The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  The question came as if it were an afterthought but to look into her eyes made him wonder. He nodded. She handed him the waterskin and he held it up over him, drinking from the opening without his lips touching it. He spilled but a few drops. “What am I to call you?” Aleksy asked as he handed her the waterskin. If this was an improper moment for an introduction, so be it. “Lady—”

  “Krystyna.”

  “Lady Krystyna,” he said, wishing to tell her it was a lovely name but words failed. He performed a little unpracticed bow.

  She laughed, a bright, tinkling sort of laugh. What did it mean?

  He felt very foolish.

  Her head was turning this way and that as she assessed the castle, the braids following. “It’s been years since I’ve been here. I was so eager to come back. Come, I want to show you the keep.”

  Aleksy wasn’t about to tell her he had just seen it, and that he, too, had been to Castle Hill years before. As she bounded forward, he followed, his mind in ferment.

  They walked through the doorless ground floor entrance. “This was the reception room of those long-ago days,” Krystyna said. “I would hide here and my brothers would try to find me. I was often able to elude them completely. Oh, look, I got myself into that fireplace once and stayed there, listening to them call out. ‘Krysia!’ they called. ‘Krysia!’ That’s what they called me then. It got so very dark outside and we had been overdue at home for ever so long. I gave them quite a scare, I can tell you. How I enjoyed that!”

  “I don’t think you would fit inside anymore,” he said.

  Her head whipped around in his direction and the gaze of green fire said it all.

  Jezus Chrystus, he said to himself. Now I’ve done it. But he had no words to explain, no breath to speak.

  Krystyna regarded him as if with curiosity and let the moment pass. She removed her cap and tossed it onto the base of the hearth. With both hands, she reached back and pulled her long braids forward so that they graced her shoulders and fell to well below her breasts. She glanced at him again, her gaze no longer sharp. “Let’s go upstairs!”

  Aleksy’s breath came back and he followed.

  Krystyna had a story for every level, sometimes two. The structure rang and rebounded with her animated and mellifluous voice and Aleksy thrilled to it. He wished the castle possessed a hundred floors.

  They came to the top level. “Oh, look!” Krystyna cried, pointing to a great piece of a stone cornice that had fallen in through the collapsed roof. “I do remember this!”

  Aleksy came to where she stood and studied the words that had been chiseled on the cornice.

  “Do you know what it says?”

  It was the question Aleksy dreaded. He stared at the words, temple throbbing.

  “Oh!” she said. “You don’t read, do you?”

  Aleksy stiffened. “I do read.”

  “Really?” Her eyes went wide. “Ah, but you don’t read Polish, do you? You must read Tataric, then? You are a Tatar, yes?”

  Even though he could detect no meanness in her tone, their differences were now spoken aloud. Had he for a short time forgotten?—Had she?

  “I cannot read Tataric,” he said, his eyes fastened to the cornice. “I can read Polish—a little.” He stared at the chiseled stone letters. “Kubacki is the name of the clan,” he said, attempting to sound more certain than he felt.

  “It is,” Krystyna said. “And the other words?”

  Had he impressed her? Another word was familiar and he racked his brain until he recalled the saying Szymon had made him learn. “Hearth,” he said, haltingly.

  “Yes,” Krystyna said, waiting for more.

  Overcome with embarrassment and hoping to divert her from the rest of the wording, Aleksy blurted, “I know a saying with hearth in it.”

  “You do?”

  Not only was he certain she saw through his attempt to stall for time, but he was now afraid how she would react toward a generalization about women. Would she take offense? He hesitated. He could tend the land, ride a spirited horse, shape perfect lances, bows, and arrows from wood, and yet here—with her—he felt a helpless, hapless fool.

  She stepped around so that she faced him. “Well? Out with it!”

  “The saying goes, ‘When two women rule a hearth, the sparks fly and the thatch burns’.” He drew in a breath, waiting for—and fearing—her reaction.

  Krystyna drew her head back a moment taking in the meaning. Had he offended her? The moment hung fire.

  Suddenly, her hands flew to her cheeks, the fingertips pointing north to eyes that sparkled and danced. She laughed heartedly. “I lived in convent school for five years, do you know?” she asked, catching her breath. “And I can vouch that the thatch was always burning!”

  Aleksy joined in the laughter, more in amazement that he had made her laugh!

  “And look there!” she cried, pointing skyward. “No roof to this hearth!”

  He had only just started a reprise of laughter when she suddenly stopped and turned again to the cornice.

  “The word you’re missing is ‘heart.’ It reads: Kubacki Hearth and Heart, rather nice, wouldn’t you say? Now, let’s go back down.”

  She had left him no opportunity to respond. He trailed her. It seemed her feet moved as quickly as her mind.

  Once again on the ground level, Krystyna ran toward the stone base of the hearth and sat. “I used to sit here imagining that this was my castle. Come forward, boy, you are to be my visitor. I shall receive you.”

  Aleksy smiled, ready to play the game, and moved toward her.

  “Ah, but you are a Tatar—I forgot.”

  He halted at once.

