is located are both very real and part of my own heritage. My father’s parents, Joseph Bruchac and Appolina Hrdlicka, came to the United States from the city of Trnava in Slovakia—which was then a very small part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. Like thousands of other Slovaks seeking opportunity and freedom in a new land, they passed through Ellis Island in the early twentieth century and became American citizens.
Slovakia, which has often been called by its people “the Heart of Europe,” is, indeed, located in the geographic center of Europe. To the east of the Alps, south of Poland, and north of Hungary, where the great Danube River forms a wide plain, Slovakia’s capital of Bratislava has been a crossroads for both war and trade for thousands of years. Although its people long saw themselves as a separate nation, for much of its history Slovakia was ruled by others. The many castles of Slovakia are a visible record of that long history—and of the frequent domination of the Slovak people by such stronger powers as Hungary. The fact that the Slovak nation and language exist at all is a measure of the devotion of its people to their own history and culture. Even after throwing off Hungarian rule, for seventy-five years Slovakia was not a nation of its own but part of the country of Czechoslovakia, which was itself dominated by the Soviet Union for several decades after World War II. Slovakia quite literally had to fight for centuries not only for its borders, but for its own mother tongue. Those who ruled the Slovak people tried at various times to force the people to speak German, Latin, or Hungarian rather than Slovak.
One of my favorite stories about Slovakia has to do with that language.
Long ago, it is said, all of the nations gathered at the throne of God. Each nation asked for great gifts. Some wanted fertile land. Some wanted strength and power to rule other lands. Others asked for splendor and glory. And the Lord gave each nation what it requested.
The last nation of all was that of the Slovaks.
“My children,” the Lord said, “welcome. Why are you the last to come before me?”
“Father,” the Slovaks answered, “the bigger nations pushed us aside.”
“What then shall I give you? The other nations have taken all of the most fertile lands, the power, and the glory.”
“All that we ask for, Lord,” the Slovaks replied, “is your love.”
God nodded his head and smiled. “You shall have it, my children. And I shall give you other gifts as well.”
Then God wet his finger in the well of Paradise and touched each of their tongues.
“Here,” he said, “I am giving you the most beautiful language in the world. It will be as lovely as the singing of angels, the sun shining on the dew, the laugh of an innocent child.”
The Lord smiled, turned again to the well of Paradise, and dipped in his hand.
“And next I am giving you the most beautiful songs. When your women sing, the birds will fall silent and listen. The brooks
and the hills will dance and your land will be a paradise.”
Then the Lord smiled a third time. “Because all good things come in threes,” he said, “I am giving you a beautiful land to live in. There, under the Tatra Mountains, you will find your homes, work in your fields, raise your families, keep your language and your faith. There, even though you may suffer, never give up, for I will always remember you with a father’s heart.”
And so it remains to this day.
THERE ARE A number of people to whom I owe a debt of gratitude. Without them this book would never have come to be. The first are my Slovak grandparents, Joseph (whose name was passed down to me) and Appolina (who real name I never learned until she was in her eighties). Though they were reticent to pass the Slovak language on to their grandchildren, I often heard it spoken in their home, and the echo of its gentle music lingers with me still.
The next person I need to mention is my friend, the artist Anna Vojtech, who illustrated The First Strawberries, my retelling of a Cherokee traditional tale. Anna, who was born in what is now the Czech Republic, urged me to find out more about the rich folklore on the Slovak side of my heritage. She also introduced me to Marta Zora, who did me the great favor of reading the early draft of this book and correcting the Slovak language that appears in it. Dakujem, Marta. Som zaviazany!
Over the last two decades, I’ve been fortunate enough to have a number of things I’ve written translated into several European languages. In 1996, I was contacted by Vlasta Chylkova about translating some of my stories into Czech. She and her husband, who was then the Czech ambassador to Canada, came to visit me at my home and brought with them the gift of several books of folktales from the Czech Republic and Slovakia. And what a gift that was!
One of those treasured books Vlasta gave me was a small, beautifully illustrated guide to the nation. Called (of course) Slovakia, the Heart of Europe, it contains a version of that story I just retold and also these words about the heroes of the Slovak nation: “Every nation honors its forefathers. Those of the Slovaks include no fighters and leaders who exterminated smaller nations, destroying their towns and culture. The Slovaks were a peaceful, hardworking, and religious people who always proudly defended their rights against more powerful nations.”
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