March of the Paper Men

Have you heard of the Chinese Terracotta Army? Probably. And even if you haven't, all you have to do is consult a standard encyclopedia. You'll read that this work was commissioned by Emperor Jin Shi-huanng-ti over two thousand years ago. Those who have seen it agree that there is nothing more magnificent in China. Seven and a half thousand soldiers in battle array, each figure life-size and different. And apparently, a yet-to-be-excavated hill hides even more magnificent figures. But no. I don't want to advertise a pricey trip to China or crypto-advertise with travel agencies. There's an even more extraordinary work here in our country, though perhaps not as spectacular. I bet none of you have seen it. In fact, you haven't even heard of it. And yet, to see it, you don't have to spend thousands of dollars or venture into places forgotten by God and man. The thing I want to tell you about is called the Cardboard Army. Anyone can see it, although I can't guarantee that you'll experience what happened to me while looking at these toy soldiers. Just visit the village of Dziekanowice on Lake Lednica. Don't know where it is? Anyone interested in history or who read "Old Fairy Tale" in school will probably know where to go. For the rest of you, I explain that this village lies on the Piast Trail, near the road that connects Poznań with Gniezno and then leads towards Bydgoszcz and Gdańsk. You can also get there by train. You get off at the small and quiet Lednogóra station. Although it's on a busy route, it doesn't have any express trains. This station is empty and sleepy most of the time. In fact, it only comes alive once a year with a youth gathering, the name of which I don't want to mention for some reason. When you get off there, you should ask about the Museum of the First Piasts in Lednica. Everyone will show you the way. However, when, exhausted from almost an hour's walk, you stand before the museum ticket office and ask about the "cardboard army," the young ticket agent will probably look at you with surprise. Don't lose heart, though. Ask a senior curator the same question. If you come across one who has worked on the island for decades and knows more than one secret hidden in the lake's depths, he'll surely know what I'm talking about. He'll give you the name of the man you need to talk to and point you to a small, long-unrenovated building with peeling plaster (a remnant from the days when the village housed a state agricultural farm). There, you'll also meet the man I've dubbed the "guardian of the cardboard army." Remember, he's not obligated to show you the work he's guarding. However, just use one or two banknotes of the lowest denomination as an argument—well, they pay exceptionally low prices in our museum industry. Then you'll probably convince him to show you the treasure he's guarding. He'll then lead you to a rather large building,In a bygone era, it housed a sheepfold and today houses the museum's warehouses. There, on tall wooden shelves (to prevent the mice that prowl the museum), cardboard boxes will be displayed in rows. A guard will remove one or two of them, and when you add another banknote, he will tell the story of this extraordinary work.

"Here are the toy soldiers. As you can see, they are made of cardboard, and this material is two-dimensional. However, they have bent arms and shields set at an angle, which gives the impression of three-dimensionality. They would look good in an exhibition, and they actually were there one day. For people who don't know what they really are, it's just an interesting example of folk art from almost a hundred years ago. Interestingly, historians who have seen this cardboard army say that it is basically consistent with 11th-century reality. Of course, they immediately add that the model contains a few anachronisms. Funny, isn't it? Their knowledge of those times is incomplete, and the toy soldiers are exactly as they should be. This is what Prince Brave's army actually looked like when it set off against Kievan Rus' or to fight the Germans. How do I know this? I'll tell you, though you probably won't believe me anyway. I laughed at that story myself when I first heard it many years ago. That was when, as a young man, I started working at this museum. I don't know if you know You have this overwhelming desire to prove yourself in a new job, to prove that you're worth the investment. Such a young man wants to know everything, throws around "great" ideas, only wants to improve and improve... Only with time did I understand that the beauty of this place lies in the peace and quiet that reigns here. Most people working here subconsciously understand this and are terrified of any change. A young employee with their ideas and rationalizing zeal doesn't have an easy life here. After a while, they either leave or begin to appreciate the charm of the unchanging nature of this place. Why am I saying this? I think, in fact, I'm certain, that this permanence is related to what I want to tell you. But to the point. When I first encountered the cardboard army, its guardian was a man born in this village. His father worked here on the farm before the war, as did his grandfather. It is this latter who is the hero of my story and who created the "cardboard army." This man served as the local steward before the First World War. It belonged to a German, but almost everyone employed there was Polish. The steward, in addition to working on the farm, also bred horses himself. One day he wanted to take one of them to the fair in Gniezno. It was a beautiful, strong chestnut horse, and the steward was already looking forward to the money he would receive for it. Market Sunday dawned ugly and rainy. So it wasn't surprising that as he led the horse out of the stables, the farm buildings were enveloped in thick fog. It was then that he saw his... Who? Well, an elderly and somewhat stooped man. There was something regal about this man's appearance, something that inspired respect, reverence, and perhaps even fear. But what surprised the steward most was the clothes he wore. Even at the great fairs in Poznań, he had never seen anything like them.

