They only ever let the neighbors in through the wicket gate on the road. The wicket gate was in one side of the main gateway, and the gateway wasn’t just an ordinary gateway. It was twice as high as the fence, and it had a shingled roof and two figures on either side. I don’t remember which particular saints they were. The fence itself was tall. The tallest person in the village was Uncle Jan, and he couldn’t touch the top even when he went up on tiptoe and stretched out his hand. A rattle hung on the wicket gate, you had to rattle it and someone would come down from the house and let you in. But try getting in through the woods and right away they’d be coming at you with crowbars, sicking their dogs on you. You’d have to go back to the wicket gate and shake the rattle.
You wouldn’t have gotten any beans from them, though, because they were all carvers. The grandfather made carvings, he was old as the hills, he had cataracts but if you could have seen him carving away you’d never have believed he couldn’t see. How he did it I have no idea. Maybe he made his hands look? His three grandsons, Stach, Mietek, and Zenek, they were all carvers. All strapping guys, though you’d never see them out with young ladies. You only ever saw them carving. The only one who wasn’t a carver was their father. He’d cut blocks of wood for them to make their carvings out of, rough-hew them. He probably would have made carvings as well but he was missing these three fingers here on this hand, they were blown off in the war before the last war. But he somehow managed with chopping and hewing. Word was the great-grandfather had been a carver, and the great-great-grandfather, and there was no telling how far back in time you’d have to go with those carver ancestors, because from what they said everyone in their family had made carvings since time immemorial. Even on Sundays, after the service or high mass they’d come back from church and right away they’d start carving what they’d heard from the Gospel so as not to forget it. They had plans to carve the whole Gospel, because as the grandfather put it, the world was the way God described it, not the way people saw it.
Their whole yard was littered with those carvings of theirs, they stood them all the way up into the woods. They went further and further. That may have been another reason they didn’t build a fence on the side of the woods. You couldn’t turn a wagon round in their yard, you had to back up. When they’d lead the cows out to pasture they had to mind they didn’t knock the carvings over. Cats would lie about on them sunning themselves. Sometimes their dog would start yapping out of the blue, they’d rush out of the house thinking someone must have come in from the woods, but it would turn out the dog was only barking at one of the carvings. Just as well he was on a short leash. Mrs. Kużdżał would go out to throw grain down for her poultry and people would laugh and say she was feeding the carvings, because they were getting bigger and bigger.
They weren’t regular carvings like you might imagine. I can see you’re a decent height yourself, but those carvings were way bigger than either you or me. “The Last Supper,” for instance, when they started carving that they made a clearing in the woods. The table alone was like several of these tables of mine, the benches were several times the size of my benches. And even so, the apostles were sitting so close to each other that it seemed there wasn’t any room for Jesus. He was squashed between one apostle who stood with a glass in his outstretched hand, and another one who was already asleep with his head on the table, and he was a lot smaller than the others. If they’d all stood up next to one another he wouldn’t even have come up to their waists. He was already wearing his crown of thorns, and he seemed worried about something; his head rested on his hand. From the other side of the table another one of the apostles was reaching out toward the crown of thorns as if he wanted to lift it off his head because it was too soon for it, but he couldn’t reach it. On the table there were pitchers of wine, and each one of them, I don’t own anything to compare with it. That big jug over there, or that bucket, they’d be too small. As for the bread, I don’t recall ever seeing such huge loaves being baked anywhere. And back then people would bake loaves that weighed over twenty pounds. They were going to add a roof over the scene, but they didn’t manage to.
I couldn’t tell you what those carvings were worth. Back then I was simply afraid of them. But can fear be a measure for carvings? Especially when you’re the age I was then. When mother sent me over there on some errand, to ask about something or borrow something, I’d tell her they didn’t have any or that nobody had been home. Did you shake the rattle? I did, but no one came out. Actually I don’t think she believed me, because a short while later she’d send over one of my sisters, Jagoda or Leonka, but she’d do it so I wouldn’t see.
You never heard of them trying to sell any of their carvings. Who would they have sold them to? Take them to market? What an idea. And who would come all the way out here to the village to buy carvings? People came for foodstuffs, like I said, beans, flour, kasha. Though one time the grandfather, that’s right, the blind one, he went to ask the priest for permission to put one or two of the carvings up in the church. But the priest wouldn’t allow it because none of them had gone to any school to learn to carve.
Sometimes I’d have dreams about those carvings. I’d jerk awake in the middle of the night with a shout, bathed in sweat. Mother would think I was coming down with something. I’d have to drink herbs and eat honey because I was afraid to tell her it was the carvings. I don’t know why. Maybe I was afraid that I was afraid. And of carvings on top of everything. Every fear has different levels, as you know. One kind of fear tears you from your sleep, another kind makes you fall asleep. And yet another kind … But there’s no point talking about it. The carvings are gone, the Kużdżałs are gone. Besides, I actually liked honey, though the herbs made me scrunch up my face. But mother would stand over me, drink it all up, it’ll do you good.
Do you like herbs? Then you’re like me. But I bet you like honey? I’ll give you a jar to take with you. At least you won’t be mad at yourself for making a wasted trip. I have my own, not store-bought. Here at the edge of the woods, maybe you noticed, there’s a handful of hives, they’re mine. There aren’t that many of them but when it’s a good year I get oodles of honey. I couldn’t eat it all myself. I’ve got some from a couple of years ago, the best kind is when it’s left to stand awhile. When someone does a favor for me I’ll thank them with honey if they won’t let me pay them. Or like now, in the off-season, whenever anyone comes to visit they won’t leave without a jar of honey. Or if someone has a name day party in one of the cabins, I’ll go wish them all the best and at least take a jar of honey as a gift. Or where there are children, I always remember children even without any special occasion. Children ought to eat honey.
But honey’s best when it’s drunk. How? You put a teaspoon of honey in half a glass of lukewarm water. Let it stand till the next morning. Squeeze in a half or a quarter of lemon, stir it, and drink it on an empty stomach at least half an hour before breakfast. If it’s too cold, add just a dash of hot water. It’s pure goodness. Good for your heart, for rheumatism. Honey’s good for everything. It’ll keep you from catching cold. When I was young and I worked on building sites, one time we roomed at the house of this one beekeeper and he taught me all that. But back then who gave a thought to drinking honey? There was never the time. And if you were going to drink anything it would be vodka. In those days vodka was the best for everything, not honey.
What kind do you prefer, heather or honey-dew? The honey-dew is from conifers, not deciduous trees, it’s virtually black, it’s much better. In that case I’ll give you a jar of each. My favorite is buckwheat honey. There used to be a guy here grew a lot of buckwheat. Three days ago I repainted his nameplate. The buckwheat hadn’t even begun to flower and already he’d be putting up hives in it. I used to go watch him collecting honey from those hives of his. He’d be wearing a hood with a net over his face, and I’d just be there. And you won’t believe it, but I never got stung by a bee. They’d land on me, but they never did a thing. He couldn’t get over it. You’re a strange kid, that you are. I’m the beekeeper here … Go bring a pot. And he’d pour me some honey straight from the hive.