Rooster's Morning

Byrkops's dream was just entering its most exciting phase when, in the real world, a brown potato fell directly on his head. Taking the impact, he jumped up in utter fright and, losing his balance, tumbled two stories down, right onto his pallet. God, how he hated that damn alarm clock, he thought, waiting for clarity to return. He didn't understand how Gordek could have dreamed up such a thing. Byrkops realized that he might not be in his prime and was sometimes a little late waking up, but to be subjected to something like this?

So he got up, reflecting on his beautiful dream, so brutally interrupted by the falling potato. He remembered flirting with Ginkgo, whose beautiful eyes had captivated him. He was approaching her, ruffling his crest coquettishly, when suddenly, bang, it was over. "Oh, this brutal life," he said, already somewhat awake, and stepped outside into the cool air. He jumped, not without effort, onto the roof of the doghouse and, eliminating his morning hoarseness, intoned his daily "kukurykuuuuuu," hmm he he. He coughed and choked. He was sick. Absolutely. It had to be a cold. And those bloodshot eyes, too. He needed to rest. Perhaps he could ask Ginkgo for help? With that thought, he headed back to the henhouse, jumped onto the highest perch, and began planning his plot. By the horned cow, that hen was driving him crazy, and it had been so long since he'd wrestled with a beauty. Not since the day Ezekiel had gone for chicken soup, to be precise. It was all the more painful for him because he realized he, too, was just a few steps away from immersing himself in hot soup.

Accompanied by the dawn coming to life, Byrkops closed his eyes and fell into a sleep where Ginkgo... oh, it's not worth talking about.

Gordek Baryła opened one eye, then the other, then peered out the dusty window. The sun was already high, which could only mean he'd overslept again. That devilish rooster was late again. Time to think about his axe, he gasped, popping out from under the covers. "One more slip-up like that, and the prospect of a hot broth bath would become quite real." Baryła was furious, but he realized he had a soft spot for Byrkops. He remembered the chick he'd taken special care of after being rejected by his mother. That rooster had been in his yard for several years, and somehow Gordek had become quite accustomed to him. However, this didn't change the fact that the rooster's lack of character was driving him crazy. Matylda had long wanted to kill him, Baryła had vehemently opposed it every time, and anyone who had seen Matylda in person knew that defying this woman's will was, at best, a risky undertaking. Especially after that incident with the bear prowling through their barn last spring. The poor, starving animal, unlucky enough to have stumbled upon Matilda, who knocked it to the ground with a single blow, removing a significant portion of its front teeth. The bear managed to get back up and somehow escape the claws of the pitchfork Matilda was about to use to stab its rump. "Szczerbul," as the children supposedly called him, is now wandering the outskirts of the forest, searching for easily digestible garbage thrown away by the villagers. As for Byrkops, Gordek has reached a temporary agreement with Matilda on the matter. He's decided to devise a way to make the rooster punctual. If Byrkops continues to fail, well, so be it; they'll slaughter him at the first opportunity. That was two weeks ago. That's when Gordek Baryła activated a special mechanism designed to help Byrkops maintain a punctual morning wake-up call. The most important link in the mechanism was a wooden cup placed on a board that acted as a balance beam. As dawn approached, it filled with dew, increasing its weight and causing the board to tilt downward, moving the stick, which in turn pushed the potato that was the final link in the alarm clock. A potato hitting Byrkops's head immediately woke him up. Simple. The first few days proved the mechanism to be an effective device. Byrkops crowed at dawn as it should, and everything returned to normal. Unfortunately, after a few days, Gordek noticed some changes in the rooster's behavior. He became slightly lethargic and sluggish—in short, a bit dazed. Well, it was better than death. Gordek tried to get up quietly enough not to wake Matilda. He hoped he could convince her that she hadn't heard Byrkops and had simply slept through the alarm. Baryła had a lot to do that day. He had to tend to the animals, fix the barn door, pick strawberries from the last rows, and all before noon. There wouldn't be time for any of this later. It would all be forgotten,because the match starts in the afternoon, and no resident of the Górnopole settlement could afford to miss this spectacle.

