The fisherman, who had reached land, dropped his nets and turned his head. The sound filled him with a longing for the sea. Then, on the horizon, he saw the amber boat and the entourage of shells, and as they drew closer he saw the queen and smiled, as a feeling of peace filled his heart. Jurata smiled back – and suddenly her anger and desire for revenge melted away.
The queen signalled to her mermaids to stop singing.
“I am Jurata, Queen of the Baltic. I came here to punish you for fishing in my waters – yet now that I see you, I can only forgive you for the things you have done to the creatures of the sea.”
The fisherman bowed, then looked up into the queen’s green eyes. “And I can only accept your forgiveness and cast away my nets. When I take my boat out to sea, I shall no longer be a fisherman searching for fish, but a king searching for his queen. I will sail out every evening to see you.”
When he finished speaking, Jurata and her mermaids had disappeared. The fisherman stood alone and stared at the sea for an eternity, wondering if what he had seen was a dream.
But it was not a dream, for every evening after that, the queen left her amber palace and she and the fisherman sailed on the water together, under the moon and stars. The queen of the sea sang and the fisherman stroked her golden hair.
But their happiness did not last. One night, the God of Storms saw their little boat floating in the moonlight and was outraged that Jurata had fallen in love with a mortal. He threw a thunderbolt from the sky.
The fisherman’s boat was caught in a whirlpool and dragged beneath the waves, and he drowned. The amber palace splintered into a trillion fragments and the queen of the sea was buried beneath it.
Frantically the little sea creatures worked to uncover her. Crabs picked up pieces of amber in their claws and dug away into the night. Lobsters brushed the amber away with their tails. Oysters scooped it up with their shells. But at last, when they found the queen, she was dead.
They dressed her in pink and white coral and buried her in the sand. The crabs dug a hole with their claws and they all wept.
The sea-horses said, “She would not want us to be unhappy. Let us collect the pieces of amber and swim with it throughout the sea.”
The oysters agreed. “Let’s scatter it far and wide.”
“Yes”, said the crabs, “and we will make jewels and necklaces in memory of her beauty.”
So, even to this day, all the sea creatures remember Jurata by placing pieces of amber on the Baltic shore.
The Gingerbread Bees
There was once a little town called Torun which always smelt of gingerbread. On spring mornings, when the breeze blew towards the river, merchants arriving there could smell the ginger wafting through the streets of bakeries. As soon as they had unloaded their wares, they would rush to have breakfast in one of the little waterfront shops where tea and a gingerbread cake were sold.
The most popular bakery of all was Bartholomew’s, run by a man whose name was – not surprisingly – Mr Bartholomew. This old baker had a prosperous business and his reputation for baking excellent cakes was the talk of the whole town.
“Your husband must be a happy man, Mrs Bartholomew. Surely, if anyone has a claim to happiness it would be him,” said a customer one day, gingerbread crumbs dropping from her mouth as she spoke.
“Mr Bartholomew – happy?” replied his wife, brushing cake crumbs from her lap. “He won’t be happy until the king tells him his gingerbread is the best in the country.” She took another mouthful of tea to wash the cake down, then continued, “And he wishes he’d never hired that rascal of an apprentice Bogumil.”
It was known that Bartholomew had designs to marry his lovely daughter, with her honey hair and blue eyes, to a wealthy man. It was equally well known that the girl was not interested in the crusty old men who showered her with amber necklaces, silver ribbons and pearl-embroidered gloves in a bid to win her affections, and that her heart was moved more by the bunches of wild flowers and gingerbread hearts given to her by young Bogumil.
“Sack him! That’s the only answer, husband. Sack him!” said Mrs Bartholomew one day, as she watched her daughter putting a bunch of freshly-picked flowers into a vase. “For pity’s sake, the lad can’t even afford to buy his own flowers! What sort of husband would he make our Katarzyna? Sack him, I say!”
Her husband put a hand to his brow. “I can’t sack him, my dear. The king is coming to Torun soon and I need all the help I can get. Besides, Bogumil is a good baker.”