"Perhaps a merchant from a distant land," the steward thought, though there was no wagon or other vehicle nearby.

"Are you lost, sir?" he asked, first in Polish, then, just in case, in German.

"I never get lost," the newcomer replied in Polish, in a voice that matched his appearance and bearing. "I'm here because I want to buy your horse.

" "Go to the fair in Gniezno, sir. It's not far, and there's a wider selection." The steward, for some reason, disliked the stranger's suggestion.

"I want it!" the strange newcomer replied firmly. "I'll pay well."

And as if to confirm his suspicions, the stranger pulled a purse from his belt and pulled out gold coins. The steward took one warily. He bit its surface with his usual method. Then he examined the stamp.

"Old," he finally grimaced. "I'll have to exchange money at the Jewish money changers, and they charge a lot for it."

"I'll compensate you for your loss," the mysterious stranger persisted.

The steward pondered for a long moment. This extraordinary traveler seemed desperate, and perhaps they could actually extract a higher price from the newcomer. On the other hand, something didn't add up in this strange story. Something was amiss. So he decided to get rid of the intruder.

"I'll sell it, but for twenty coins.

For that price, even after deducting the exchange costs, you could buy two such horses in Gniezno.

" "I'll give you fifteen.

" "Sir!" the steward began to fret. "You'll get a good horse at the fair for ten. There's a lot of traffic on the road today. You'll be in Gniezno in two hours.

" "That's out of my way. And I have an urgent need. I'll pay you the twenty coins, because I see you're an honest man," the stranger said calmly.

The steward pondered again. On the one hand, he was getting a good deal, but on the other, this merchant, though it didn't seem so, could be a fraud. It was better not to risk it.

"For that price, sir, any peasant in the village will sell you his horse, but leave me alone," he said sharply, and moved forward. He was afraid the stranger would block his path with a knife or a revolver drawn suddenly, or at least start a brawl. But nothing happened. Behind him, he heard only the man's quiet voice.

"If you don't sell me the horse, no one else will have it either."

The steward ignored this remark and headed toward the Gniezno road. That evening, as one might have guessed, he reappeared on the road. He was cursing like hell and staggering slightly, having tried to leave his bad mood at the inn. Behind him, he led a horse that no one had paid any attention to at the fair. Our hero wasn't particularly surprised when, just before the farm, the fog enveloped him again. The mysterious stranger was waiting in the same spot. He stood motionless and authoritative, his gaze fixed on something far away. However, when the steward approached, he turned and, in a calm voice, as if nothing had happened, said:

"I want to buy your horse.

" "I'll sell it if you pay well." This time, the steward really didn't care.

"I'll give you fifteen gold coins for it.

" "You wanted to give me twenty this morning," the steward tried to haggle.

"You should have sold it this morning," the strange merchant smiled.

"Okay," the steward quickly agreed. The price was already high, and now he was at a disadvantage. The mysterious stranger was his last hope for profit, and he dictated the terms.

"I'll throw in two more coins if you lead the horse wherever I want," the merchant offered unexpectedly.

"Is it far?" the steward asked, concerned.

"You won't have time to say your prayers." He pointed to the stranger and, without waiting for an answer, moved forward.

The steward shrugged. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps the unusual nature of the situation, that had prevented him from feeling fear, and he followed the merchant. The fog didn't lift for a moment, disorienting him, dulling his senses. It seemed to him that they were constantly walking along the shores of the lake toward the island. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, a rather high earthen obstacle emerged from the mist ahead. The steward knew the entire area by heart, but he couldn't quite recall the slope at this point. He was even more surprised when he saw a solid gate in the center of the hill. Meanwhile, the stranger approached the brass gate and knocked three times with an intricately crafted knocker in the shape of a roaring lion's head. And then the gate swung open softly and silently. "The gates of hell," the steward thought, his hair standing on end. Despite this, he remained frozen in place. Moreover, when the mysterious man raised his hand in an inviting gesture, he headed for the entrance without a word of protest. Suddenly, he found himself in a vast hall, so vast that his gaze couldn't encompass it. But the strangest thing was what lay within the chamber. In many rows, arranged roughly every five paces, stood leather-covered beds, on which knights lay motionless. Each wore a leather jerkin, over which a chainmail shirt. At the warrior's feet lay a helmet, a sword, a spear, and a leather-covered shield with an ornate pattern. At each seat, a chestnut horse stood motionless. As if hypnotized, the steward followed his guide along the line of sleeping riders. For how long, he himself didn't remember. He stopped only when the man leading him stood before one of the beds. On it, like the others, a warrior covered in iron chainmail rested motionless. This time, however, there was no mount in sight in front of the fallen man.

