The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  “What did he hear?” Aleksy asked, scrambling to his feet.

  “I don’t know.”

  “About the soldiering?” Aleksy’s heart was racing. “About Lord Halicki’s lance?”

  “Not to worry, my boy. You know, I did try to teach him to read a bit. He wasn’t interested. Too bad for him.”

  “But if he heard—if the count should find out—or my father!”

  “I can handle the likes of Gusztáf. He’s a homely lad and not so very bright, but I’ll make a decent groom out of him in the long run.”

  “He doesn’t like me. He never has.”

  “Don’t take it personal. Now, let me teach you a new phrase, yes? Scratch a Tatar and you’ll find a Russian.”

  Aleksy grasped his meaning. “So Gusztáf hates Russians? Most Poles do!”

  “No doubt.” Szymon spoke quickly. “And many connect Tatars with Eastern people and with Russia. Enough of that—now listen to me closely if you wish to avoid the infantry. Even without a horse, you can leave Halicz with riding skills.”

  “On what—Kastor? You’re joking!”

  Szymon took Aleksy by the shoulders, the pale yet keen eyes on him. “I said, listen to me, boy, so that you might one day be a man! Milord and the countess are on their way to Warsaw to celebrate the wedding of someone or other related to his lordship’s friend, General Lubomirski. Roman and Marek were not about to sit in a carriage for days, so they went by horseback. I suspect they want to get to the capital early and have a bit of fun. Those family things go on for days, not that you or I would know, but they do! And then there’s the travel time. They will be gone for at least the next several Sundays. You are to come earlier than usual on those days. Gusztáf sets off for Horodenka before dawn, so come right after.”

  “I have Mass—”

  “God will forgive you for a few Sundays. Make up some excuse for your parents. The Almighty will forgive you that, too.”

  “But—why?”

  “Listen, Alek, and I’ll tell you why! You come at dawn and I’ll let you ride one of the boys’ Turks.”

  Aleksy had to shake his head. Was he understanding this clearly? His heart beat fast. He peered into the dark—toward the horses’ stalls. “Why didn’t they take them?”

  “And waste prize horseflesh on a wild ride, not to mention trusting someone to care for them in Warsaw? No, they took a couple of hearty but ordinary stallions. They’re impatient, too, especially Roman, so they’ll trade them off a couple of times at outposts along the way.” Szymon gave a conspiratorial wink. “Now, on those Sundays I can teach you plenty about horsemanship.”

  Aleksy had more questions, more protestations, but at that moment the door behind him creaked open. Luba started to growl again. Gusztáf entered with the water.

  Sunday came at last. The night before, Aleksy told his parents he was to help out old Szymon and that he would attend early morning Mass at a church in Halicz rather than the village chapel. Regret for lying and missing Mass was eclipsed by the sheer excitement of riding a Polish-Arabian. He scarcely slept. This was the immediate and reachable goal. The other—soldiering—remained so elusive a thing for a peasant and non-Pole that its achievement seemed unfathomable.

  Aleksy had always approached the Halicki dwór from the rear because that gave closest access from his village and because his business had always been with Szymon, but today—well before dawn—he took the road leading up to the house, walking Kastor down the long, poplar-lined drive so that he would not call attention to his arrival. The columnar shape of the poplars offered little concealment for a man and horse, so as he neared the house he took up a position behind a belt of tall bushes. From here he could see the comings and goings of the household. He would be able to witness the leave-taking of the groom for his family cottage.

  Aleksy knew Poplar House and its outbuildings from its back end, but now he studied the building, taking in the size and the grandeur of the façade. He had seen little of the Commonwealth and so to his mind this could have been the residence of one of its mighty magnates, those wealthy-beyond-measure nobles who numbered no more than perhaps forty in the nation. Rather, this was the home of the Halickis, a szlachta family. There were estimated to be many hundreds of these lower nobility families. And then, of course, there were the multitudes of the peasantry, folks like his family who were all but tied to the land.