The sun was already at its zenith when the first villagers began to gather by the field and take their seats on the long oak benches. The front row was reserved for the village elders, the village leader, and the captain of the legionnaires, whose troops were stationed in the village. The pre-game tension was intense, as today the fate of Turów Górnopole in the championship league hung in the balance. They hadn't been doing well lately. They had lost consecutive matches to the villages of Wężogłowy, Kaczerzyce, and Wielkie Krążki, finishing second to last in the league. Only Gnojne Pola were weaker, as their players suffered a severe case of wild blueberry poisoning three weeks ago and had to forfeit their last three matches. Today's match was crucial because Górnopole was visited by the Pszczelarzy z Maćki team, which was in third place from the bottom. The winner of this match will remain in the league, as the last two teams are relegated. Turów's coach, Renur Warmixer, brought in from Zalesie last season, was full of optimism after the final training camp at Zajęcza Polana.

"The boys are in good shape, they've improved their speed and agility, and most importantly, Brono Zabójca, the best defender in Górnopol's history, will be back on the pitch after a long injury."

The coach's statement hung on every tree around the pitch, and most fans knew it almost by heart. The part about Bron's return was particularly optimistic. Zabójca, of course, was a nickname used during matches, intended to intimidate opposing players. The blacksmith's real name was Borydel, and the infamous injury was the result of a violent argument with his wife, Leodia, whose fiery temper no man could possibly tame. The blacksmith, in fact, played a significant role in unsettling Leodia with his love of gambling. The last feast at the Blacksmiths' Guild ended with Borydel losing a darts game, which resulted in a hundred pennies being depleted from his wallet. His wife couldn't forgive him for this. These disagreements, however, were fading into oblivion, as the relegation match was approaching, and the game promised to be exciting. The team's sponsor, baker Bendzioło, ensured the boys didn't lose their competitive spirit by promising substantial bonuses for winning. He also donated T-shirts for the players featuring the image of a golden loaf. Old Karmelina spent two months knitting them. Yes, everything was taken care of down to the last detail. Now all that remained was to wait for the opposing team.

The wagon rolled lazily along the forest track. Two old horses halfheartedly pulled the wooden vehicle, which constantly bounced over rocks jutting out from the road. Fortunately, the journey wasn't going to be too long; otherwise, the passengers might have vented their dissatisfaction with the lack of ride comfort by doing something very wrong with the wagon, or, God forbid, with the horses. Unfortunately, the expressway for two-horse vehicles promised during the last election by Prince Bożydar the Moving never materialized, and three years had passed since that promise. Apparently, the priority for the ruler of these lands' treasury was now a thorough renovation of the castle and numerous foreign trips; local roads remained at the bottom of the list of expenses. Therefore, travelers traversing the expanses between the capital and the western lands were exposed to constant bumps, and consequently, frequent wagon repairs. A similar problem affected the crew of the vehicle rolling along the forest track. A few more minutes and they'd reach the paved trail leading to the settlement of Górnopole, where the road would become more pleasant. Fortunately, the weather was pleasant, so combined with the soothing rustle of the forest, the journey was manageable. High in the branches of ancient trees, birds began the symphony that traditionally accompanies the arrival of spring. The forest fell silent, captivated by the beautiful melody, listening along with its inhabitants to this year's message of nature.

"What's that roaring to Xenotype?!" came a voice from behind the gray tarpaulin that formed the roof of the wagon. "Horace, do something about it, it's impossible to sleep.

" "The birds are welcoming spring," replied Horace, who, as a result of what he suspected was a well-thought-out deception during last night's card game, had been tricked into driving the wagon.

"Then let them do it more quietly. We need to concentrate before the match."

Concentrate—exactly, Horace thought—after last night's night of mead and cinnamon beer, the team was dying for most of the journey. This was usually how their pre-match training camps and their scouting of the opponents usually ended. Now, however, the situation was serious; they were facing relegation, and Horacy was somewhat surprised that the coach had allowed them to completely relax. On the other hand, they had a seemingly foolproof plan, one that almost guaranteed victory. This gave the Pszczelarzy z Maćki team a considerable amount of mental relief. They continued their journey in silence, when Horacy saw the sight of a small settlement unfold before him.

"We're almost there," he shouted to his companions in the wagon. "They're expecting us; the gate is wide open."

They slowly rolled into the village, greeted by the confused glances of the locals. Horace steered the cart onto the main street, from where it headed to the small market square. When they arrived, they saw the field ready for play. The stands were also packed to capacity. Those who weren't fortunate enough to watch the match from the best seats were huddled in a further section, specially roped off. A banner hung above the fans' heads reading: "The Turs have nothing left to lose, because victory is on the cards."

