“Second breakfast!” exclaimed Szymon, as if to say, Is that all?
“That’s right, my second breakfast – let’s say, a piece of bread and butter. What do you say?”
Szymon agreed. For one thing, he didn’t intend to lose. For another, if he lost, then his wife could surely give him an extra sandwich in the morning. And lastly, he reckoned that when he won, he could sit back while old Skarbnik did all his dirty work in the mine!
“Perfect. When do we start?” asked Szymon.
“Tomorrow. I’ll meet you in the mine when the time is right. And don’t worry about cards. I’ve got a brand new pack.”
The wavering shadow of Szymon’s lighted candle flickered as he crept along the narrow passages of the mine. He had strayed far away from the heavily worked tunnels, for it was here that he had agreed to meet Skarbnik.
He waited patiently, listening to the steady drip-drip of a dangling stalactite, and peered into an icy pool of salt water on the ground. Szymon tried to visualise the magnificent underground salt palace where the Treasurer was rumoured to live, according to centuries-old stories told by the miners. He imagined ornate chandeliers carved from salt and shimmering doors studded with delicate crystals… so he hardly noticed when Skarbnik suddenly appeared out of the opposite wall.
Szymon pinched himself to check he wasn’t dreaming, and followed the underground lord in silence along a narrow corridor of stone. Gigantic walls of rock seemed to open up as the Treasurer took his friend deeper within the ground.
Eventually they reached the outskirts of the great palace, and Szymon gasped in awe as he looked at the beautiful spires and minarets stretching up towards the roof of the mine.
They stopped suddenly before a small porch. Skarbnik pushed open a heavy oak door. Inside was a room which smelt of tobacco, with a great, round, carved table in the middle. Skarbnik puffed at his pipe and a ring of white smoke wafted into the air.
“This is my card room. Come in, my good man. Let’s play!” he growled.
Skarbnik soon realised how experienced his opponent was. No matter what they played – poker, rummy, bridge – Szymon was always one step ahead. – the Treasurer lost the lot. When they were playing their final game, Skarbnik looked up in disbelief and exclaimed, “Well, my friend, you’ve beaten me fair and square! And I can’t complain about that, so I’ll honour my word. Come with me. I will show you where to find the best salt!”
That evening, when Szymon returned to his wife, he did a little jig in the kitchen.
“Why are you looking so pleased with yourself? Anyone would think you’d found a new vein of salt!” cried Szymonowa.
“Well I have… I did… in a way,” replied her husband.
“In a way? What do you mean, In a way? Either you found it or you didn’t!” said his wife.
Szymon thought of telling her about his card games with the Treasurer, but in the end decided to keep quiet. After all, did it really matter how he had found the salt? Now he would have more money – and that in itself ought to be enough to keep his wife happy. If he was playing cards and enjoying himself at the same time, what was wrong with that?
The days passed, and Szymon’s winning streak continued. And the more he won, the lazier he became. He’d sit back and enjoy an afternoon nap while Skarbnik ran around doing all the dirty work!
But one day Szymon’s luck ran out. Skarbnik was getting tired of his extra work in the mine. He knew there was only one way to beat this precocious miner at cards. He’d have to put in more practice at night, in the still hours of the early morning when all the creatures of the mine were asleep.
The Treasurer shuffled his cards in quiet satisfaction. He’d been through every hand, every possible combination, and now at last he knew every trick in the book. He sat back in his salt chair by the fire, puffing on his faithful pipe and dozing. Dreams of a tasty sandwich lying on the table – two pieces of freshly baked rye bread spread with a thick layer of home-churned, creamy golden butter flashed in front of his closed eyes. He could almost smell the delicious honey-coloured crust, as if his room was joined to a bakery and the warm air from the ovens was wafting through the window.
“Oh, Szymon, my lad, you do not know how much I’m looking forward to our little meeting tomorrow!” he muttered to himself.
The miner arrived at Skarbnik’s card house in his usual cocksure fashion.