  Day was breaking gray but the starkly beautiful white of the three-storied dwór fairly glowed in the gloom. Huge windows fronted the center of the building on the ground and first floors, slightly smaller ones gracing the two wings running to the left and to the right. Aleksy’s gaze was drawn at once to the huge columned portico at the center—Polish symbol of hospitality—then taken up to the balcony on the roof above it and the tall mullioned French doors that provided access. Above the second level, he took in the attic level, the whiteness giving way to the dark evergreen shingles of the deeply sloping roof. Here the windows were like half-coins beautifully incised into the roof. Almost like Eastern eyes peering out, he thought. Like my eyes.

  Amber candlelight glowed from one of the eye-windows at the far right. A servant getting dressed to start the day?

  Aleksy was jarred from his conjecture when he heard a horse clip-clopping along the path from the rear of the manor house. He drew back and stroked Kastor’s forehead to keep him quiet. The rider urged his horse into a canter as soon as he came to the drive fronting the estate. They flew past and by the time they came to the main road they were at a gallop—and gone. Gusztáf was on his way home, to Horodenka.

  Aleksy glanced up. The window had gone dark. “Come on, Kastor,” he said, remounting and proceeding to the stable.

  “You may choose between the two,” Szymon said, ushering him to the stalls of the two Polish-Arabians. “On second thought, I would recommend Miracle, Marek’s Turk.”

  “Why?”

  “Roman’s mount is more spirited, like him. Perhaps next Sunday for that one, yes?”

  “Who am I to quibble?” Aleksy held his breath as Szymon led Miracle from the stable. He had had little opportunity to observe the Turk when the Halicki brothers accosted him so that only now was a good appraisal possible. The chestnut coat shimmered in the early morning light. The animal’s dark, observant eyes regarded Aleksy beneath a forelock that was fully black, as was his mane and tail. Aleksy went to his side, noticing now that the legs beneath the knee were dark, too, but the fetlocks were white as milk. In no time he was fully mounted, aware of the strength of horseflesh under him and experiencing a thrill each time Miracle responded to his cue.

  For several hours they worked in a corral far from the house and away from the eyes of house servants. Szymon had cut markings into the dirt similar to the ones Aleksy had observed at Mount Halicz. The horse had been schooled well and knew the drill, so it was just Aleksy doing the learning, all the while imagining a lance in his hand.

  “I have things to tend to,” Szymon said at noon.

  “I see,” Aleksy said from atop Miracle. Assuming they were done for the day, he started to dismount.

  “Stay right where you are, young Alek!”

  “But, why—”

  “I don’t expect either you or Miracle is tired out. You’ve got to get to know him—and him you. Go out on the road and give yourselves a workout.”

  Aleksy inhaled deeply. “Truly?”

  “I said so, no? Take the afternoon.”

  “But—but what if someone sees us? Polish-Arabians are not common around here. They’ll recognize him and you’ll be in trouble with his lordship.”

  “Ah, well, take back roads then. In fact,” he said, pulling at his salt and pepper beard, “take that road up to the castle ruins. There are some long stretches along the way. No one’s likely to be there. Folks think the place is haunted.” />
  Aleksy didn’t have to be convinced.

  “And next Sunday—oh, you see that contraption on the right side of the saddle?” Szymon was pointing to a rounded leather holder attached to the saddle. “It’s called a tok. It’s a Hungarian word. Do you know what it’s for?”

  Aleksy nodded. He had seen it used often enough. “The butt of the lance.”

  “Damn right. Now, next Sunday I want you to bring your lance. Can you manage that?” Without waiting for an answer, Szymon swatted the hind of Miracle and he took off at once, as if he were anxious for the outing.

  Aleksy had no opportunity to respond. He would have been speechless anyway. What could Szymon mean—other than it was his intention to teach him the use of the lance atop one of the Polish-Arabians? The horse moved easily, transitioning quickly into a full gallop, and a kind of joy Aleksy had never known pumped through him.