"Naive peasants," Horace thought, recalling yesterday's pre-match briefing and the brilliant plan that would guarantee them victory. The Beekeepers' cart parked on a small square right next to the pitch. As they disembarked, they were greeted by Grenvipor, the elderly head of the village of Górnopole

. "Greetings to the Maciek Beekeepers team," he said to Horace, Apolinary, Furius, Archiwald, and coach Antoniusz. "Enjoy our hospitality, because we want you to leave happy regardless of the outcome of the competition.

" "Exactly," whispered Archiwald. "They'll do everything to thwart us; we have to be on our guard.

" "Sure," Furius agreed.

Grenvipor's hand was shaken by the captain of the Beekeepers, Apolinary.

"Thank you for the friendly welcome," he said. "I hope our teams' competition will take place in an atmosphere of the best possible sportsmanship."

Grenvipor bowed, as was customary, and both teams began preparations for the match.

Byrkops was sincerely surprised by the people's love of team sports. He'd come to the playing area solely because he'd spotted a Ginkgo biscuit heading in that direction, and that was already worrying, as Szczytnik was a suspiciously frequent visitor to the area. Szczytnik's interest in Ginkgo biscuit was a major concern for Byrkops. The two roosters hated each other, and the fact that they'd both set their sights on the same hen only fueled their animosity. Szczytnik was younger and slightly larger, but Byrkops believed he could hold his own in a direct fight. After all, experience had taught him how to deal with such troublemakers. Szczytnik came from the henhouse of miller Karadziej, whose yard bordered Baryła's. The bastard crowed at Ginkgo biscuit until his comb resonated, and he was probably eager for something more than just flirtatious songs.

"You'll end up badly, Szczytnik," Byrkops thought. "Remember, you rascal, accidents come to roosters."

Nervously, he looked around. There was no sign of Ginkgo anywhere. Maybe they're hiding in the bushes somewhere and mocking him now, he thought. If that were to happen, it would end badly for both of them.

Walking the route between the field and the village headman's old barn, Byrkops reached a spot where a bunch of overweight men with sagging bellies, pompously dubbed the Beekeepers from Maćki, were trying to don sportswear that seemed several sizes too small.

"WHO'S RESPONSIBLE FOR WASHING THE CLOTHES?!" Apolinary thundered. "WHAT SLUT BOILED MY SPRINT SHORTS?"

No one spoke. Most of the players were stuck pulling their shorts down to mid-thigh.

"That's you, Furius, isn't it?" Archiwald said. "If I remember correctly, you were taking the bag of dirty laundry after the last match.

" "More cranberry juice and St. John's wort," Furius retorted, clearly shaken by the accusation. "Horace was taking the bag, everyone saw it."

The Beekeepers' eyes turned to Horace.

"Yes, er... so, maybe Borychna did overcook the uniforms, but they were so dirty with manure that they wouldn't wash for any amount of money," Horace explained, sensing trouble. "Besides, our cow calved, you understand."

Apolinary was seething with rage.

"You're going to attack first," he muttered through gritted teeth. "You'll find out if their Brono is really such a killer.

" "But I'm a defender," Horace snapped, terrified

. "Never mind, it doesn't matter for this match anyway," Apolinary ended the discussion. "Where the hell is Antoniusz? It's time to start warming up!"

Idiots, thought Byrkops, and continued towards the village headman's barn. If Szczytnik and Ginkgorzata are making out in there, it's over. I'll show them who's really in charge." He was just reaching the flimsy structure of the building when he heard a thud coming from inside.

"Come on, Szczytniczek, little one, come to Byrkopsik, we'll have a little talk, male to male, or rather, the poor substitute for a male, which you undoubtedly are." Millions of thoughts swirled in his head, the most important of which concerned the type of death he would inflict on Szczytnik. At the moment, he was hesitating between two incredibly brutal methods. He believed that, seeing his victory, Mińkabka would realize her mistake and show him favor. Certainly, hens like her didn't associate with losers. He stopped, listening, for he was convinced he heard voices. Yes, they were definitely coming from the other end of the barn. He made his way there as quietly as he could. He fluffed his comb, his legs ready to attack. But instead of Szczytnik and Mińkabka, he saw two shadows. Human figures were whispering among themselves.

"Now a hundred circulators, and twice as many are done," one of them said. The second shadow extended a hand, and coins fell onto it with a clatter. Clearly satisfied, he tucked them into his pouch. "Remember, everything has to be exactly as we agreed. If you mess up, we'll talk differently."

