Kazik drove them out into a remote valley as far as vehicles were permitted.
Snow was beginning to fall and the remaining daylight was disappearing as he parked the dented car on the gravel. "Now we walk," the gaunt translator told Matson as The Woodsman led the way beyond a barricade of boulders and onto a cobblestone path.
The uneven surface of the path was actually an old road which was closed to all vehicular traffic except trucks taking supplies to an inn at the far end of the rolling valley. Following the edge of a tumbling stream, the road wound upward through woods and past outcroppings of rock, the low clouds from frigid skies now enveloping the three men as the evening turned steadily darker.
Like the widening of a great funnel, the lines of fir trees abruptly receded from the path and into the shrouded distance. As the men hurried along, vague black cubes soon came into view - one-room shepherd's huts made of hewn, square-cut logs - their squat shapes and pointed roofs standing in deserted silence. Matson kept himself in good shape, but The Woodsman and Kazik, both in their seventies, were remarkable in their ability to march up the winding road. Accustomed to the high altitude, the two World War II veterans maintained a brisk pace without noticeable signs of fatigue. They strode past four, five, six of the darkened huts, their silhouettes soon fading into the darkness as eerily as they had appeared. Suddenly, a wisp of smoke reached Matson's nostrils, and in the inky void off to his right he could see a faint dot of yellow.
Leaving the road, the three men crossed a stretch of grass to a split rail fence, the wind now whipping wildly about them. After stepping through an open gate, they continued up a small slope toward another black cube. It was another of the shepherd's huts and its windows had been boarded shut, although the covering on the corner of one had been cracked enough to permit the tiny beacon that Matson had seen earlier.
The Woodsman approached the door and without knocking, pushed it open. Inside were four men and a woman, also in their seventies, all seated on stumps around an open fire that had been built in the center of a dirt floor. The men were in worn slacks and sweaters, the woman in a cotton print dress and a frayed brown cardigan. With grunts, they stood to greet The Woodsman and Kazik, the men all shaking hands, the woman receiving kisses on each cheek. After smiling and nodding to Matson, the woman went to a darkened corner of the hut to prepare food on a table of heavy planks.
After more sections of wood had been rolled over for additional seating, the men all began speaking at once. Was this not the American who was captured by Domagalski and then turned over to the militia? Was this not the killer of Dr. Baranowski? Rumors were circulating about a daring escape from the train. Why was the great Domagalski now protecting the American, and why was he bringing him into the mountains and asking for their help? Terrorists were reported to be in Krakow and were said to be everywhere. What was going on?
The chattering paused when loaves of dense brown peasant bread and hand-formed balls of sheep's milk cheese were placed before the men, the cheese having been made in this very hut weeks before. Several bottles of vodka were then distributed among the men.
The woman left and The Woodsman began by recounting his battle against the wild-eyed fanatic near the Wawel Hill, the men occasionally looking at Matson as the esteemed Legend of the Tatras talked with animated gestures. Slowly the food and vodka disappeared as more wood was fed to the flames. Unable to understand Polish, Matson let his eyes roam up to the ceiling, which was the hewn underside of the logs that comprised the roof. They angled up to a ridge where the smoke collected before escaping through a small slot, the surfaces of the logs having been blackened to a glistening sheen by the soot of countless fires built to flavor the loaves of salty cheese now filling their bellies.
Matson looked back at The Woodsman, who sat perched on the edge of a stump, leading the lively discussion. What was he saying? What were they thinking? Matson wished he could understand.
From the swirl of smoke and conversation, the gravelly voice of Kazik brought the conversation to a halt. He looked over at Matson and said, "They want now to know what are your thoughts. Tomorrow, the life of Danusia rests in your hands."
At that moment, Matson realized how fragile this alliance really was. True, he had not committed the brutal acts for which he had been blamed, but Danusia's life was now in jeopardy because of her efforts to try and help him.
In your hands: that's how Kazik had phrased it. And not just any life, but Danusia's.
Danusia. The Woodsman's granddaughter.
******
The quality of a novel is influenced greatly by the quality of the research that goes into it.
I heard someone say that once and I've found it to be true. And not just any research - such as th4e kind found in books or on the web - but field research, as this excerpt from my first novel, The Search for the Sword of St Peter, serves to illustrate, at least to a degree. My book - as amateurish as it is in many ways (remember, I cut my teeth on this novel) - would have suffered without the benefit of accurate research. I would not have been able to describe that wintry conference around an open fire had I not visited that shepherd's hut myself and stood there, on its barren dirt floor, looking up at its glistening black ceiling after having hiked up that very valley along a winding cobblestone path. Kazik and The Woodsman, I met elsewhere. But I did meet them, and interview them, and photograph them.