“Shuffle the cards, Skarbnik! Let’s play!” he cried. “My colleagues can’t believe how much salt I’m finding nowadays! The whole of Wieliczka is talking about me!”
Skarbnik raised an eyebrow. Arrogance was another feature he disliked and this Szymon appeared to possess it in abundance.
“Indeed, let’s play, my good man. And pray to the powers above that your winning ways continue,” said the Treasurer enigmatically.
Szymon scoffed. “Just deal the cards. No need to worry about praying!”
So the game began and within an hour, much to his disbelief, Szymon lost, not once, not twice – but three times! He couldn’t believe it, and asked Skarbnik to play again. To his surprise, the result was the same. Now it was the Treasurer’s turn to laugh.
“How does it feel to lose, and have to pay the winner his dues?” he mocked.
Szymon bit his lip. Not good. Slowly he undid his mining bag and, pulling out his second breakfast, placed a delicious-looking sandwich on the table. Skarbnik’s eyes sparkled. This would be one of many, he’d make sure of that.
And so it was. Day in, day out, Szymon turned up at the card house and each time he lost, he was obliged to give Skarbnik a freshly made sandwich for his second breakfast. And now poor Szymon had to go back into the mine and look for the precious salt himself.
Every day Szymon had to make an extra sandwich. His losing streak looked as if it would never end. He reckoned he could conceal matters from his wife, but Szymonowa knew her kitchen like the skin on the back of her hand. You could ask her in the middle of the night what was in it, from the smallest cupboard to the tall pantry where they kept food, and she would always have the answer. She had noticed that her store of freshly churned butter, made with her own hands, was disappearing.
“Szymon, I only filled this butter bowl up yesterday, and it’s almost empty! Do you know where it’s all going?” she demanded one evening.
Szymon didn’t answer. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow.
“Well, come on, where is it all going? At the rate it’s disappearing, I wouldn’t mind betting you’re greasing the wheels of the carriages in the mine with it! And to think how much cream I use to make it!”
“Greasing… the wheels… of the carriages?” Szymon said the words slowly to himself.
“Well, I’m still waiting for an answer,” she persisted. As he feared he would never see a buttered sandwich again, Szymon had no choice but to tell her how his luck had changed, and how Skarbnik was demanding a second breakfast in payment every time they played.
Szymonowa was furious.
“That greedy old Treasurer. Eating our butter! Just you let me get hold of him!”
Szymon tried to calm her down, but it was no use. His wife was a strong-willed woman.
“You’ve got to trick him, deceive him. Maybe you can carry an extra card up your sleeve. You’ve got to start winning again, Szymon. We can’t afford all this butter!”
Szymon was horrified.
“Swindle the Treasurer! Are you out of your mind?”
“What’s the difference? You spend most of your time hoodwinking friends. Let’s face it, you’ve even tried to fool your wife!”
But Szymon was adamant. “Whatever I do, I will not cheat Skarbnik.”
This answer did not satisfy his wife. She decided to take matters into her own hands. “There’s no way I’m going to feed another mouth,” she said. And from that moment onwards, Szymonowa prepared the sandwiches. When the miner was fast asleep, she crept downstairs to carry out her crafty plan. She had boiled and mashed some potatoes earlier tha
t evening and now, using the back of a knife, she carefully spread the mixture on to a slice of bread. When the sandwich was finished, she stood back and admired her work.
“That’ll teach you to eat my butter, Treasurer Skarbnik!”
At their next card game, Szymon sat back on a salt chair and let Skarbnik deal the cards. The morning went badly and it wasn’t long before the miner had lost twice and handed his sandwich over to the Treasurer.
“Better luck tomorrow,” chuckled Skarbnik, his bushy grey eyebrows moving up and down.
A dejected Szymon stalked off swinging his pickaxe. When was he ever going to win again? He walked through several passages thinking how much he longed for his fortune to change.
Soon he found the salt vein he’d been working on the day before, raised his pickaxe and went to strike the rock. He reeled backwards as the tool juddered against the stone, sending painful vibrations through his arms and making him drop it. He tried several times, but always the same thing happened. Before Szymon knew what was happening, he heard heavy steps along the passage and a deep angry voice boomed out: “YOU CROOK! YOU MISERABLE CROOK!”