"Tether your horse to this spot," said the guide, and when the steward complied, he handed him a purse and spoke in a calm, solemn voice.

"You saw what few men have seen before, but I do not command you to keep silent about it, nor do I want you to swear an oath. It would be better, however, if you kept what you saw to yourself.

" "Who are you?" the steward choked out through a throat choked with fear. At that same moment, he saw the hall and his guide blur before his eyes. Only the man's indistinct words reached his ears.

"We are the ones who will fight when the time comes."

And then the mysterious merchant vanished completely. With him vanished the gigantic cave and the line of sleeping knights. It was night, or rather, early morning, for the approaching day had already marked its presence with a faint line in the east. The steward stood in the middle of a field bordering the lake, holding a bag of coins in trembling hands—the only trace of what had happened. He never, until his death, told anyone about his experience, but the peasants on the estate quietly joked that their steward had gone mad. From that day on, the steward devoted every free moment to painting and carving toy soldiers. In the model he had made, the warriors didn't lie on skin-covered bunks, but sat on horses. He discarded and destroyed the unsuccessful ones, and in their place, painted ever more beautiful ones, more and more in keeping with what he had seen in the mysterious cave. By the time of his death in 1922, he had made over a thousand of them. Only shortly before his passing did he tell his eldest son what had happened, and his son passed the secret on. Finally, when the toy soldiers came into my care, I heard the story. In the 1960s, they were recognized as an interesting example of folk art, protected with a clear varnish, and later placed on a temporary ethnographic exhibition. When the exhibition ended, they were placed in this room."

The guard finished his story and looked at me, as if asking if I was satisfied or perhaps I expected something more.

"Thank you very much," I replied. "There's a very strong analogy in your story. A certain old highlander legend comes to mind...

" "About the knights of Giewont," the guard interrupted. "You're right, but not entirely. I've come across ten legends myself, which feature the motif of sleeping soldiers waiting for the final showdown between good and evil. Similar tales exist in Anglo-Saxon and Russian myths, or even in Scandinavian mythology...

" "The battle of Ragnarok?" I boasted of my erudition.

"Exactly. And if legends with similar content appear so often, isn't there a grain of truth in them?

" "Do you believe in this story?" I asked, surprised. He was silent for quite a while before finally answering.

"How much easier it would be not to believe and to blame everything on Drunken delusions or the steward's vivid imagination... However, there's something in this story that compels deeper reflection. This work of art is a perfect reflection of historical truth. And it's truly difficult to understand how a man who spent his entire life caring only for peasants knew so much about the weaponry of knights in the early 11th century. Because that's precisely the period in question. This is puzzling, especially since contemporary painters, depicting Bolesław the Brave's warriors at Kiev, often depicted them as fifteenth-century knights, or even seventeenth-century hussars.

"Perhaps he had contact with a historian? After all, the island was already well-known and frequently visited back then," I interrupted.

"That's true," the guard admitted. "But there are many strange and inexplicable facts in this story. This one, for example." He turned the key to a drawer in his desk and began searching.

"I mentioned the coins the merchant used to pay for the horses. Most, according to the steward, were Prussian coins from around the early nineteenth century. The strangest, however, were the two additional coins the steward received free of charge. I don't know anything about one of them, though. The Jew at the exchange office merely stated it was gold and paid the steward by weight for it. What happened to it after that, I don't know. However, our hero kept the other as a souvenir. Here it is..." the guard said, handing me a plastic container used by numismatists. Inside was an old, though not particularly damaged, coin. I knew that stamp well. Everyone who's ever been interested in Polish money probably knew it.

"Is this some kind of joke?" I asked.

"I knew you wouldn't believe me. I'd love for it to be someone's joke, but it's a genuine ducat of Władysław the Elbow-high, known only in a single copy so far. I've checked it thoroughly. Making such a perfect copy would be impossible, at least not in the early twentieth century.

