Chapter I

Long past the midnight hour, Stanislaus concluded his strange tale. In the chambers nigh, where his five children slumbered, perfect silence reigned. Here, in the dining hall, where embers faintly glowed in the hearth, naught disturbed the quiet. Upon the table, in a clayen bowl, the evening’s porridge lay cold, untouched by Stanislaus, whose thoughts this night wandered far from earthly wants. Beside it stood a wooden flagon with the dregs of mead, scarce tasted, for the master’s heart was bent on matters weightier than feasting.

In this unwonted stillness, at his feet sat his wife, Mary. So stirring must have been the tale she heard, for long she held her peace. Stanislaus pressed her not, though he awaited eagerly that which, sooner or later, he must hear. He knew well that, in his wife’s eyes, he bore much upon his conscience, though guilty he felt not. He understood that prudent Mary needed time to gather her thoughts, that it was no easy task to order all within her mind.

After many minutes, she rose without a word. Stanislaus followed her with his eyes, silent, as she made her way straight to the manor’s chapel, where each evening, by the flickering light of a waxen candle, clutching her amber rosary, she offered prayers for her children and husband.

He followed not. He remained in his chair. One might think he slept, so still he sat before the hearth, whence the last sparks had fled to the stars. Despite the biting chill of morn, he stirred not to revive the flame. The world he had built lay now in ruins. Nay, more—the world encompassing his kin had crumbled into dust. He knew he must bear this burden alone. How solitary he now was!
For months he had wrestled with his troubles, ever since whispers reached him of what men spoke behind his back. Once he believed no problem existed, that none knew aught. For his grandsires had traversed great distances to escape wagging tongues and shield their progeny.
“How came they to know?” he asked himself for the thousandth time, yet found no answer. More readily could he fathom why, for decades, a seeming silence had prevailed. Seeming, for to the Kilises naught had come. They lived as if behind a sealed curtain. None dared, in those unquiet times, to speak such truths to the heir’s face. Yet behind his back, many a tongue must have wagged...
“What now? How to live henceforth?” he pondered, finding but one path—another journey into the world.
Nigh a century past, when his grandsires left their ancestral nest to settle in the north of the Crown, they reconciled themselves to falling from Lithuanian princes to petty gentry, of whom thousands dwelt in the Commonwealth. Courland, where they were raised, remained to Stanislaus but a dim memory of his forebears. With what would they now depart? What goods could they acquire at their journey’s end? Doubts multiplied, yet Stanislaus would delay no longer. He must act. Despite his cares, his judgment remained clear. He must needs be prudent, that rumors might not dog his family’s steps again.
He had his plan, though its particulars he shared not even with his beloved brother. Last autumn, he proclaimed to all he would travel to Prussia on business. And so he did—yet after three days’ ride, he turned straight southward.
The weeks-long journey to the heart of Poland was no easy venture. Men, scarred by the cruelties of recent wars, had grown wary of strangers, oft adopting the very ways of those from whom they guarded their lives. The traveler sought lodging in manors and monasteries, where at least he feared not for his safety. Yet at times, he must needs enter a village hut to beg for bread or water. Not from malice, but from common fear, he was oft met with hostility. Folk saw in him only a stranger who troubled their peace. Yet the lone nobleman drew ever nearer to his mission’s end. Having traversed such a distance, he learned the ways and conditions of lands hitherto unknown. Nor did he fail to inquire after land for sale. Such could be found, but its price, near the capital, was far higher. Relocation meant yet another loss of station.
The loss of wealth, wrought by generations, was not his sole concern. He, no longer young, felt at times so very alone. Never had he known his distant kin. They remained far hence, reachable safely only in brief seasons. Those who abandoned their heritage remained forever strangers in their new homeland, “wild Lithuanians” to the locals, noble and peasant alike, who never fully accepted them. Now he must consign his heirs to the same fate.
Whether he slept or delved so deeply into his soul’s recesses that he marked not the world about him, none could tell. Yet from this stupor, the gentle whisper of his wife roused him. Her trembling hand softly stroked his once raven-black, now untimely gray hair. He started, surprised. Slowly he opened his eyes, as if fearing what he might see in Mary’s face. What he beheld was akin to a statue carved in stone. Her warm, tender gaze clashed with an inexpressibly strange expression. Aye, it must be the effect of all that had transpired within this frail woman these past hours. Her innate gentleness, her love for her husband, her care for their children, her uncertainty, and... something she could neither comprehend nor name. She must reconcile herself to that which she understood not, accept a fate for which she was unprepared and undeserving.

