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by Wiesiek Powaga

  Thus talking to himself, the man was about to turn into another street when he heard a noise and saw a crowd of people with lamps and torches. Without thinking long, he stepped back and hid in the dark behind a column. The crowd was advancing in his direction, led by a priest, probably a canon of the cathedral, his face glowing in the light of the torches. Following him were people armed with pikes and pole-axes, and from the colours they wore our man recognised them as soldiers from the private army of Zebrzydowski, the bishop of Cracow.

  The sight made him shudder: "Damned premonitions," he cursed, "what the devil's made me come here? What if I fall into the hands of these butchers? I've fooled them twice but this time they may send me up in smoke, to father Lucifer."

  It was obvious he must have had closer contact with the servants of the Inquisition before, for he held his breath and nervously wiped beads of cold sweat from his forehead. Only when the crowd stopped a few houses away from him did he let out a sigh of relief and begin to observe the scene with interest.

  Someone banged on the door, but there was no answer. The banging grew louder, accompanied by voices shouting threats and curses, the priest's voice clearly the loudest among them.

  "Open up and surrender!" they demanded from the street but silence was the only answer.

  "Knock down the door!"

  The bishop's soldiers began to pound the heavy oak door with their axes. The crowd was pushing from all directions as the frightened neighbours ran out onto the street. The bars and hinges broke and the soldiers ran into the house just as an upstairs window was flung open and in it appeared an old man with a lamp in his hand. It was Krupka Przeclawski, a well known Cracow merchant, accused of open faith in Luther's heresy. Seeing him the crowd fell silent.

  "Who's given you the right to disturb the peace of a free citizen in his own house?! If I am guilty of anything I will go before the court and shall be cleared. You people . . ." He wanted to continue but cries - "On the stake with the heretic! Stone him! Burn the apostate!" - drowned his voice. The curses thrown at him like a shower of stones forced him to retreat from the window. The stranger in the black cloak, as frightened as he was curious, moved closer, the better to see how the whole affair would end.

  Ten minutes had passed when the crowd, seeing the old man with a young girl at his side being led out of the house by the servant of the Inquisition, burst forth with new cries of wild joy. People, carried away with fanatic hatred, threw themselves at the pair, tearing off their clothes, spitting and cursing. The soldiers tried in vain to stave off the attack with their long pikes. The old man took the raining blows calmly, without a moan; the swooning girl was pushed around from one pair of hands to another. The mob, like a fluid mass, flowed down the narrow street lit up by burning books and papers thrown out of Krupka's house.

  "Stop!" A commanding voice rose above the tumult and halted the procession. "Stop, you wreckers, you thoughtless hot-heads! Eh, lads! Clear out this rabble, and these holy knights of the faith!"

  "It's Zborowski's men!" shouted someone from the crowd, and at once a fierce battle broke out between the men of Castelan Marcin Zborowski and the bishop's servants defending the prey in their hands. For a long while the fighting parties rolled to and fro like a rough sea, spilling from one street into another and filling the air with the deafening crash of sabres and the booming echo of gunshots; a sad example of how the rich lords, under cover of defending freedom of opinion or the laws of the Republic, exacted justice for their own interest.

  And then, it was as if someone had swept the streets: a hollow silence settled where only half an hour before the madness of fanaticism had unleashed a small civil war and smeared itself with brotherly blood. In the dark corner of an empty side street our stranger attended to a girl lying senseless on the ground. Holding her head, he was rubbing her face with snow. He took out a little flask and let a few drops of some potion into her mouth. The girl sighed and opened her eyes. The potion worked: the girl got up and sat on a broken-off piece of wall.

  "What a nightmare! We must get out of here! Is it you, Mr Przeclawski, sir? They want to kill you. We must run away!"

  "Calm down, my child," said the stranger. "I am not Mr Przeclawski but a good friend who wants to help you. We have no time to lose. Gather your strength, if you have any left, and let us leave this dangerous place." Having said that, the stranger took off his cloak: "Put this on, my child. It's very cold, and besides, you mustn't be recognised."