  The horse was aptly named.

  “No water, my friend.” Aleksy stood next to Miracle, his hand stroking the high forehead. He had given the stallion a good workout and deeply regretted not having taken a waterskin for himself and, more especially, for the horse. But this outing had been anything but planned. They stood in the bailey of the castle, having carefully crossed the broken-down drawbridge, its chains long in disuse from time and rust. “We’ll go back soon,” he promised his charge. But for now he wanted to explore the ruins; he had not been here for several years. While some people thought it haunted, Aleksy thought it the stuff of dreams. He looked about him at the stone and timber ruins of gatehouses, kitchens, stables. He searched for a post to tie up the horse, and finding nothing suitable, placed the reins under a large stone.

  He then made his way to the castle keep which rose up from a raised shelf of land near the rear wall. Standing just inside the four-level structure, he found the stairs in fairly good condition. With a glance out at the patiently waiting horse, he took the stairs, floor by floor, carefully stepping over boards, bricks, and shards of glass that lay strewn about. The remnants of the timbered roof had given way years before so that on the fourth level the sun streamed in upon him. He walked to what had been a crenelle, a narrow window slit meant for archers—like himself, he dared to think—but time had rendered it a huge gaping hole with no lintel.

  He looked down at the bailey, not seeing the lone horse nibbling on some sweet grass but imagining instead what this castle had been like in its days of use when men patrolled the gatehouses, blacksmiths worked in their smithy, grooms in the wide stables, servants came and went on errands, some toiling in the kitchens, the huge fireplaces lighted and the scent of roasted meat in the air. And in the rooms of the keep below him the members of the noble family entertaining and being entertained. Time yielded to his imagination.

  Absently, he noticed that Miracle’s head had come up, his ears on alert. The imaginings fell away. Even at this distance Aleksy could see the horse grow tense. His head was moving from side to side, one ear flattened back. What was it? A snake there in the overgrown brown grasses of the keep? It very well could be. Sweet Jezus—and here he was four floors up in a tumbling down structure.

  He had only just turned to make for the stairs when he heard the neighing of a horse. He pivoted back to the window. Miracle was growing restless, his right front leg pawing at the dry ground.

  The neighing came again and Aleksy’s worst fear was realized: it was the neighing of another horse, somewhere outside the front of the castle. There was no time to theorize who it might be. Aleksy dumbly stared as Miracle pulled at his reins in an effort to escape. The stone was not so heavy it would restrain a horse that had the will to pull free. Miracle—this magnificent treasure of one of the young Halicki lords that Szymon had placed in his custody—would be gone before Aleksy could pick his way down four rubble-filled floors.

  Heart pounding, he went for the stairs. His descent to the third level was unimpaired, but on the second level the edge of a stair gave way and he fell. He picked himself up and ran faster, fearful first for the horse and then somehow certain that his life was about to change.

  Five

  When Aleksy came out from the castle keep into the bailey, he saw that Miracle—valuable beyond measure and not his to lose—was gone. “Dog’s blood!” he cursed. He felt suddenly dizzy. His temples began to throb. “Miracle!” he called, running for the bailey gateway, thinking how, unguided, the horse could easily have a leg crash through the rotten bridge over the dry moat. A broken leg was a death sentence. Or—was someone attempting to make away with a valuable bit of horseflesh?

  “Miracle!” he called again even as he slipped on loose gravel and stumbled, his hands breaking the fall. He ignored the pain in his right wrist as he started to push himself up from the ground, but in mid-effort a commotion in front of him drew his attention.

  Two horses were now entering the bailey. The rider on the lead horse held the reins to Miracle, who stepped obediently to the side.

  Aleksy opened his mouth but no words came forth. He stared.

  “You are a bit careless with an animal that does not belong to you.”