From her earliest years, Mary had loved and known how to govern herself. Neither parents nor siblings could gainsay her. So it was when, at a mere fifteen years, she met Stanislaus Kilis, eight years her senior. Against custom, a year later she declared to her parents that he would be her husband. None protested. All knew none could sway Mary’s mind by persuasion. Thus, in May of 1680, Mary and her enamored Stanislaus stood together before the altar. Yet her parents, perchance, hoped to the last that their daughter might change her mind. The betrothal was announced only on April 18 of the following year, the first day of Easter.
None, neither then nor during the joyous wedding, reproached the young man for his uncertain origins. Perchance the troubled times played no small part. The north still reeled from Swedish wars, and the heavens boded ill. Strange portents in the sky stirred fears of the worst. Who, then, thought to make new enemies?
Peace had been scarce for years. Now men marched against the Swede, now the Swede marched on Cracow. Kings were chosen and deposed. Ever some new confederacy arose to save the land or its own fortunes. Fear ruled men’s hearts.
Yet calmer times came at length, bringing some hope for a normal life. That hope proved vain, but for a time it let men forget the winds of history. Perchance this, or the fact that Stanislaus’s parents had no daughters and their children were yet young, stilled the tongues of gossips. Now the worst came unawares, striking after years...

“Since thou hast so decided, surely thou hast well considered it...”
These words sufficed Stanislaus for an answer.
“Taip kūdikis,” he whispered, and sighed with relief. Yet an inner unease stirred. This woman trusted him boundlessly. Aye, he had thought it through, but would all unfold according to his plan? Would some unforeseen event arise, and would he be prepared? Yea, something would surely come to pass. Mary had so oft, in their shared life, sought to sway his decisions, to gently amend them. Such oft wounded his manly pride. Yet this time, no such thing occurred.

After hours of thought and prayer, she came and, with a single sentence, accepted her husband’s unlooked-for decision. Stanislaus knew that any debate, any concession, would have let him share, in time, the burden of any missteps or trials. It would have been their common responsibility. Now he bore that weight alone.

Mary sensed her husband’s thoughts were far away, that he heard not her question. She repeated, louder:
“Thy brothers too?”
For some minutes, a deep sigh was her only answer. “Nay, they have chosen to stay,” she heard at length. “See, Jan hath only sons; he may rest easy. Niko will live here, come what may. But I shall never return. I will not risk any guessing or learning aught. I shall not return,” he repeated. “Someone must tend our mother, say a prayer at our father’s or grandsires’ graves. Let them live happily here, but we must go,” he added. “Yet I must tell thee one thing more... My eldest brother, Casimir, did not vanish. Long ago, he departed for distant lands. Even now, we have kin near Warsaw...”
Mary settled upon her husband’s knees. Oft had she wished to ask the question that tormented her, yet each time something stayed her, doubts arose. She would not add to her Stas’s cares. But what plagued her was too strong.
“Dost thou not trust me?” she asked, with a poorly concealed resignation in her voice.
Stanislaus answered not a word, but his naturally surprised expression compelled her to explain:
“For, see, we have been together twenty years, and only now dost thou tell me...”
Stanislaus shook his head violently, as if waking from a deep sleep. “Nay, nay, Mary,” he near shouted. In his voice was surprise, but also a natural note of hurt.
“Nay,” he repeated. “None know whence this curse upon our family. ’Tis said it began in the days of Ausztota. Who can know? I strive to think clearly, but here ’tis hard not to credit tales of black magic. Sooner would I believe the story that it began with my great-grandsire, who went to fight under Prince Vytautas. His lover could not forgive his leaving her for war, and she was versed in magic from childhood. ’Tis said he was the first, upon his return home...”