Szymon’s knees were knocking. The walls of the mine were shaking. Miners came running from all directions to see what the matter was. Skarbnik, his red cheeks puffing out, fumed over the cowering Szymon, and shoved a sandwich under the miner’s nose.
“Do you think you can deceive an old man by spreading his bread with disgusting potato paste instead of butter? WELL, DO YOU?
Szymon’s face turned bright red. He realised that his wife had done this. He felt a complete fool, standing there in front of the great Treasurer, with everyone looking on as Skarbnik chided him like a naughty boy...
“I… I… My wife buys her b-butter… from the market… she must have been sold a dodgy lot…” he stuttered.
“Well, tell your wife to look more closely at what she’s spreading on her bread in future!” roared Skarbnik.
“I’m so sorry… It… it won’t happen again,” squeaked Szymon.
“You’re damn sure it won’t happen again, you little ragamuffin. You will leave this mine immediately and find work elsewhere. And let this be a lesson to all of you,” continued the Treasurer, surveying the group of terrified miners standing with their mouths open. “Anyone who tries to cheat me will suffer the consequences!”
And with these words, he disappeared.
Poor Szymon limped back home to face his wife. He never worked below ground after that, and never found salt again – not a single grain.
Jegle and the King of the Lakes
The fisherman looked up anxiously at a bank of sinister black clouds gathering on the horizon, and rowed faster. The shore was still a long way off. Enormous waves were flicking the weather-beaten boat backwards and forwards like fingers tossing a rubber ball. Giant drops of rain began to fall, thudding into the little vessel. Suddenly an angry wave curled itself over the man and came crashing down into the boat.
“Save me, Perkun! Don’t let the lake deprive two little boys of their father!” the young sailor called out despairingly.
Thunder boomed out from the heavens and fierce lightning lit up the dark sky. Wave after wave pounded the helpless boat and pushed the man into the raging water. For just one moment he thought of his wife and two young sons, before darkness came upon him…
When the fisherman awoke, he saw blue sky above him. But he was even more surprised to see a strange man with big round eyes and green hair as slimy as seaweed leaning over him.
“Am I dreaming?” he whispered to himself, rubbing his eyes. He looked again. His boat was tied to a tree on the shore of a lake, gently bobbing on the water, and the fishing nets he’d taken out that morning were now full of fish!
“Who… who are you?” asked the fisherman, staring at the strange man and watching the sun glinting on his gold crown.
“I am Zaltis, King of the Lakes. When I realised your boat was in trouble, I came up to rescue you,” said the stranger in a lilting voice.
“How… how can I ever repay you?” stuttered the fisherman.
But before he could go on, Zaltis answered, “Would you give me the most valuable thing you have? If you agree, I will make sure you always have fish for the rest of your life.”
The fisherman was overjoyed. After all, there was nothing valuable he possessed that Zaltis would want. He was poor. So he agreed and, thanking the king, returned to his wife.
At the door of the meagre cottage a woman stood holding a bundle wrapped in a white cloth. She smiled, as her husband pulled back the swaddling.
“Our daughter, Jegle, was born while you were away!”
The fisherman wanted to cry out with joy and thank the heavens for such a wonderful gift. But something held him back.
“What’s the matter?” asked his wife, seeing the colour drain from his cheeks.
“Nothing… she’s beautiful,” he replied. He could not bring himself to tell her about his strange pact with the King of the Lakes.
The years passed, and the fisherman convinced himself that it had all been a dream. Little Jegle was a beautiful girl with dark eyes and long blonde plaits. She liked nothing better than helping in the kitchen or picking blueberries in the woods.
One day, her mother fell ill and died, and Jegle took over the running of the house. While the girl kept everything in the little cottage in order, her father and brothers would be out in their boat searching for fish. Sometimes Jegle liked to walk beside the lake on her own. She would sit on a wooden bridge and dangle her feet in the cool water. There was one particular place where she would stop and watch a huge green fish swim by.