  The frightened girl decided to put her trust in the man whom fate had sent to her rescue. She wrapped herself in his cloak from head to toe and followed him as quickly as she possibly could in her fright and weariness. The most difficult thing was to leave the town where the strange looking pair drew the attention of curious eyes. But once they had passed the gates they slowed down and headed for the darkness lying outside the walls.

  The girl was still in a state of shock. It seemed to her that the bloodthirsty mob was still pursuing her; the slightest rustle echoed in her ears with their wild murderous cries. She could not gather the thoughts which ran wildly through her mind, and only fear kept pushing and prodding her on in the footsteps of her guide.

  From time to time the stranger would turn to the girl, giving her short directions or bidding her to hurry up. Otherwise he walked deep in thought, pondering the miraculous coincidence that had brought the events of this and the other world together: was the prophecy he had divined from the letters written by the finger of the Almighty about to be fulfilled ... ? Now he was in the possession of that virgin maid for whom Fate prescribed such a great future. One day he - her rescuer - would be the recipient of her gratitude.

  Thus he explained to himself the dark premonition and the miraculous coincidence that had led him to the girl. Dreams and visions flooded his thoughts, and he would not have woken up from that dreamy state for a long while if it had not been for a group of people approaching from the river, laughing and talking loudly. He wanted to get out of their way but it was too late; a group of drunken fishermen was already coming towards them. He quickened his pace to avoid being accosted but some of the men greeted him with noisy friendliness:

  "Hey, brother, come with us for a drop of mead. Let's celebrate as befits this holy day. We're a good company and all are merry!"

  The stranger was of no mind to celebrate anything with the fishermen. He pushed them away, cursed them and gave them what must have been a very peculiar look, for despite their heads steaming with drink, those who came up and took him under his arms stepped back terrified and let him through.

  "Holy spirit!" mumbled one of them crossing himself. "Methought I'd go straight to hell, so hard he shoved me. And that look! I swear all the mead's gone out of me head."

  "Look at him, brothers, scooting on a broom with his witch-wife Baba Yaga. They say he's taken service with the devil. He was gone for a few years but he always crops up where you haven't sowed him. 'Tis a bad omen, brothers, when evil crosses your path."

  "Nothing a good drink wouldn't cure!" shouted someone. "Let's go to The Cockerel and drink the devil dry!"

  "The devil himself sent these drunks to try me," muttered the stranger to himself. "Hurry up, my child. It's not far now. You will be safe here, among these rocks."

  Hard to say how the girl took these words, for she followed him in silence, like a ghost. The gloomy barrenness of Krzemionki Rocks made no impression on her now. The folk tales spoke of air-borne castles where the devil held his all-night capers and where many a traveller lost his mind or broke his neck, pushed off a -rock.

  And thus they walked on, their figures visible for a long while, winding their way, now up, now down the hill, till they disappeared among the twisting ravines.

  Daylight, seeping through a hole in the cave's roof, brought out from the shadows a spacious room. Its smooth chiselled walls were covered with reliefs of the signs of the Zodiac, sphinxes and mummies, placed in specially carved niches. On the stone tables stood retorts and gla
ssy spheres filled with precious liquids used for the production of gold; heaps of blackened scrolls rose to the ceiling. In a corner, resting on an oak reading desk and chained to the wall, lay the Liber Magnus, the essence of the art of magic, the scourge of infernal powers. Completing the picture were several huge telescopes, a pile of astrological tools and a polished metal mirror of intricate workmanship draped in a half-transparent veil.

  This Pandemonium made a strange impression on the girl's mind. Still frightened, she huddled in a corner, although now, instead of the torn rags, she wore a very becoming fur-lined tunic made of gold-threaded cloth, and her face, not so long ago pale with fear and purple with cold, was now gently flushed with colour. The young maid certainly appreciated the change in her fate yet she could not help but return to the disturbing memories that still floated through her mind like wisps of mist. She was afraid to make a step or say a word to her benefactor who sat before her in a big chair, watching her with interest.