"Okay, okay, everything will be fine, you have it in your pocket," the second figure replied. "However, if you don't follow my instructions, I won't be responsible for the outcome.

" "We'll do as agreed."

The shadows dispersed. Byrkops thought he recognized the second interlocutor. Yes, that fringed hat was familiar to him. He didn't manage to see the first one, as he quickly headed toward the village square. The second, however, headed for the path leading to the forest.

"Very strange," the rooster thought. "Although, on the other hand, why should I be surprised? People have always plotted against each other. It's none of my business."

Something was bothering him, though. Whether his business or not, these shadows were too suspicious to be left like this. Deciding to shift the search for his beloved and her lover a little west, he set off quickly toward the forest path.

The players arrived on the playing field. The first to appear were the home team, Turów Górnopole, wearing green jerseys with the sponsor's logo on the chest and non-slip tights that had been tested and repeatedly upgraded since the beginning of the season. Karmelina, who was in charge of sewing the uniforms, stated that the tights had already reached peak quality and simply couldn't be better. However, the real surprise came when the Pszczelary team took to the field. Their tight-fitting jerseys and shorts, which appeared to be cut-off tights, stunned the spectators.

"What do the regulations say about this?" asked the village head of Grenvipor, who was sitting next to an observer and a league representative. "We weren't informed about such uniform modifications; we could have been better prepared."

Nevertheless, the surprised observer had to admit that the regulations didn't specify that uniforms must be standardized during the match. This meant that everyone could play in whatever outfit they liked. However, the Pszczelary team seemed to have considerable difficulty moving. Horace kept adjusting his tights at the crotch, but they were getting increasingly stuck, causing havoc in a place particularly important to him. Apolinary walked like a puppet, legs spread wide, and the red flush on his face and bulging eyes suggested he was either in great pain or mad. After a few moments, all the players from both teams, along with their coaches, arrived on the field. Before the first stone struck the silver-plated pot, heralding the start of the game, they had only one ritual left to perform, crucial to tradition. The blacksmith Borydel, alias Brono the Killer, Captain Turów, held a tray with twelve ornate cups, one for each player and the coaches.

"Let us drink to the honor of Bogofiel and his invisible servants," he exclaimed, raising the cup to the sky. "Let the games begin."

The eleven remaining cups rose toward the clouds, their contents quickly disappearing into the players' throats.

"He's a great player," Grenvipor said proudly, "and the wine is the best vintage from the cellars of Golonka itself. After the match, I invite you to a tasting."

The league observer gladly accepted the invitation. He raised his flag with his left hand, and at that moment the first stone struck the pot. The match began.

A mysterious shadow flashed before Byrkops's eyes and disappeared behind the bushes. The rooster headed in that direction, knowing that the forest path led only to one place. Pushing through the bushes, after a few moments he spotted something black lying under a maple tree standing a dozen or so meters away. Byrkops ran in that direction. The black shape was nothing more than a shirt and trousers. The rooster was convinced that these were the man he had seen in the shed, who had then gone into the forest. It seemed someone had quickly changed and fled.

"Oh, something bigger is coming," he thought. "Two hundred circulators is a lot of money; someone really wanted something if they decided to pay that much." But what could it be?

After a few moments, the forest began to thin out, and Byrkops could see the stands and the playing field, for that was where the path ended. Fans waved flags and banners, shouting at the top of their lungs, cheering for their favorites. Apparently, the Turs were winning, as every now and then the village erupted in cheers and cheers, which could mean the Górnopol players had scored. Rooster jumped onto a nearby rock and watched the fans with interest, as he was completely uninterested in the game. That someone must have been in the stands, he thought intensely. He probably waited for the match to start before emerging from the forest, knowing that the fans, enthralled by the opening ceremony, wouldn't notice a single person stealthily sneaking towards the crowd. Byrkops was interrupted by a sudden gasp. The fans leaped from their seats and froze for a few moments, as if enchanted.

"What the hell?" the rooster looked at the field and couldn't believe his eyes. Two Górnopol players lay on the ground, writhing in pain. Others, clutching their stomachs, ran as fast as they could towards the bushes. Strangely enough, Turów's coach, Renur Warmixer, was also heading there, sprinting like a world champion. As the referee didn't react to the commotion, Apolinary, meeting no resistance, scored more points for the Beekeepers.