Light-hearted, happy-go-lucky Bogumil thought of nothing but Katarzyna by day and by night. Although he loved his work at the bakery, there were times when the young man longed only to get away from the hot ovens, and walk dreamily through the forest looking for flowers for his love.
So it was, one morning, that he was walking in a forest outside the town when he spotted a bunch of forget-me-nots growing beside a lake. They were as blue as Katarzyna’s eyes. Bogumil was on his hands and knees and about to pick the flowers, when he heard a faint droning sound. He looked up and saw a huge, round, black-and-orange-striped bumblebee drowning in the lake.
Without thinking, Bogumil snatched up a giant sorrel leaf and, leaning out into the water, helped the bee clamber on to it. He put the leaf down upon the bank and, seeing that the bee’s wings were wet, moved it into the sun. Soon the bee began to revive and started rubbing its wings. When it was dry, its buzzing grew louder, and eventually it flew off into the forest, leaving the young man alone.
Bogumil was kneeling down again to pick the forget-me-nots when he heard the chirp of a small bird perched upon a twig at the side of the lake. Imagine his surprise when he looked closer, and saw that it was not a bird at all, but a little woman no bigger than his middle finger sitting, not on a twig, but a throne! She wore a tiny crown upon her head.
Bogumil bowed.
The queen spoke, not in a chirp this time, but in a beautiful voice.
“I am the Queen of the Honey-dwellers, and I have come to reward you for your good deed. My people live on the golden honey made by the bees of this forest. When the queen bee fell into the lake, we thought the end had come, for without her the bees cannot work. If she had died, the worker bees would also have died and there would have been no more honey for my people.”
Bogumil was speechless.
“Listen to me carefully,” she continued, “and you will become the most famous baker in Torun, and your town will be known for ever as the Gingerbread Town. Remember, when you bake your gingerbread, as well as adding spices, to add a spoonful of honey to the recipe.” And she gave him a little pot of forest honey.
Then, before Bogumil could thank her, the queen disappeared. The throne had turned back into a twig and there was a bird perched on it.
Bogumil rubbed his eyes, not sure if he had been dreaming, and, forgetting about the flowers, ran all the way back to town.
The streets were full of people. Bogumil stopped and asked a man what was happening.
“Good God, my boy, where on earth have you been? The king is coming to Torun tomorrow!”
Bogumil went red in the face. The king coming tomorrow! He must get back to the bakery at once.
***
Old Bartholomew was furious when he saw his apprentice. The ovens in the kitchen were already hot and the baker had rolled out his gingerbread dough.
“Where the devil have you been, you young scoundrel? Don’t you know the king is coming tomorrow?” he fumed.
His wife shouted, “Every apprentice in town is baking gingerbread, except you. Get to work at once!”
Young Bogumil said sorry a thousand times and quickly gathered together his cooking utensils. He added cloves, cinnamon, black pepper and ginger to his dough, and when the old baker and his wife were not looking, took out the jar of forest honey and added a spoonful to the mixture. He cut the gingerbread into different shapes: knights, flowers, hearts, elks – even bees – and, in remembrance of the little queen, he cut out some t
iny crowns too.
Early the next morning, Bartholomew was up rapping on his apprentice’s bedroom door.
“Up, you lazy rascal! There’s work to be done!”
His wife was already up and about, laying a clean linen cloth over the table outside the bakery. Her husband carried out the trays of gingerbread, eyeing Bogumil’s golden creations, which were arranged on a silver tray. That apprentice might have been a rascal, but there was no denying he had a gift for baking. There was such a gleam about his gingerbread biscuits today, they might almost have been made of gold! Bartholomew didn’t utter his thoughts out loud. Instead, he shouted, “Bogumil, fetch a ladder my boy, and polish the shop sign until it sparkles.”