Stanislaus faltered, unwilling to speak the words that drove him from home. Then he began to justify himself:
“Hitherto, it was so that a father, seeing need, took his son aside and told this wretched tale. Most oft, it could not shield from fate, but showed how to guard against the worst. He never told any. Thou, Mary, art the first... Aš pasitikiu, pasitikiu.”
Their talk was broken by a child’s cry. The youngest Kilis son, from the children’s chamber, signaled it was time someone tended him. The boy was called by the common name Wojtek, though the priest had christened him Wodzisław, strange in Royal Prussia. Why? None knew or asked. That Stanislaus was a queer man, all knew.
The Kilises had a nursemaid, old Karola, who years ago came to their manor for a bowl of food. When, encouraged by their generosity, she grew bolder, Stanislaus heard from her long-forgotten words dear to his heart. His grandsires, to erase their past, burned all bridges, even hiding their native tongue from strangers. Only in the home could one sometimes hear the lilting speech of their forebears. Over time, such freely spoken words of their past dwindled. Stanislaus spoke only Polish, though in moments of weakness or joy, when heart ruled reason, words spilled from his lips that neighbors would not comprehend.
Karola’s tales softened him, carried him back to peaceful childhood. Thus, the old beggar became nursemaid to his children. He never regretted it. She earned her bread well.
Yet the parents strove to be with their children whenever possible, at waking or evening prayer. So it was no wonder Wojtek’s cry roused Mary. She took a few steps toward him, then hesitated, stopped... She seemed unsure what to do. At length, she moved—not toward the child, but to call Karola. Moments later, the old woman could be seen nigh running up the stairs to the crying. Aye, oft she was first at a child’s waking. But never when the parents were home. That had not happened before.
The woman, full of unease, slipped into the children’s chamber, whence soon came: “Vardan Dievo Tėvo ir Sūnaus ir Šventosios Dvasios...” The morning prayer began.
Mary returned to her husband, who now watched with some curiosity the doings about him. Sitting in the dining hall, for hours he had seen only the wall with its stone hearth. Now, with the door to the hall left open, he turned and followed the morning stir. He saw his wife returning.
Again she stood before him, firmly took his hand, and, as in their betrothed days, pulled him outside.
Karola, overcome by curiosity or perchance unease, approached the window to see what was afoot. What she saw did not calm her—nay, quite the contrary.
Karola felt she must do what she would never willingly do. She must visit someone.
The master and his children’s nursemaid were not the only Lithuanians in the household. One need only leave the manor, go to its left wing, and amid lilac bushes find less prominent doors. Behind them lay chambers where young Leszek dwelt. His look bespoke no more than thirty years. Yet he surpassed his master in the number of his children. In the small entry or on the trodden earth about the lilacs, one could nigh always stumble over some of his brood. So it was no surprise that, as Karola crossed the high threshold, a child barreled into her. Flying like a cannonball, he scarce noticed he had caught in the vast folds of her long black skirt. The woman was a devoted and good nursemaid, but the Kilis children were the only ones she tolerated—nay, loved. The rest she treated as a divine affliction, or the worst plague.
The child, once freed, stood rooted. She, from her great height, and the little one, scarce taller than the threshold, eyed each other with disgust. The child was lucky—Karola was in such haste that she spared no time to cuff his head.