"Stop, stop, referee, stop the match," shouted the indignant Grenvipor. "Can't you see it's halftime?!" Mr. Observer, please intervene and invalidate these points.

The Observer visibly pondered, cleared his throat, and then replied diplomatically.

"I can't, everything was done according to the rules. There was no foul, the Tury players left the field themselves, so the Beekeepers were entitled to score points. What's more, if Tury don't show up at the field by noon, I will declare the victory for the team from Maćki.

" "But you see, my players are afflicted with some ailment," the village head protested. "That's obvious.

" "Before the match, you declared the team's good health, and you can't change that now."

Grenvipor cursed, left the honorary stand, and ran towards the bushes where all the Tury players were already hiding. The Zielopas team's healer was just emerging from them.

"What's wrong with them?" the village head asked

. "They're shitting themselves, they're about to fly away," the healer replied. "I don't recommend going near it, it's a terrible sight.

" "But how did it happen?

" "I don't know, the last time I saw such a reaction was when we gave the cow Bornochwała some Miłek Polny extract. It cleared up in the blink of an eye."

"What about the match? Will they be able to continue playing?

" "I doubt it, if they stop, they'll be so exhausted they won't get out of bed for two days. "

Well, that's it, Grenvipor thought. Goodbye, championship league, goodbye subsidies from the prince's treasury, now they'll become just another bland village, because that's what those without a team in the league were considered to be.

"So is that the point?" Byrkops pondered, observing the immense chaos that had erupted in the square. Beekeepers from Maćki jumped up and down in joyful celebration, while fans from Górnopol hurled insults at them, accusing them of dishonesty. Several men, grimacing and gasping for air, carried Górnopol's players out of the bushes. They looked like seven unlucky people. Pale, with bloodshot eyes, they seemed utterly exhausted. The village head was clutching his head and arguing with the league observer, who only shook his head. Everyone was asking themselves one question: How could six seemingly healthy men suddenly be struck down by a massive bout of diarrhea at the same time?

Byrkops was convinced that this was precisely the plot he was trying to uncover. So someone had taken money, probably from someone from the Maćki district, and neutralized the Górnopol players, so they would concede the match without a fight. But how had they done it?

At that moment, Szczytnik appeared before Byrkops' eyes. He sat in the highest stand, which the fans had already left, and fluffed out his feathers, giving him the appearance of a swollen peacock. He held his beak high, and his protruding crest gave him a majestic appearance. As Byrkops expected, Ginkgorzata crouched nearby, staring with bleary eyes at the rooster's comb fluttering in the wind. Horror. Byrkops was about to move in to thrash the hated bird, but then he noticed something on a table near the Turów players' bench that piqued his interest. "So that's it," he thought, and headed towards the find. If his suspicions proved correct, he had found the key to solving the mystery of the players' indisposition. He also came up with a much better way to deal with Szczytnik.

Moczyrus was an institution known in Górnopol primarily for his extraordinary talent for pottery and sculpture. His products were always a hit at local markets and fairs, but Moczyrus possessed another undeniable talent, one that made him a true treasure for the village men. This talent was his ability to brew incredible beer.

That evening, about twenty men sat on wooden benches in the inn, each holding a full tank of the golden beverage.

"We were cheated, and there's no doubt about it," said the village headman Grenvipor. "Only the administration of some very strong drug could have caused such a reaction among the players." This is confirmed by Zielopas, who even suspects what drug it might be.

" "Yes," the healer continued, "I'm almost completely convinced that what happened to the Turs was a reaction to a decoction of Miłek Polny, and a very concentrated one at that."

The inn fell silent for a moment.

"So those rascals from Maćki poisoned our people?!" Gordon Baryła thundered, digesting the news. "It's a disgrace! We need to intervene, take away their points, demote them, and finish them off with flails!"

The rest of the men joined the outraged Baryła. Voices of revenge and an attack on the Beekeepers began to prevail among the gathered crowd.

"Calm down, calm down, that's not all!" the village headman toned down the situation. "The circumstances in this matter are very inconvenient for us as a village."

Calm reigned again among the gathered crowd. Grenvipor continued his argument.

"As has already been said, the Tury were poisoned. But the question remains, how did this happen? Zielopas and I conducted a small investigation and came to some disturbing conclusions. The only occasion when all the players drank the same thing was during a toast to the gods before the match. Only in this wine could the decoction of Miłek Polny be diluted."