  Her voice—if not her words—was as he had imagined. Sweet as honey. And yet projecting the authority and, yes, haughtiness of the nobility.

  She drew her horse up to within a few feet. He managed to stand now, his face burning with humiliation. And yet, his heart raced at what he saw. Today the girl in yellow wore a brown trousered riding outfit that looked to be soft as satin. Beneath a fur-trimmed riding cap, her hair was plaited into twin braids that spilled down her back. He noticed now how the sunlight brought out a reddish cast to her blond hair. It was a color his mother had called strawberry blond.

  “Well, don’t you have a tongue? Can’t you speak, boy?”

  Were these words, still honeyed in sound, meant to sting in their meaning? Aleksy dug for a reply. Should he offer an excuse or beg forgiveness? Both? Should he introduce himself, knowing how improper that would be considered. Improper on two counts: he was not of the szlachta—the minor nobility—and a proper introduction called for a third party.

  “Perhaps you are dumb,” she said. “Are you?”

  “No, milady.”

  “Are you hurt, then?”

  He shook his head.

  “Ah, good!” She had ridden astride the horse, but now one leg came over the side. She meant to dismount and held her hand out to Aleksy.

  For a moment Aleksy could not fathom what was happening and he stood rooted to the ground. “Come along, now,” she urged. “What kind of groom are you?”

  So that was it. She thought he was the family’s groom. He moved forward, reached up, took her proffered hand, little calculating how far off the ground she was—and it wasn’t until she was falling forward that he realized she meant for him to catch her.

  The dexterity of an archer surfaced now as both hands moved to the softness above her hips, taking hold, swinging her in a half circle, and depositing her safely on the ground. He found himself staring down into her eyes. His question as to their color was answered in an instant. They were like a pasture in a rain-heavy June—the greenest he had ever seen.

  “I am quite safe now, boy,” she said. “You may unhand me.”

  “What?—Oh, yes, of course!” He felt a great rush of heat rise to his face. Was she offended by his forwardness? Or amused? He averted his eyes and his hands fell to his sides as he backed away a couple of paces. Excitement coursed through him at the sight—and touch—of her, and yet her use of the term boy roused irritation. Oh, he was used to Szymon using that appellation; he had done so for years. But this—her use of it—was something different.

  She watched him for a moment and gave a little indecipherable laugh. She adjusted her belt to which a sheathed knife was attached.

  What should he say? Did this unexpected situation release him—them—from the us
ual strict propriety expected of her class regarding first meetings?

  “I am not a groom,” he began.

  “Then who are you?”

  An opening: “Aleksy Gazdecki.”

  “From the little village at the border of our estate?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew that.”

  He blinked. Did she recall seeing him the day she had nearly fallen from the carriage? “I did not take Miracle without permission.”

  “Indeed.” She appeared amused. “Do you suppose you can find something to which you can tie the reins of the horses?”

  “I’ll take them into that stable.”

  “Do that, will you? You did bring water?”

  “No, milady.”

  “You wouldn’t make a very good groom, would you?” Another laugh. She reached up and took down a waterskin from her saddle. She uncorked it and took a drink.

  “If you cup both of your hands, I’ll pour so the horses can drink, Miracle first, then Flash.”

  Absently, Aleksy did as instructed. He forgot his own thirst and turned to stare at her horse—or rather, Roman’s stallion. Until this moment he had not even realized that she had taken the Turk that, according to Szymon, was too spirited for him to take today. The animal was even more beautiful than Miracle. He was black as midnight, but for his mane and legs below the knees, which were swan-white. Also predominantly white, the tale had a streak of black running through it that made for a blurring effect as it swept back and forth.

  Aleksy’s gaze came back to girl and he could see by her slight smirk that she had read the surprise on his face. Her expression, in return, seemed to say, Yes, I can manage Flash quite well.

  When the horses had drunk, their long, rough tongues tickling Aleksy’s palms, the girl said, “You must be thirsty, too, yes?”