In space... Daniel.

 

In the space...

Daniel.

Autumn evenings at the "U Adama" bar are essentially the same. The same regulars, the same sleepy, quiet atmosphere. Beer, salty sticks, and cigarette smoke... Many bars like this, many guests like this one.

Sitting at a table discreetly tucked away in the darkest corner of the room, I observed a group of men occupying the largest table in the bar. They were employees of the local furniture factory – the largest plant in our town. They visited the bar quite regularly, resting after a hard day's work and escaping the daily grind of home. The conversation flowed sluggishly. Bursts of laughter were rare and sounded a bit unnatural. Just a few guys from a small town, already cured of their youthful dreams, earning their mundane existence by the sweat of their brow. The most interesting events in their current lives were the matches of the local football team, playing in the district tournament.

Daniel Wilczyński was among them. At first glance, Daniel didn't seem particularly remarkable among his companions. However, after a few evenings spent at the bar, I realized there was something about him that subtly distinguished him from the others. He usually spoke little, but when he did, he was listened to with extraordinary attention. He didn't get drunk. He was calm, exuding confidence and a subtle sense of pride.

There were also evenings when scuffles broke out between the more intoxicated participants of the "bar nights." Daniel never participated in them... Only once did he get involved in breaking up a well-developed brawl. A few sharply spoken words were enough to calm the heated men preparing for a fight.

His age is difficult to pinpoint. He could have been 30, but also 45. Dark hair, a slim, elongated face, average height, and slender build. He didn't seem like the kind of man who would command respect by his appearance alone. There had to be something more.

Another evening, I noticed something that had previously escaped my notice. It was Daniel's left hand. The pinky and ring fingers were missing, and his middle finger was cut off about halfway. I began discreetly asking questions about Daniel and his fingers. It turned out that the people I asked were very eager to tell me about him and what had happened one autumn several years ago. I had been told this story many times, and depending on the teller, the stories sometimes differed quite significantly. However, after some time, I managed to gather enough information to piece everything together into the most likely version of events.

The story unfolded several years earlier. It was autumn, just like now. The trees shamelessly shed their leaves, revealing their naked forms. The town was plunged into a misty anticipation of winter. Winter was usually eagerly awaited here, for only when blanketed in snow could the town be considered quite beautiful...

One morning, the small-town community was shaken by the news of the death of an old man who had lived alone for many years in a dilapidated cottage outside of town. The old man had long since lost any social contacts. He hadn't visited anyone, and no one dared approach his cottage because of a pair of enormous German shepherds the old man had raised to hate all living things. Lessons learned... The dogs had mauled their owner. There was no explanation as to how the old man ended up in the cage where he kept the dogs. Some claimed that this was the strange way the old man had decided to end his lonely life.

In any case, the old man was dead, and the dogs escaped. Notices were posted warning the public of the need to exercise caution due to the presence of two wild dogs in the area, and... And nothing happened for several days.

First-grader Marta Brnowicka didn't return home after school. Two hours later, her parents went to the police. A search began. They checked with her friends. They questioned everyone who might have seen Marta walking home from school, but nothing was found. The search was gaining momentum. The small-town community can organize itself incredibly efficiently in such situations. Not only the local police and fire department were now involved, but also a large portion of the employees of the furniture factory where Marta's father worked. After another hour, a pimply young man appeared at the police station and reported that he thought he had seen a girl walking toward the forest that bordered the town to the east. Although the young man reeked of cheap wine, several rescue teams were immediately organized and dispatched to the forest. The search continued unsuccessfully until dusk and had its share of dramatic moments. Among them, one of the firefighters broke his leg, and a man's nose was shattered when the young policeman mistook him for a charging wild boar in the forest darkness and dealt him a powerful blow with a birch branch. Moments later, the young policeman fled in a panic and got lost in the forest undergrowth. He was not found until morning, freezing and repeating through gritted teeth: "wwwidzielllll...was that wild boar?"

Daniel Wilczyński was fortunate enough to be among a group led by a local poacher, whose activities, though widely known, have not yet been officially proven. They ventured quite far into the forest, systematically and carefully combing the area. I haven't been able to find any members of this group. So, I know secondhand what happened just after dark, when hope of finding Marta was beginning to fade and they were preparing to return, from people who participated in the search in other teams.

Wilczyński at one point became separated from the group. After a while, terrible howling and screaming, which some described as "inhuman," echoed through the forest. It lasted only a moment. Those who heard it hurriedly left the forest. The people participating in the search gathered at the edge of the forest. They knew something was happening, that something terrible had happened in the forest. They waited tensely. A moment later, the group led by the poacher emerged from the forest. One of the men carried Marta, who was unharmed except for a few scratches. Two men then led him by the arms of Wilczyński, who looked as if he was about to lose consciousness. His left hand was wrapped in a rag. He was covered in blood. He was taken to an ambulance... One of the witnesses to the incident asked the poacher what had happened.

"I don't know," he replied. "We found him after it was all over. He was lying unconscious with his fingers bitten off, covered in blood... Next to him were those two dogs. Those damned wolfhounds. They were dead...

" "Did he kill them?

" "Yes... He... I think... I think he bit them."

Looking at Daniel Wilczyński now, I try to imagine him fighting two huge dogs. I try to imagine him biting into the dogs' throats, and it seems absurd to me. Sometimes people in the bar tell this story to each other. Wilczyński listens willingly, but he never says anything about it himself. When asked, he smiles enigmatically and remains silent, or shrugs. Observing those around him, I see in their gazes not so much admiration, or even respect, as a certain envy. I understand them a little. With such an extraordinary and mysterious adventure in my life, it's easier to endure the grayness of the days ahead. It's easier to bear the reproaches of others and my own unfulfilled ambition when you experience something so utterly extraordinary. Who could blame a man who saves a child's life and defeats two German Shepherds with his bare hands... and probably his teeth? And can such a man blame life for a dull scenario?

I watch him absentmindedly run his left, maimed hand through his hair, and I wonder what part of my body I would sacrifice for an adventure anyone would care to describe.