- So old Golonka poisoned his wine and served it to the players? - asked the outraged baker Bendzioło.

"Not exactly," the village headman replied. "All the players drank wine, but only ours got sick.

" "So what's the point?" thundered Miller Karadziej

. "It's hard for me to explain," Grenvipor continued. "But before today's meeting was called, someone left two of the cups filled with wine for a toast to the gods under my door. I had no idea why, until I noticed something that explains a lot about this situation. "

Grenvipor picked up one of the cups and pointed with his other finger.

"There's a distinct cut here, filled with green-tinted resin. It's completely invisible from a distance, but if you know where to look, it's very easy to spot up close. The other cup doesn't have anything like that. This means that some of the cups were marked, and the wine in them was most likely pure and tasty as always.

" "And the rest contained poison." A murmur of shocked men filled the hall.

"Yes," the village headman confirmed.

There was, however, one very important question unanswered, one that no one dared to ask. Grenvipor looked at the others with concern, then proceeded to present the rest of his conclusions.

"The decoction of Miłek Polny was poured directly before the match into the cups that didn't have any notches. Those from the Macieks knew which cups to avoid so as not to poison themselves and which to take from the tray. It's impossible that any of the Beekeepers had access to our cups, even a moment earlier, as they were delivered from the temple directly before the match. It therefore appears that this crime was committed by one of our own."

Those gathered at Moczyrus's inn paled. This news was beyond them; none of the men could fathom who would be capable of such treachery.

"Who do you suspect?" asked Gordek Baryła bluntly

. "Only one person is responsible for filling the cups with wine and serving them to the players before the match began."

The earlier pallor was only a prelude to the complete draining of blood from the faces of the men from Górnopol.

"It's our captain, blacksmith Borydel

– the Weapon Killer," a voice ran through the inn, followed by a long, awkward silence.

Byrkops sat on the bakery roof, watching the men leave the inn. So, the uncomfortable truth had dawned on them, he thought. "I wonder what they'll do with such a burden now?"

Grenvipor and Zielopas were the last to leave the premises. Despite the hour, they didn't go home. Rooster had managed to get to know Grenvipor well enough to know he wouldn't leave this matter like this until morning.

"What?!" A sudden scream came after a dozen or so minutes from blacksmith Borydel's hut. "Have you all gone completely mad, how could you suspect me of such a thing?!!! If I had the strength, I'd beat you, regardless of the offices you hold."

"Admit that only you had access to the cubas; no one else could have added the poisonous brew," the village headman argued. "This is a very serious matter, which the judge will decide. Tomorrow I'm sending a letter to the prince's office requesting a judge be assigned to us.

" "But Grenvipor, please tell me why I would do something so despicable?" The blacksmith was now visibly devastated. "I love this team.

" "Well," the village headman scratched his head. "Your tendency to gamble is as well known as your love for the team. Perhaps you got into debt and needed money to pay it off. The judge will consider that. I hope we'll find out where you got the poison. Until then, you're not allowed to leave Górnopol."

Grenvipor and Zielopas left Borydel's house, leaving Byrkops on the fence. Byrkops had noticed something in the blacksmith's hut that had given him new doubts. The rooster was certain that this night would bring many more answers to the questions that preoccupied most of the village's inhabitants.

A shadow moved along the barn. The moon was nearing full, illuminating the area quite well. A mysterious figure slipped into the wooden building. It was the same barn where the bribery had taken place. This time, however, the rooster didn't notice the other person. The shadow was alone. Byrkops followed him as quietly as he could. The shadow approached the barn wall, pulled out a cloth bundle, and seemed to be digging something in the ground, as the barn was built on bare ground. Suddenly, the door opened with a loud creak, and the light of a dozen or so torches streamed in.

"So this is where you decided to hide the proof of your guilt, Leodio," said Village Head Grenvipor, standing at the head of a dozen men. "It's probably a decoction of Field Grass, isn't it?"

The woman stood as if rooted to the spot. The village headman approached and removed her dark blue cap with fringes. Byrkops, now hidden behind a wooden pillar, recognized the cap the first time he saw it, but he wasn't sure who it belonged to. When he saw it hanging on a nail in Borydel's house that night, he knew it belonged to Leodia. He recalled a day about a month ago, when the entire village was shaken by a terrible brawl in the blacksmith's house. Borydel had lost something at dice again, and Leodia intended to take revenge on him by throwing everything she could lay her hands on. The remorseful husband, fleeing into the yard, was struck first by that leather cap. Leodia probably decided it was best to hide his golden-yellow hair, which could be conspicuous in the darkness. Now the woman stood silently surrounded by the furious inhabitants of Górnopol.