Bogumil rubbed the old sign until he could see his face in the letters. Then, looking into it, he saw reflected the king’s horses approaching the town. There was a great roar from the crowds in the streets and, turning round, he nearly fell off his ladder.
Bartholomew shouted, “Get down off that ladder, boy, and put it away.”
“Then clean up your hands and get yourself out here!” added Mrs Bartholomew.
Bogumil meekly did as he was told.
By the time the king arrived at Bartholomew’s shop, he and the royal children were already stuffed full of gingerbread. The old baker silently cursed the fact that his shop was in the centre of the town and so far along the royal route. When the king approached, Bartholomew bowed, his wife curtsied and Bogumil held his breath, as the king stepped forward and chose a gingerbread crown from the silver tray. The king’s little son and daughter each picked up a gingerbread bee.
The king ate one crown… then another… and another. His children munched their way through a swarm of gingerbread bees and a bunch of gingerbread flowers.
“Who baked these biscuits?” cried the king.
The old baker bowed again, Mrs Bartholomew smiled smugly, and they both pointed proudly at Bogumil.
“This is the most delicious gingerbread I have ever tasted,” the king said. He picked up another gingerbread crown. “Tell me, young man, what did you do to make this gingerbread so special?”
Bogumil told the king that he had added forest honey to the recipe, and the king nodded approvingly.
“Ingenious!” he said. Bartholomew smiled. What a clever apprentice!
“Get me a scribe at once,” said the king, through a mouthful of Bogumil’s biscuits. “I wish to grant this town a royal charter, and bestow upon it the exclusive right to bake honey gingerbread for the King’s Market.”
Bartholomew patted his young apprentice on the back, forgiving him his errant ways. He promoted Bogumil to senior baker, and gave him his daughter’s hand in marriage.
Bogumil was delighted by all this. But he couldn’t help wondering if his luck would run out once the little pot of forest honey was finished. He needn’t have worried, for one afternoon when he was in the garden of his new cottage, he heard a faint buzzing, and discovered that a swarm of bees had moved into one of his cherry trees. The little queen had sent them so that Bogumil would never have to look for honey again!
His gingerbread got better and better, and when old Bartholomew died, Bogumil took over the bakery and Torun became known as the Gingerbread Town. Bogumil lived happily with his beautiful wife, but he never told anyone about the little Queen of the Honey-dwellers whom he had met long ago in the Forest of Bees.
The Golden Duck of Warsaw
In Warsaw, on cobbled Bednarska Street, there was once a shoemaker’s workshop. Above the old shop lived a young apprentice called Janek. He had no family – which was just as well, since he earned so little money from shoemaking. On his days off, Janek often sat looking out of the window, watching the gentlemen in their suits and the ladies in their dresses and dreaming that one day he too would be rich.
He sometimes visited a small inn, where he liked to sit in a corner with his drink and listen to the people around him. It was here, one evening, that he heard something very strange. He strained his ears and caught bits and pieces of the story.
“…A golden duck, I tell you.”
“…with gold feathers and a gold crown on its head.”
“…It lives in a lake under Ostrogski Palace.”
“…Whoever finds this duck will be rich.”
“…It is dangerous, very dangerous.”
“…To get to the lake, you have to go through endless tunnels.”
“…Everyone who has ventured in there has got lost in the winding passages.”
Hearing this, Janek rushed home. That night he couldn’t sleep, and when he dozed off, he kept dreaming of the golden duck. What if he found it? Just imagine being rich! Surely someone was destined to find that duck, and it could be him!
The next morning at work he kept dropping things, and he even stitched the sole of a shoe on back to front.
“Whatever’s got into you today, Janek? Your mind’s not on the job!” shouted his master.
As soon as he finished work, Janek returned to his room. He stuffed his pockets with bread and took a little flask of water. Then he sat and waited until dusk.
The street lamps glowed yellow, lighting up Ostrogski Palace. The vault beneath the palace was open. A thin man as tall as a sapling sat guarding the gate. Janek waited for him to take his break, then slipped inside.