One day, coming home from the lake, Jegle unexpectedly bumped into an old woman who seemed very frail. She was a kind-hearted girl, so she invited the stranger back to the cottage for tea.
“Oh, that’s very kind of you, my dear, but I am looking for the place where an old fisherman lives with his daughter Jegle.”
The young girl gasped.
“I am Jegle! And this is my father’s cottage,” she exclaimed.
She led the woman inside and made tea.
As the mysterious woman ate her blueberry cake, her appearance began to change. Her clothes turned from drab grey rags to a dress of seaweed green.
Her voice croaked like a frog’s as she spoke:
“I bring news from Zaltis, the King of the Lakes. He wants to marry you!”
Jegle laughed nervously.
“A king… wants to marry me? You must be mistaken!”
But the stranger insisted.
“Go to the lake tomorrow, and mark my words – you will meet your future husband!”
Like most young girls, Jegle was naturally curious, so the next day she went down to the lake and sat on her favourite bridge. She half-hoped to see her friend the fish, but instead, she saw a strange man with dark, sparkling eyes and long green hair like seaweed, standing over her.
“Where… where did you come from?” she stuttered.
“Do you remember the green fish which used to swim under your feet? Well, that fish was me. I have been in love with you for a long time, Jegle, and I wish to marry you. Once, long ago, I saved your father’s life, and he agreed to give you to me in return for my help.”
Jegle was astounded to hear this, but the handsome king seemed to have a strange hold on her, and she felt drawn to him.
It was only after much heartache that Jegle’s father agreed to let his beloved daughter go to live with the King of the Lakes. Beneath the surface of the lake, in a sumptuous palace of shimmering silver shells, Jegle and Zaltis were married. The proud king swam with his new queen through the great kingdom of the Lakes and showered her with precious jewels.
The young girl would have been perfectly happy, except for one thing: she missed her old father…
“My dearest Zaltis, if you love me as you say you do, I beg you, let me return to the land and visit my father’s cottage again,” she pleaded.
> Zaltis’s heart sank, but he loved his wife, so he swam with Jegle to the edge of the lake and let her go up to her father’s cottage in the pine woods.
The old fisherman beamed with joy when he saw her.
“Jegle! Oh Jegle! How I have missed you, my dear!”
But her brothers, seeing how happy she made their old father, determined to get their sister back from the King of the Lakes.
“Let’s follow her when she goes back into the water. We’ll hide in the bushes with a net, and as soon as Zaltis shows himself, we’ll catch him. He won’t get out alive!”
The next day, Jegle rushed down to meet her husband, while the two brothers hid in the rushes. As soon as they saw Zaltis’s long green hair poking out of the water, they pounced with their net.
Jegle screamed, and ran to Zaltis.
“Leave him! Leave my husband alone! What has he ever done to you?” she called out.
But she needn’t have feared. The moment that their net touched the King, the brothers turned to cold, grey stone… And there they stood, motionless, by the side of the dark lake, while Jegle ran into the water and threw her arms around her husband.
“What will my father say when he sees them like that?” she asked sadly, nodding towards the grey figures.
“Oh, don’t worry, Jegle. In a few hours my spell will wear off and they can go home safely. But I doubt they will try that little trick again!”
And from that day on, beautiful Jegle and wise Zaltis lived happily together in the deep green kingdom of the Lakes.
The Turnip-Counter
There was no doubt about it, nature had not been kind to the Hunchback of Karkonosze. His spine was as crooked as a banana, his nose was a monstrous protrusion of fungal shapes, his eyes small, dark and beady, his complexion pallid, his lips thin and frugal. This ugly creature might have been redeemed by a character of inward beauty – the kind of beauty that makes spring blossoms pale in its wake. But alas, even a fading flower would have felt beautiful in the presence of this mean-spirited soul, this dry, wrinkled piece of salty seaweed. Sadly, the Hunchback of Karkonosze was as ugly inside as he was outside.
The Mermaid of Warsaw Page 3