  He was a man of mature age, his long thick beard streaked with strands of silver hair. His lively, deep-seated eyes, smouldering with the fire of passion, glimmered with keen intelligence; there were few who could withstand his gaze. Time, or the habit of prolonged meditation, had furrowed his high brow with deep parallel lines which on occasions would meet in a triangle. A thick moustache covered his mouth, as if meant to hide the quick wicked smile that betrayed his true feelings. He was cloaked in a long black robe bordered with hieroglyphs, on his breast hung a huge amulet and on his head he wore a doctor's biretta. In his sinewy hands he held a scroll of parchment covered with strange writing from which now and again he would raise his eyes to examine with pleasure the face of the young maid.

  "Come closer, Barbara. I knew a lady of that name once. Her star shone bright, but it died all too soon. Your face bears a strong resemblance to hers, to those divine features that conquered the heart of a great king. This waist, these eyes, this bosom, so young and unripe yet, one day shall equal that famous beauty. Even so, the Heavens have procured a great destiny for you. I saw it in the stars: they augur well. Here is your horoscope," he was saying, pointing at the scroll. "A favourite of one of the mighty kings of the earth, untold riches will be lavished upon you, your life will pass in luxury and you shall know happiness in all its splendour. You, whom I have rescued from the clutches of death - you shall owe it all to me."

  The prophetic fire burnt in the astrologer's eyes, his face flushed with colour. He took the girl by the hand, led her to the mirror and took off the veil. "Look," he said, "have I told you the truth?"

  Curiosity was stronger than fear and shyness: the girl raised her eyes and looked into the polished surface of the mirror; the astrologer was watching her from the side. At first she observed the unfolding chain of events with calm concentration, then she smiled and gave out a cry of delight; in the end she was transported into a state of rapture. In the mirror she saw another being, just like herself, her life blended with the features of the spectre, her soul entered its eyes. Still as a statue, one would think she would have watched the spectacle for hours if it had not been for the veil which the astrologer suddenly lowered onto the mirror; at once the vision of the future scattered away.

  The maid covered her eyes with both hands, as if wanting to save the remains of the shattered images. The astrologer, carried away by his prophetic powers, compared her to women who with beauty and intrigues ruled the courts of weak monarchs; and not without reason. A plan was hatching in his mind: her beauty could be a useful tool in bettering his prospects, for the character of the wise man was tainted by greed; he would gladly exchange the gold that he produced in his crucibles for the king's silver. A fugitive from the courts of Inquisition, banished from the royal court for dark machinations, he now sighed for the lost respect and the good life others like him enjoyed.

  Suddenly, someone knocked on the door, and knocked again three times. The astrologer pricked up his ears. "We have a visitor, it seems. You must not be seen, my child. Leave the room, be quick." He pushed open a hidden door in the wall and the girl disappeared. Then he hurried to greet the unexpected guest.

  "Greetings, Mr Twardowski," called out Goosey from the door.

  "Welcome, welcome, old friend," the magician greeted him, and embraced his guest.

  "I nearly lost my way, wandering from rock to rock, but it's been a long time since I last visited you in this cave of yours. Ever since the queen's death we've been on the road, first wandering round Lithuania, then visiting one seym1 after another, and now my good master has been taken gravely ill. I've been at his bedside for a month now. I found it hard to leave him, good servant as I am, and so I couldn't visit you."

  "But tell me, Mr Goosey, what's the news at court? Any changes? Does the king still bear his old grudge against me? Does he still think I was in collusion with the Queen Mother? Does he know I'm still here, against his orders, safe behind the rumours that the devil dragged me to hell?"

  "The king knows everything."

  "He does? And who told him?"

  "I did."

  Twardowski boiled with rage: "You've betrayed me, you old wind-bag!"

  "Calm down, old friend, calm down, and wait till I'm finished. The king knows everything and knows it from me. Since entering the unhappy state of widowhood, he has set his mind on the idea - crazy or not I cannot judge - to see the shadow of his late wife. He invited magicians, crooks and tricksters from all over the world but not one of them even tried, although the reward of five hundred pieces of gold should have been temptation enough ..."