Leszek she liked scarce more than his children, and the feeling was wholly mutual. They had much in common. Both served the same master faithfully; both bore Lithuanian blood. But Leszek, despite his youth, was Stanislaus Kilis’s most trusted confidant.
Whence he came, who could say? ’Tis said Stanislaus’s grandsire favored Leszek’s forebear. They dwelt not then under one roof, but were oft seen in discreet meetings or joint ventures. Whither? To what end? Who could know...
Only some years ago did Stanislaus make room in his manor for the orphaned Leszek. His father, then a widower, had gone into the world, and all trace of him vanished. The boy lived for a time with his brother, who marched with John III’s armies and returned not from battle. Thus, Leszek came under the Kilises’ direct care.

Karola had her wits and knew more than any might guess. Surely more than she ought. In her own way, she had long discovered that Leszek’s father vanished on a mission tasked by Stanislaus, and his brother, serving the homeland, performed other, uncommon duties.
The young Lithuanian’s present standing stemmed from a debt of gratitude the Kilises had accrued. The old woman reasoned, however, that caring for an orphan in service was one thing, but granting him full trust and making him a confidant was another.
What else could lie behind it, but that this giant played the same role as others of his kin? she concluded.

“Sėsk!” she commanded as she entered the chamber. The master was so shocked by this unlooked-for visit that he sat obediently, saying naught. At first, their talk was a barely audible whisper, but soon it grew into a loud dispute. They feared not being overheard. Mingling words of Lithuanian and Ruthenian dialects with Polish, they became unwittingly incomprehensible to others. They understood each other perfectly, though their talk seemed to lead to no accord.
While Leszek feigned calm, Karola, sensing dire events approaching, could not imagine remaining in blissful ignorance. Worse, she felt an undeserved wrong touched her. That this young upstart hid something from her, when she, Karola, should be her masters’ most trusted confidante.
The Kilises spent the whole night in the dining hall, and she had to tend the children! Worse, at early morn, they went outside, arm in arm like lovers! “If these oddities boded aught good, they would not wear such grim faces,” she thought. Returning to her chamber, her curiosity went unsatisfied. She wrestled with doubts, scarce guessing the magnitude of troubles nearing.
For weeks, naught remarkable happened in the manor. Life seemed to plod its usual, monotonous course. Only on May 2, just before Ascension, did Leszek depart ere dawn. The youth oft vanished for weeks, so this was no surprise. Yet what might puzzle was that he took not only three teams but several of the manor’s servants.
“Spring in full bloom, work abounds, and he’s off somewhere,” Karola grumbled. But when, after days, she noticed things always at hand were missing, her dulled fear for the future returned with new force. “Leszek, say what you will, is no thief,” she reasoned. Yet the master showed no unease or surprise. He must have known.
On the feast day, May 31, an unknown rider came to the gates, calling for the master. He would speak with none else, nor let a word escape his lips...
This was too much. After years of loyal service, boundless devotion, and true love, she was cast aside like a common maid. Grief, a sense of undeserved wrong, and boundless curiosity choked her. She did what she had never done before. When the guest shut himself with Master Kilis in the chamber, she pressed her ear to the door. The men within held a nervous talk, but Karola could discern no word—the doors were too thick, the sounds too hushed. To glean something, she pressed harder against the planks and held her breath. A sudden yank of the door robbed her of support, and in an instant, she lay at the stranger’s feet.
“Oh, Karola, good that thou camest so quick; we were about to call thee. But rise, pray, thou needst not lie,” jested Stanislaus Kilis.
Karola, furious at the world, rose, dusted her rags, assumed a defiant air, and awaited divine judgment. The two men gazed at the odd sight—one with unfeigned amusement, the other with full surprise. After a moment’s expectant silence, Master Stanislaus spoke first:
“Karola, go now and summon all from the manor to our hall.”
“All? They’ll track in mud, dung... who’ll clean after?” the old woman protested.
“Karola, pray...” repeated Kilis with emphasis.
She understood resistance was futile. She went to do her master’s bidding, muttering under her breath. That muttering was her sole sign of rebellion, all she could and must allow herself.
The gathering in the manor hall was brief. In a few sentences, the master’s will was declared: all must board wagons at once and go to the manor of one of Stanislaus’s brothers, who prepared a great feast and needed urgent aid from many hands.
“That is all. Haste ye,” he ended, voice raised. As the gathered turned to the door, he stayed them a moment: “Remember, bear yourselves there as well as ye have here. I have ever been pleased with ye. I thank ye for it,” he added.
The servants, instead of departing, could not move. The master strove to be good to them, but to thank them for service? Ever courteous, reserved, sparing in showing emotion, he never grew familiar or thanked for what was each dweller’s duty. Urged on, whispering among themselves, they went before the manor, where talk of the master’s strange behavior flared. Conjectures abounded, but the truth they would learn only after days. Only the nursemaid was detained in the hall.
“Karola, return to me afore dusk. Now, once we eat, my guest and I depart, but we should be home for supper.”
“May I know...”
“Ne, jūs negalite žinoti.”
After so firm a reply, further resistance seemed hopeless. An hour later, both Kilises, leaving the children in the manor, rode off to parts unknown. Against expectation, dusk did not bring them home. The sound of an approaching team woke Karola long after midnight. Overjoyed, she ran to greet her masters, but Stanislaus Kilis’s voice rooted her to the ground ere she could speak a word:
“Karola, this very night we depart far hence and shall never return. We take thee with us. Gather thy things to the wagon quickly. Then call the children and bring our sacks. I have yet something to do,” he added, in a sadder tone.
The woman needed time to shake off the shock. Neither here nor likely anywhere in the world had she kin or anyone dearer than the Kilises. They were her all, and they, it seemed, valued her, trusting her so as to take her alone with them, whither they went. Hearing of the sudden departure, she guessed the cause. None but she first heard the vile, wicked tongues. She heard them oft but guessed not that her masters knew them too. Now all was clear. They knew and had long pondered how to end it. Aye, this journey must have been planned long ago, but... so many unknowns. Thanks be to God they did not leave her as they did those sent to Stanislaus’s brothers. The old woman felt valued, distinguished. Amid her thoughts, one thing was sure: come what may, the Kilises would not forsake her. Comforted by this, she looked about—where had they gone? Neither Master Stanislaus nor his wife was in sight. “Whither went they in the dead of night?” she asked herself, then guessed they must have gone to bid farewell to the familiar corners they left forever. Returning from their walk, Stanislaus bore under his arm a bundle. Karola had seen it before. Beneath layers of cloth hid a book, but as she could not read, she never learned what lay upon its pages.
When the sun rose over the manor, no living soul remained amid the buildings and fields. Only near noon did someone come to tend the lonely livestock.

Next --> Chapter II