“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.
I often used to think and think about how at least one time I could turn him into a proper horse. Because maybe he used to be a proper horse once, before he came to work for us. You read in books about those kind of horses.
One time father wasn’t at home, some neighbor had given him a ride to market in town. I whittled myself a lance out of a hazel stick. I stuffed a sack full of chaff and got the saddle ready. I made some spurs with wire from an old bucket handle and fixed them to my heels with straps. I led the bay out of the stable, stood him by the wagon, and from the wagon, because I couldn’t have done it any other way, I put the saddle on his back, climbed on, and with one hand holding on to his mane, the other gripping my lance, I headed down to the village. First at a walk, like the horse wanted. A whole bunch of boys gathered, they followed behind me and started shouting and egging me on. Women, men, whoever happened to be on the road, they all stopped and stared like it was some kind of show.
“That’s the Pietruszkas’ bay. I’d never have recognized it if it wasn’t for the crazy kid that’s riding him.”
“Where are you off to, seeing a young lady maybe?”
“Has he gone completely nuts or what?”
“It was just last spring he fell out of a tree. They’ve got their hands full with that one, the Pietruszkas.”
“Because they don’t smack their kids. You gotta smack them, otherwise they grow up bad.”
“What the heck is that, are you the cavalry or what? Wait till your father comes back, he’ll give you cavalry, you little pip-squeak!”