" "You know what!" I said, getting a little irritated. "I haven't heard such nonsense in ages. Precisely crafted soldier figurines, made by a barely literate peasant, unique coins, and sleeping knights under a lake, waiting for the end of the world. You don't really think I'd believe all this, do you?

" "I don't think so," the guard agreed. "No one believes my stories, so I won't be surprised or disappointed. So, since you have no further questions, then..." the guard gestured bluntly toward the door.

"Tell me." Despite the way the matter was framed, I decided to ask one more question. "Has anyone else had these visions in recent years?

" "I don't know..." The guard looked at me a little more sympathetically. "I suspect sleeping soldiers are only allowed to contact the outside world occasionally. So if there were any previous encounters, then..." He didn't finish, then began a completely different thought. "You know what... We're having a historical festival on the island today. It's really worth seeing. Warrior teams from all over Poland, and I think even two from abroad. Demonstrations, fights, an archery tournament, flatbread baking, coin minting. And in the evening, a bonfire, a lamb roast, a chat, and a reenactment... The ticket is inexpensive. It's always better than listening to an old man's nonsense..."

I followed the advice and went to the indicated location. I bought a ticket, then waited for about fifteen minutes in a rather long line of people waiting for the ferry. However, once I reached the island, I realized it had been worth it. In the outskirts of the stronghold, in a newly built village, warriors from the time of King Chrobry were encamped. Two commanders even performed on horseback. Admittedly, the rather scrawny geldings bore no resemblance to war horses, but who could fault such details? Especially since everything else looked like a real camp from a thousand years ago. Some of the knights were fighting duels, others were shooting bows, and still others were just cleaning or repairing weapons. Nearby, valets milled about in mock excitement. You could easily walk among them. It was clear that the warriors were hobbyists and true enthusiasts. When they sensed a tourist was genuinely interested, they were happy to answer questions, but they reacted firmly to any provocations. A little further on, the vendors had set up their stalls. When I headed in that direction, I was pleasantly surprised. The stalls were completely free of the junk that filled the kiosks on the opposite side of the crossing. The items on offer could pass for authentic period items. Another thing was that the prices were quite high and there were few buyers. Only a baker and a minter, who minted faithful copies of ancient coins, were selling a good deal. However, an armorer's stall caught my eye. Its owner was quite talkative and, regardless of whether anyone wanted to buy anything, was happy to share information. I listened to an interesting lecture on forging weapons using the dalmascent technique, axe fighting, chainmail, helmets, gambesons, and a few other things. I saw several examples of period weapons. At the shooting range next to the stall, I once shot a bow and smacked my fingers quite painfully with the string. Bows weren't for sale anyway, for safety reasons. Only arrows were available for purchase. However, I was interested in the swords. I particularly liked one. It was made using the same method I'd heard the lecture about. If I understood correctly, it involved forging several iron and steel bars together, which gave the sword both hardness and elasticity. This also created a characteristic irregular pattern on the blade's surface. The sword was also characterized by a meticulous finish and good balance. I suspect that, transported to the eleventh century, it would have become the object of desire for any warrior. I had no intention of buying anything, but I asked the price. As I suspected, it was quite high, which, of course, didn't encourage me to buy. So I left the armorer's stall and wandered around the island for a while. A moment later, however, I was back at the shop, admiring the weapons. Before I knew it, I started haggling. Finally, I bought a piece of iron I didn't need. Immediately afterward, I quickly left the island, as if afraid of losing my mind.I thought the atmosphere there would encourage me to buy yet another strange and expensive item. But I couldn't escape. Already on the ferry, something began to feel wrong. The warm September day suddenly turned chilly. Then a thick fog rolled in from the northern side of the lake, enveloping the ferry as it passed.

"Will you sell me your sword?" I heard a question behind me. I turned around. Beside me stood a rather short man dressed in period costume. While I hadn't seen him on the island, nor did I remember anyone like him boarding the ferry with me, I wasn't particularly surprised. This guy must have been a participant in the ongoing festival.

"I'll pay well," the passenger continued. There was something about him that commanded attention and commanded respect. Something that ruled out a response like "get lost, man" or "don't be kidding."

"There's a stall on the island. They still have plenty of swords there," I replied.

"I want that one!" the newcomer said firmly, and I froze in horror. It occurred to me that the ferry, though it had probably held fifty people a moment ago, was now empty...