  "Five hundred pieces, you say?" exclaimed Twardowski. "And no one even tried?"

  "Not one. Augustus lost all hope and slipped back into illness and despair again. I felt pity for my master ... Then I remembered you, my good sir, and gave the king to understand that there was but one man who could help him, if only one knew where to find him ... `Who? Twardowski?' asked the king. `Himself,' I said. `Right you are, but where to find him? I would forgive him everything.' `Give me your word, Sire.' `Here it is,' said the king giving me his hand, `but remember, Goosey, do not jest with me.' And so I told the king your story and hadn't even finished telling it when he told me to go to Krzemionki and fetch you."

  Twardowski was pacing the room, his pace now slow now quick, following his thoughts. Suddenly, he stopped before the jester, as if struck by a happy thought, which instantly flashed in his eyes.

  "I shall go with you, Mr Goosey," he said shaking the latter's hand, "and bring consolation to the palace of kings. Five hundred gold pieces - a great reward, but it's not the profit that tempts me. The fame of a wise man, and the health of the Crown - that is all I desire."

  In vain did the courtiers rack their brains to guess the reason behind the preparations being carried out in the castle; no one knew about Twardowski and his secret meetings with the king. Masons and carpenters worked day and night in the lower chamber, which during the reign of king Sigismund, the father, had served as an armoury. Everything was carried out in the greatest secrecy. The king took a handful of courtiers into his confidence and those were sworn to silence. He and Twardowski held meetings late into the night, of which the only witness was old Goosey. The lords of the Crown loudly complained that the king put his trust in people who should not be trusted, that he hazarded his health, so dear to the nation, that he emptied the coffers with reckless spending to the detriment of his own, as well as his subjects' welfare. Such complaints could be heard then and long afterwards, but Augustus' fondness for things supernatural, for magic and sorcery of all kinds, stayed with him to the last hour of his life.

  It was past eleven at night. The castle had already been asleep for some time, as was the custom of our forefathers. In the royal chamber, however, a silver lamp was still lit, burning the purest oil. King Augustus sat in a big chair, wrapped in a black velvet coat lined with sable fur, his feet resting on a footstool; next to him stood Goosey whispering something into the royal ear. The king paid little att
ention to him; his face, the signs of illness already fading away, showed impatience and apprehension.

  "Well, Janusz," he called to the footman who had just entered the room, "do I have to wait long?"

  "He will be here in a few minutes, Your Highness," answered the servant and took his place by the door.

  Those few minutes seemed an eternity to the king.

  "Tell me a story, I am bored," he said to Goosey and then rebuked the jester for telling him old jokes, and for neglecting his duties. He ordered the two footmen standing by the door to help him up and take him for a stroll around the room. But soon he berated them for clumsiness and returned to his chair. His impatience reached boiling point; he was just about to send curses on the astrologer's head when the door opened and in came Twardowski. Augustus looked at him and lowered his head guiltily without saying a word. There was an air of gravity and triumph about the magician. He walked up to the king and whispered:

  "The hour of ghosts is upon us, your majesty. Are you ready for it?"

  "I am ready for everything, even if I'm to see Hell and all its devils," exclaimed the king eagerly.

  "But, remember our agreement, Sire. Otherwise you will bring damnation on your head and ours. Ghosts may be vindictive."

  "Oh, I shall fulfil any conditions! I know the pains I'm going to suffer. I shall keep my passion in check. I can be still as a stone - but pray, do not torment me any longer. Lead on, this uncertainty is killing all my courage."

  The magician gave the king another hard look to give weight to his demand.

  Two strapping footmen hurried to the king and helped him to his feet. Goosey went first, followed by two other servants with lamps. The procession wound its way down the secret passage, through vaulted corridors and galleries, to the lower chamber where everything was prepared and where Twardowski was already awaiting the king's arrival.