"Zielopas and I suspected that the intimidated Borydel would try to get rid of the evidence before the judge arrived, so we decided to lie in wait to be sure. Imagine our surprise, however, when we spotted your figure sneaking out of the house at night. You sold our honor and the health of the players for a measly few crusaders," Grenvipor continued his accusations. "You even risked the health and life of your own husband."

"That's not true, I wanted to save him," Leodia finally said. Her voice held despair, but also a certain amount of relief that it was over. "Those from the Maćki family threatened that if he didn't pay back the money he lost playing dice with them, they would report him to the Prince's Guard, and from there, it was a short trip to the dungeons. I had to do something. Surely my husband is more important than some stupid match?

" "Did they threaten you?" the village headman asked

. Leodia buried her face in her hands. It was hard to believe this was the same untamed woman, widely known for her fiery temper. Now she seemed lost and defenseless.

"They couldn't forgive the debt; that would be suspicious, so they said that if I agreed to their plan, they would give me the money, which my husband would then pay back," she continued. "Their healer brewed this stuff and gave me a vial, which they then told me to return. They said the mixture might be useful to them. I poured a few drops into the cups I'd previously marked. My husband didn't know anything about it, I swear. I told him I had to clean the dishes thoroughly. Borydel never checks them, so he poured the wine for everyone equally.

" "How did the transaction come about?

" "I was supposed to bury the vial here, and then someone would come for it and plant the rest of the money." Leodia was now in full tears. "I'm so ashamed I let them talk me into this."

"That was really very stupid, but I think the matter can be resolved," Grenvipor continued. "Była and Bendzioś will lie in wait here and wait for that rascal with the flails, and then we will seriously deal with solving this vile plot. I remind you that we need him alive." He glanced at the slightly disappointed men standing next to him.

Leodia, along with village headman Grenvipor and the other men, left the barn, leaving only Baryła and Bendzioś on the battlefield, searching for suitable hiding places.

"So the mystery is solved," thought Byrkops, proud that he had contributed so much. "Thinking objectively, I have a good head, and I truly have an enviable intelligence."

Dawn slowly washed away the darkness of the night. Byrkops felt tired and would gladly have gone to his perch and gotten some sleep, but he knew he still had something important to attend to.

Szczytnik puffed out his chest proudly, ready for the morning wake-up call. He walked over to the waterer he always used to amplify his voice and gulped down several mouthfuls of water. Ginkgo, beautiful and plump as always, stood beside him, gazing at Szczytnik like a flawless picture. Seeing himself the center of the hen's attention, the rooster celebrated endlessly with preparations for the foam. He fluffed his comb, fluffed his feathers, and hopped onto a peg used for attaching a laundry line. Before uttering a sound, he puffed up like a peacock, and then the area was filled with a prolonged, loud puffing sound, though it didn't come from deep within Szczytnik's beak. The rooster looked at Ginkgo with great concern, no doubt hoping the hen hadn't noticed this indiscretion, when the next puffing took the form of a sudden gunshot that knocked the rooster off the peg. The hen couldn't help but notice this. Szczytnik was no longer in control, repeatedly blasting the area with gas blasts so powerful that his tail feathers flew everywhere. Within moments, there was no sign of the rooster, and the leaves floating above the bushes suggested that Szczytnik had rushed into the forest in dire need. Ginkgo looked around, hoping no one had seen her in the company of the vulgarly behaving stinker, and hurried to his henhouse.

Byrkops was genuinely amused as he watched the whole scene from the bakery roof. Szczytnik would remember to stay away from his territory for the rest of his life. It was worth pouring the last of the wine, poisoned by Ginkgo's decoction, into Szczytnik's waterer last night, he thought. He'd hurt his beak a bit, but he was still going to drop off a cup at Grenvipor's door, so he had a good trip.

It looked like a pretty nice day. Maybe he'll even invite Ginkgo for a little stroll. As soon as he gets over the shock, of course.

Byrkops was walking happily towards the henhouse when he suddenly stopped as if struck by lightning.

"By the horned cow," he cursed, greatly agitated. "I forgot about waking Baryła up in the morning again.

"