In spring, there was no way through the wetlands by the Bóbr: the marshes became a refuge for wild animals, mature old-growth forest was covered in moss, and only the May sun dried the reeds, while deer and roe deer quickly trampled paths to the watering hole. Wolves slipped along them, herds of wild boar rummaged through hills overgrown with ancient oaks, beneath which, during the short June nights, young people searched for the fern flower. Beaver lodges lay densely along the upper reaches of the river, and hunting these timid animals became a knightly custom for their excellent fat, which could cure even old wounds. Something was always churning, croaking, rustling or howling in the dense forests; few daredevils ventured alone into their depths.
Knights clad in iron, wearing iron helmets adorned with large horns, often crept along roe-deer paths from across the river. Then the riverside settlements went up in smoke, fire crept deep into the wilderness, frightening the game and burning out great clearings in the blink of an eye.
“Germans, sons of bitches, Germans again…” cursed the prince’s retainers, who had come here on their lord’s orders to reconnoitre. In vain they searched for traces of life: fear drove into the depths of the forests the few peasants who had survived the conflagration. They hid in the safe shelter of trees and greenery with meagre possessions: a sack of millet, a few sheep, sometimes a sinewy cow that, in its cunning and agility, more closely resembled a wild forest animal. Years later, smoke once again rose in a thin trail from the poor huts of the forest people, who were farmers, herders and hunters all at once. Whoever the wilderness took in did not die of hunger: cranberries reddened even beneath the snow, hazelnuts sometimes remained on the branches until February, and when the forest dressed itself for the spring mating season, there was food in abundance. The kingdom of animals became a living pantry, and there was never any shortage of fish, honey or mushrooms…
This time, Duke Bolesław had been brought to the Bóbr not by a military expedition but by simple curiosity: how far the forests extended in the Lechitic land, and where ended the people who spoke their familiar language and acknowledged the authority of Mieszko’s heir, the ruler of tribes so numerous that they were difficult even to count, along the rivers and across the vast forests. The retinue went ahead, while a trusted guard watched from behind, but the duke kept pressing forward, spurring his steed and being the first to force his way through the thickest undergrowth. The impetuous courage of youth accompanied him, but even a mature age did not restrain his bravery. Someone could always spring an ambush: an ordinary man with a bow or crossbow, or even an enraged bear that had regarded itself as the sole master of the wilderness for centuries.
Towards evening, they stopped in a broad bend of the river, settled as a group among the oaks and lit campfires. Duke Bolesław lay on bear skins pulled from a large bundle. Wojsław, his faithful companion on journeys, added dry wood to the fire. Golden light poured from the rays of the sun, the yellowing leaves and the reflections on the waters of the Bóbr. They had to squint against the glare.
“Some kind of magic, or what…” Bolesław muttered, staring intently at the river.