Candles lit up the walls. There was a damp, mouldy smell lingering in the air. The steps down were steep at first and covered in slime. Janek tried not to slip. Puddles of stagnant water had collected in the tunnels, and his shoes were soon wet through. As he walked, he nibbled on the bread in his pockets. On and on he went, sometimes wondering if he had taken the right turning. He grew cold and after a few hours the little bread he had left was dry and stale. His flask was empty and he felt thirsty.
“Oh no – I am going to end like all the others before me! Lost! Lost! Lost in the darkness underground!” he cried. His voice echoed back: “… Lost! Lost! Lost…”
He buried his face in his hands and had nearly given up hope, when through the gaps in his fingers he thought he saw a white light. He hurried towards it, trying not to slip.
At the end of the passageway he stopped and gasped. Before him was a room divided by polished yellow stone arches. Beneath the arches he saw a bright blue lake that shone like sapphire. And on the water, in the centre of the lake, sat a golden duck.
“So it’s true! It’s true!” Janek cried.
“It certainly is. I am glad you have found me. Now I will make you rich.”
Janek was speechless. A duck that could talk! This was incredible.
“In that bag at your feet are one hundred gold ducats. You may buy whatever you wish with them, but you must spend all the money in a single day.”
The young apprentice looked down at his feet. He lifted the bag and felt the weight in his hands.
“Do not share your wealth with anyone. If you do not do as I say, you will go back to being poor.”
Janek wanted to thank the duck, but when he looked up, it had vanished. He stared at the lake for a few moments, then looked at the bag in his hand. He undid the string and peered inside. The gold glinted in the light. His heart beat fast as he retied the string.
“I’m rich! I’m rich!” he shouted, jumping up in the air.
But first, he had to find his way out. What use would a bag of gold coins be to him if he couldn’t get out again? There were several passages leading away from the lake. Janek chose one and started walking. Whenever he had to make a choice, he felt it was the right one. Before long he found himself climbing up the steps to the earth above. The door was still open and the guard had gone.
Janek left the grounds of the palace and went back to his room.
***
It was dawn. The start of a new day. Janek had until sunrise tomorrow to spend all his money. If he managed it, the duck would surely give him more money. He divided up the coins into several leather purses and hid them in his biggest overcoat.
Now
: off to shop!
His first stop was the market square, where the stallholders were just beginning to put out their wares. Janek spent the entire morning going from stall to stall. He could buy anything he wanted without worrying about the cost. There were Greek olives, Spanish oranges, Italian grapes, French cheese, English mustard, German ham… There were Polish delicacies: sweet rolls with poppy seeds, barrels of honey, prunes in dark chocolate… There were clothes which he had only ever dreamt of wearing: velvet shirts with lace cuffs, silk ties and cravats stitched with gold… He even bought a pair of full-length riding boots from the Turkish merchant, complete with spurs.
At midday he went to the most expensive inn in Warsaw, and ordered the most extravagant food: wild boar, lobster, roast duck stuffed with apples, cranberry sauce, vodka with honey, almond torte soaked in rum. As he sat and ate, people whispered among themselves, “Is that some lord over there? He doesn’t seem to care how much he spends.”
They tried to find out who he was and where he had come from, but Janek kept his secret and his money to himself. He swaggered out of the inn bloated and smiling.
Next he bought an expensive diamond from a jeweller on Nowy Swiat. By the late afternoon he owned a horse with silver horseshoes. That evening, he decided to go to the opera and bought the best seat at the Grand Theatre to see Moniuszko’s Halka. When he emerged from the performance, all the shops were closed. But he still had money in his purse. He wasn’t hungry and he didn’t need any more clothes.
It was a warm night, so he sat down on a bench in the moonlight.
“How am I going to get rid all this money before dawn?” he said out loud.
“You could give some to me.”
Janek looked up. An old beggar had hobbled up to him. He was wearing filthy rags, and he smelt of stale beer and old clothes.
The Dragon of Krakow Page 2