Wieslaw Mysliwski - Stone Upon Stone

“Never mind lupin.” Mother refused to be convinced. “You should sow rye right away, or wheat, put some potatoes and cabbage in there!”

“I’m telling you, lupin!” said father, getting annoyed. He stood up from his chair and walked to and fro across the room, richer by those two acres of Kaczocha’s. “Dammit, she’s going to tell me what to do with land. All you think about is what’s on the surface. But land is what’s underneath as well. There’s nothing you can do about wheatgrass if you don’t get it out by the roots.”

“Though for a plow with a deep share we’d need another horse, daddy,” Stasiek put in. “One horse wouldn’t be enough.”

“That’s a good point.” Father’s eyes lit up with admiration for Stasiek. “Good you mentioned it, Stasiek. We could maybe borrow Kuśmierek’s. He could borrow ours afterward. Or we could help him out at harvesttime.”

“I’m not helping with anyone else’s harvest!” Antek burst out. “Ours is work enough for me! I’m not gonna be someone else’s farmhand.”

“Just the once,” said father good-naturedly. “It won’t do you any harm. No one’s going to lend us their horse for free. If you don’t want to mow you could help with the binding. We’re not always only going to have one horse. If we get two extra acres we should think about getting another horse as well. There’s plenty of people have less land and they’ve got two horses. We’d find the money.”

“And where would we do that exactly?” asked mother, bridling up. “Our bedsheets are one patch on another and we can’t afford new. Antek needs a new jacket, his elbows are poking out. Stasiek’s shoes are falling apart. Plus, I’d rather have another cow than another horse. At least that way we’d have more milk.”

“Another cow we can rear from a calf. A horse, we need to buy. We’ll never be able to work all that land with just the one. We won’t borrow any more — just this once. Do you know what it means to have two horses in farmwork?” Father was completely lost in his fantasies by now. “All you’ll need to do is crack the whip and they’ll be off! It’ll make no odds whether the plowshare’s deep or they’re going uphill. And when you bring in the crop you can stack three layers of sheaves in the wagon. Or on your way to market, you’ll pass everyone, leave them in a cloud of dust. When you get invited to a wedding, if you go there with two horses you’ll be like a proper lady. With one horse it’d be like going in clothes with holes in them. Because on the other side of the shaft it’s like there’s a hole there. Having two horses is like having two healthy arms. With one it’s like you’ve got one healthy arm and the other one’s withered, or you lost it in the war.”

“Let’s buy a chestnut mare, daddy!” Stasiek shouted, all excited.

“Shut up, you little twit!” Antek suddenly went for Stasiek. “Don’t listen to him, father. Everyone in the village has a chestnut mare. We should buy a stallion — a black one! A black stallion, that’s a proper horse.”

“The thing is, son, a mare’s better for farmwork,” father explained to Antek. “More manageable. It won’t balk, however much you put on the wagon it’ll pull it. However tired it is. With a stallion, once it gets an idea in its head you can beat it dead, it’ll turn your wagon over but it won’t budge an inch. Plus, with a mare you can raise a foal.”

“But a stallion would go like the devil, father. Especially a black one.” Antek had gotten all excited too. “You put the whip to him and he’d go like the wind. We could call him Lucifer.”

“Jesus and Mary!” objected mother. “Calling a horse Lucifer! And our horse too. What are you thinking, Antek?”

“A mare, dad!” Stasiek kept on. “We’d have a little foal.”

“A stallion!” insisted Antek, he was all worked up. “Otherwise I won’t lift a finger! You can do the harvest and the potato lifting on your own. I’ll leave the village!”

“A mare, dad.” Stasiek was almost in tears. But all of a sudden mother bursts out:

“Have you all gone completely crazy? Mares and stallions! I have to scrimp and save just to buy salt and lamp oil, otherwise you’d all be sitting in the dark eating unsalted food. For goodness’ sake, I just brought you the last loaf of bread! We’re running out of flour! There’s barely any potatoes left! And you’re all set to call a horse Lucifer! For the love of God! That Lucifer must’ve gotten into you! Tell them, Szymek, you’re more sensible than that! Why aren’t you saying anything?”

The reason I wasn’t saying anything was so father wouldn’t start in again about the mare I had when I was in the resistance. One time I’d made the mistake of boasting to him about it, and ever since then he wouldn’t let it go.

“You should have brought it home! At least you’d have had something from all that soldiering.”

I couldn’t convince him it wouldn’t have been any use for farmwork. Besides, the animal died on me, how was I supposed to bring it home?

“Because you didn’t look after it properly, dammit. Why would you take a creature like that into the line of fire. As for farmwork, we could’ve trained it. To begin with she could be harnessed to an empty wagon. You’d have to wrap the shaft in rags so it wouldn’t rub against her. Or we could borrow the priest’s chaise. She could pull that for a bit. Then she could be harnessed along with our bay. He’s old, he wouldn’t let her get carried away. Then we’d harness her to the harrow so the work wouldn’t be too hard to begin with. If she bucked you’d give her a lash once or twice. And you’d see, after that she’d be just fine with the plow.”

He’d have put anything to work on the farm. But the first time I got on her back I was afraid she’d collapse under me. Her legs were half as long again as your regular horse. Her muzzle was small and slim, and she had a long neck like a swan. When she walked, however rutted the road was, or whether she was walking over fields or tree roots or in the woods, you never felt anything except a slight swaying, like you were riding on a cloud, or on cushions in a fine carriage, or when a baby’s rocked by its mother in the cradle.

They gave us the horse at one of the manor houses, along with a saddle and a sword, because they wanted to help out in the war but they didn’t have any sons, only daughters. And what can daughters do in a war? They dressed our wounds and washed our ragged clothes, they played the piano for us a bit, had a laugh with us, and then when we were leaving they ran out after us into the courtyard and started crying. I must admit it’s nice to be going away when someone’s weeping for you and waving a white handkerchief wet with tears, and you’re on horseback with a sword at your side. I felt like that uhlan from the picture on the firemen’s calendar. All that was missing was for me to say, Don’t cry, I’ll be back to marry you.

The squire himself led the mare out and said:

“I chose the best horse from my stables. Let it serve its country.”

I looked at the mare and I had the feeling I’d seen her somewhere before. I went up to her and patted her on the face. She tossed her head and whinnied.

“Easy there.” I took hold of her fetlock. It was no thicker than my wrist, and it rose straight all the way to the knee. I’d often dreamed of taking a ride on a horse like that, instead of it always being the horse pulling the wagon, pulling the plow, the harrow, the lister. The horse with its head bowed to the ground. The horse in its suffering. And the man standing over it with a whip.

When I was a kid I’d sometimes take our bay down to the river to water him. I’d try to imagine I was riding a slim-legged steed fast as the wind, and I was galloping at breakneck speed through the village, across the fields, into the distance, so fast I could hardly breathe. But our bay was a long way from being swift as the wind. His legs were all cut up, his hooves were like millstones, his head hung down to the ground. And he would just plod along, because he was like any farmer’s horse, he took farmer’s steps and you couldn’t make him go any faster either with your whip or with your heels. As well, most of the time he was worked so hard all he thought about was eating his fill and flopping down. He probably reckoned splashing about in the river was just another scourge for horses.