  “My fortress has repelled Tatars for hundreds of years! How shall it be, then?” The question was not meant to be answered. She spoke as if thinking aloud. Her face brightened. “You must be here to call for terms of peace, yes?—Or—perhaps you can portray a captive? A slave, would you mind that so much?”

  Stunned, Aleksy felt some intrinsic part of him falling away, falling to dust, the magic of ruined castles gone. His temple pulsed with humiliation and anger. In a momentary flash, he recalled fishing at the river one particular morning when he was about eight and three boys from another village chased him away, calling him names and throwing stones. He went home empty handed, without the two prize fish he had caught or his fishing pole. He was so put to shame that he told no one. Similar incidents occurred with regularity, but he never spoke of them.

  “Well?” Krystyna asked, retrieving her cap and stroking its fur trim. “This could be my crown.”

  He found himself staring at her. Was her barb—camouflaged by a smile—any better than those who hurled outright insults?

  After she adjusted her cap, her eyes fell on him. “Yes? You don’t wish to play?”

  Had she no clue that her insult had cut him to the quick? Aleksy turned and made for the door. He headed for the stable. He could hear her footfalls behind him. Was it his imagination—or did she softly call his name? Did she mean to apologize?

  “I should leave first,” she said crisply, following him into the stable. “Besides I shall need a boost.”

  No apology. She was of the nobility and could say what she liked.

  Aleksy readied the horses and coupled his hands together, providing the lift. He would remember that her boots were of the finest, softest russet suede and that she was light as an angel, but he neither spoke nor looked at her. Within him hurt and anger collided with attraction, rendering paralysis.

  “Give me fifteen minutes’ start,” she said, urging Flash to move. “It’s best that way.”

  He knew, of course, that they could not be seen together. By the time he had mounted Miracle, he saw that she had halted her horse at the gateway. She turned h
er head to her right shoulder, and in her honeyed voice said, “Oh, boy—you can ride Flash next Sunday. I’ll take Miracle.”

  Aleksy could only stare after her, stare and wait the fifteen minutes, pondering what she had meant.

  Krystyna expertly dismounted and threw open the stable door. “I’ve brought Flash,” she announced.

  Szymon appeared. “I see,” he said, approaching the horse. His eyes narrowed as he lifted one hand to stroke the shimmering black flank. “He’s worked up a good lather. You’ve had him at a good gallop.”

  “I have, yes.”

  “I did tell you, Lady Krystyna, that he is a powerful animal.”

  “I can handle him.”

  “Speed can be a dangerous thing, milady, to you and to Flash.”

  “You need not worry, Szymon.—Oh, I told the Tatar boy he could ride Flash next Sunday.”

  The stable master’s mouth fell agape. “You saw Aleksy, milady?”

  “I did—and a good thing, too! You sent them off without a drop of water. I trust you’ll not do that again.” Krystyna turned and started toward the house.

  “You talked—the two of you?”

  Krystyna pivoted to face Szymon. “Yes, we talked. Isn’t that what people do?”

  “I—I just mean… well, your parents would not approve.”

  “Oh, Szymon, who’s to tell them? They disapprove of so many things, you know. Why, I doubt they would consent to your teaching the boy how to ride, don’t you?” She paused for effect. “And if my brothers should learn you’ve been lending out their prize warhorses?” Krystyna smiled at the stable master, whose face had gone as serious as a doctor’s. She turned now and took long strides toward the house.

  She entered the manor house through the kitchen.

  “There you are!”

  The tone of the housekeeper startled Krystyna. “Hello, Klara. Have you been looking for me?”

  “Have I? I’ve been up to that attic room three times this afternoon.”

  “Oh, sweet Jezus, you’ve made szarlotka!” Krystyna made a beeline for the kitchen work table where the large-framed woman in her white apron and cap was applying meringue to the apple cake. Her finger was in the large crockery bowl before Klara could bat it away with a wooden spoon.

  “Just wait, milady!”

  “Yes, Klara.” Krystyna licked the light confection from her finger.

  “Now, where is it you ran off to? I nearly fainted when Szymon told me you had taken off on one of the boys’ warhorses.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I will worry, what with your parents gone.” The housekeeper waved the spoon in mock threat. “Riding a warhorse and unaccompanied! Szymon and I will both be homeless when your parents get wind of this.”

  “Then we will have nothing but windless days, dear Klara, when they return, wouldn’t you say?”

  The woman grunted. “Indeed. It’s no wonder…”

  “Wonder? About what?”

  Klara’s face folded into one of shared confidence. “The convent school.”

  “Oh, that. You don’t think I wanted to go back, do you?” Krystyna gave out with a little laugh and again dipped her finger into the bowl. “No one there made szarlotka like you do, Klara. It’s heavenly!”

  Klara sent her a glance of disapproval but was nonetheless charmed. She went back to her artistry with the meringue. One more sortie by Krystyna prompted the housekeeper to release a large breath in exasperation. “Well, I guess you’ll be coming down to earth soon enough.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing—I meant nothing by it.”

  “Oh, yes, you did!” Krystyna moved around the table to face the housekeeper. “What?”

  “There, I’m finished. The bowl is yours, Krysia.”