The walk out of the valley was equally as memorable and serves to illustrate another lesson for the writer: being prepared for emergencies in the field.
After touring many shepherd's huts that day and meeting their occupants, we hurried back down the cobblestone path through the forest toward the parking lot. It was actually late summer, not winter (although I was in the Tatra Mountains on another occasion during the winter), and because it was so late in the day, there was but one more bus to city. And the bus stop was two miles away.
Thankfully, it was still tourist season and that meant the presence of several horse-drawn carriages waiting for passengers like us. The carriages were from a bygone era: large spoked wheels, seats with wooden inlays and carved ornamentation, straps of leather, fixtrues of brass, and a chubby driver with Germanic-looking outfit of lederhosen, thick shirt and suspenders, and a saucer-like leather cap.
My companion spoke fluent Polish and asked the fare for a ride to the bus stop. The driver told her. She countered. He countered. She objected and called the driver a thief. He smiled and shrugged.
"So, how much does it cost?" I asked, taking a large wad of money from my pocket. (In those days, one US Dollar would buy a huge stack of local currency.)
"No!" my companion said, trying to cover the money.
Too late. The price immediately tripled.
"You are a thief!" she cried, insisting on his original quote.
Back and forth they argued, and finally a compromise was agreed.
"This is piracy, but we have no choice," she told me quietly, taking the correct amount from my stash and paying the driver. "If we don't reach the bus stop within twenty minutes, it will be a walk of many hours to the city.
We climbed into the carriage, the driver switched the horse, and it began its slow plod along the road.
We had not gone far before the carriage began to slow down.
"What's wrong?" asked my companion.
"My horse wants you to sing him a song," answered the driver. "An American song. National Anthem."
"Are you crazy?" asked my companion.
The driver slowed the carriage even more. "My horse is lonely and tired, and needs music to make him happy."
"This is absurd!" protested my companion.
"What's wrong?" I whispered.
"He says his horse wants us to sing him a song. Something American."
"His horse wants us to sing a song?"
"That is what he said."
"Are you serious?"
"I know this sounds crazy, but yes. Your National Anthem."
"I'm not going to sing some stupid horse a song!"
The driver stopped the carriage.
"Please. We cannot miss the bus."
Cool dude writers, of course, are always prepared for emergencies in the field. We think on our feet... on the run.
My trouble - I was sitting down.
But I was not about to start singing to a horse.
"Please!" she pleaded, looking worriedly at her watch. "We cannot miss the bus."
The carriage stopped and the driver looked around.
"Ohh-oh say can you see," I began, "by the dawn's early light..."
The driver smiled and switched his horse.
"What so proudly we hail, at the twilight's last gleaming..."
With my voice ringing off-key over the gentle splashing of the stream to our left, we plodded along over the cobblestone pavement toward the bus stop. After finishing the song, I settled back in my seat.
Bastard.
The carriage began to slow.
"What's wrong now?" demanded my companion.
"Another," commanded the driver.
"We have fulfilled your silly request!"
"My horse likes your music and wants more."
"This is ridiculous!" yelled my companion.
The carriage stopped.
"Do you know any more songs?" she pleaded, looking at her watch.
"You're kidding!"
"Please! You must keep singing!"
"This is extortion!"
My companion looked again at her watch.
"Camptown races, sing this song, do-dah, do-dah," I began.
"Camptown races?" asked my companion. "That's like, ancient."
"College beer drinking song," I said. "You try singing Top 40 at a time like this. Camptown races five miles off, oh do-dah dayyyy."
"Louder!" shouted the driver. "My horse is hard of hearing."
I was tempted to strangle the driver, but instead turned up the volume. "Why'd you drink all night? Why'd you drink all day..."
Figuring the horse did not know the real words, I finished my version and fell back.
"Another!" said the driver, slowing the carriage.
My companion was nearing panic - she knew how far it was back to town - so I raised my voice to a sort of wailing shout and began another.
We ended up making the bus that day.
Barely.
Leaping from the carriage, I ran to the open door and jumped on. Hopping onto the step behind me, my companion turned and gave the driver the finger as the door hissed shut. She sidled her way down the crowded aisle and fell into the seat beside me. "If you're thinking of becoming a singer - don't," she said as the bus belched fumes and sputtered down the highway. "Camptown races?"
To this day, she still reads my first thriller and laughs.
Yes, my life as a cool dude writer.
Someone always discovers the truth...
James Houston Turner once considered becoming a rock star. This experience concinced him to become a writer instead. You can read more about his latest thriller, The Identity Factor, on his website: www.jameshoustonturner.com
James Houston Turner has not serenaded a horse since that day.