  “Never mind. What did you mean?”

  The woman sighed in defeat. “It wasn’t my place to say anything, but…”

  “But?” Krystyna wished she could lay hands on Klara and shake the words out of her.

  “Well, you’re to be married.”

  “Oh, Klara, that’s a year away.”

  The housekeeper vigorously shook her head, the ruffles on the white cap catching wind. “It’s to be moved up.”

  Krystyna felt as if she had been slapped. “What?”

  “Your mother had a letter before they left. I heard her talking to your father. The other family wants it moved up.”

  “Moved up to—when?”

  Klara shrugged. “I don’t know. Now, you’ll bite your tongue when you mother speaks of it. You don’t want to get me in trouble, do you? No more apple cakes.”

  Krystyna turned around and headed for the servants’ back stairway.

  “Krysia,” the housekeeper called, “the bowl!”

  Krysytna was already halfway to the landing of the first floor.

  In her attic room she dropped down onto the side of the narrow bed. She had won her freedom from the nuns only to learn this news from a servant. She had meant to enjoy herself during the year before the marriage. It was little enough time, little enough freedom. Days like today—riding horseback at breakneck speed with wind lashing her face and furrowed paths flying beneath her—would be but a memory. Freedom would be a memory.

  And then she thought of Castle Hill and the boy. What was it about him that had caught her attention? On that day in the carriage her eyes had gone to him even though the other boy—the Polish boy—was tall and handsome enough. She lay back against a pillow, the thought of marriage receding for now.

  What is it, she asked herself, about this Tatar boy—this Aleksy?

  Six

  Aleksy sat on the edge of the hayloft, hands testing his bow string, feet dangling. Presently he heard the door below open and close. Moments later the figure of Idzi appeared, smaller than ever when seen from that height. He was whistling. The sight of Luba lying in the mound of hay that made for Idzi’s bed caused his large head to do a sweep about the barn looking for her owner.

  “Where have you been?” Aleksy asked, announcing his presence.

  Idzi’s blond head ceased movement, and the eyes, glinting darker now in the shadows created by the lantern below, peered up at him. “And I thought my mother had abandoned me.”

  “I’ve been waiting.”

  “So sorry, Your Majesty.” Idzi made an exaggerated bow. “Come down, come down. Did you worry about me?”

  “No. You come up.” Aleksy set aside his longbow.

  Idzi sighed but put up no argument. He climbed the ladder, his foreshortened legs straining with each rung. At the top, he swung around with surprising litheness and sat on the edge next to Aleksy, who felt his gaze in the semi-darkness but did not return it.

  “You’re still moonfaced,” Idzi said. “About the girl—his lordship’s daughter?”

  “Idzi—”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s it like?”

  “What’s what like?”

  “To be you?”

  “Ah, you mean strong and virile, clever and fast as a greyhound and twice as handsome?”

  Aleksy scoffed. “You forgot humble.”

  “I didn’t wish to seem conceited.”

  “You’re just mad, you know that?”

  “And you’re madly in love, you know that?”

  “How can I be? One meeting that’s all. And she—”

  “Is of the gentry, yes?”

  “Not to mention as Polish as—well, you.”

  “Hey, you’re right,” Idzi said, feigning surprise. “I am Polish! Do you think I should have a go?”

  “Stop joking around.”

  “You’re right. I probably would have but half a chance.”

  “Eg
idiusz!”

  “Sorry. But don’t call me that. I’m Idzi.”

  They sat in silence for a full minute, sparring done.

  “It’s hard sometimes,” Idzi said, “being—like I am. But one has to get along.”

  “How do you do that—get along?”

  “I don’t know. It’s my fate to be small. There’s nothing I can do about it. What I hate most is that people sometimes treat me like a child because of my size. Or because I can joke, they tell me I should become the king’s fool at court.”

  “I hope I haven’t treated you as such.”

  “No, you haven’t.” Idzi let out a sigh. “But l’ve my home here and my jobs to do. It’s a simple life.” He struck Aleksy in the shoulder with his fist. “And I have friends.”

  “And what of those who jeer and make faces at you?”

  “And trip me or knock me down?—I’ve learned to stay out of their way. This is my lot in life. I figure it’s their lot in life to be ignorant asses. They have the problem, not me.”

  “Have you not longed for more?”

  “Once upon a time, but as I see it—life, that is—there is the changeable and the unchangeable. I once yearned to live in a fine house. Now, I’m happy with my little corner of the barn.”

  Aleksy fell silent.

  “So” Idzi ventured, “you think I’m telling you to stay away from the Halicki crowd? All of them, the pretty young filly included?”

  He had read his mind. “Aren’t you? Shouldn’t I? Our roles in life—hers and mine—are unchangeable, no?”

  “Well, someone once told me that the most important things in life happen only once. I wasn’t there last Sunday. What was she like—besides being the most beautiful female you’ve ever beheld?”

  “Ah, if I knew, I could tell you. There was no introduction, no proper one. I had to ask her name at one point. It’s Krystyna—but it wasn’t until after she left that I realized she had not used my name even once. She kept calling me boy.”

  “Oh.”