Burnt (A Winter Story)
Felix R. Savage
for my godson Mirek
with apologies to Disney
Once upon a time in the magical kingdom of Syldavia, the winter winds slashed like icy knives at the King’s castle, and the guards shivered at their posts.
But it was warm inside the castle, where the little princes Krysztof and Marek were—as usual—playing with fire.
Krysztof, the elder of the boys by two years, had magical powers! He could make flames dance at the tips of his fingers, and throw fireballs that bounced along the stone corridors of the old castle like fiery kittens.
The King and Queen could hardly keep up with the repair bills.
They worried whether Krysztof would ever be able to control his powers well enough to reign as king.
Marek went around continually with bandaged fingers, blisters on his nose, and hair singed all to a frizzle. But he didn’t mind. It was so much fun playing with his big brother, and watching Krysztof’s fireballs bob and dance around the smoke-blackened rafters of the great hall.
Today, however, the boys had bad luck. A valuable old tapestry had just been restored to the great hall after years in storage. A fireball caught the edge of the tapestry. As the little princes watched in horror, flames engulfed the whole thing.
“Oh, no! You shouldn’t have done that!” Marek exclaimed. “Quick! We have to tell Mama and Tata!”
Krysztof rounded on him in fury. In fact, they could already hear the clanging bells of the castle’s fire brigade, ever ready to turn out at the first whiff of smoke. Krysztof knew that the King and Queen would know he was the culprit, whether or not he owned up. Who else started fires inside the castle? Guilt searing his heart, he shouted, “YOU tell them, you beastly little goody-goody!” His right hand lashed out. A fireball bloomed from his palm and flew straight into Marek’s face.
The fire brigade arrived just in time to roll Marek in soaked blankets. But the little prince was terribly injured.
Krysztof hovered by his bed, whispering over and over, “I’m sorry!” But Marek could not hear. He was barely clinging to life.
The King and Queen resolved to take him to the dragon who lived in nearby Wawel Forest.
The dragon was very old. Its scales glittered with enchantments, its ruby-red eyes gleamed with malice, and people said that one drop of its spittle could heal any ill.
Prodding Marek with one vast claw, it said, “If thine eye be pluck’st out, pluck out both of thine enemy’s eyes in return! If thine enemy takest thy cloak, take it back, and take his tunic, also! So wast it in the beginning, so is it, and so moot it always be. Phoooeh.”
It spat upon Marek.
“Get up, you nasty brat—and get out of my sight, or I’ll have roasted royals for supper!” the dragon screeched, as the king and queen rushed the boys back to their horses.
Marek was healed—but at a terrible price.
The dragon had laid a curse on him.
From that day forward, he hated his brother. Whatever Krysztof said or did, Marek would scoff at him. Often, he attacked him with fists and boots over trivial squabbles.
The King and Queen resolved to separate them. For Krysztof’s safety, Marek was sent to live at the Court of neighboring Borduria.
There he grew to manhood, a splendid rider and skilful huntsman, with a quick sword arm—and a quick temper, too.
When Marek was eighteen, the King and Queen of Syldavia tragically perished. They had been taking food and wine to the poorest of their subjects in Syldavia’s mountain villages, as they did every Christmas. Their entire party was swept away by an avalanche.
Now, Krysztof must be crowned King of Syldavia.
And now there was no one to stop Marek from coming home … with a dark resolve in his heart: to kill his brother, at last.
The coronation was a festive event. To distract the people—and himself—from the tragedy of the King and Queen’s death, Krysztof hired every musician, juggler, acrobat, and conjuror in the kingdom. Royal and titled guests travelled for hundreds of miles to attend the celebration.
Mingling with the crowd, Marek found that he was unexpectedly enjoying himself.
He met a young lady named Wanda. They were second cousins. He had met her before, when they were children, but he did not remember it! Now she was a grown-up maiden with cheeks like rose petals and hair like gold.
Marek and Wanda fell in love!
“It was awfully boring in Borduria, really,” Marek told her. “Nothing to do except ride and hunt.”
“What shall you do now that you’re back?” Wanda asked.
“I shall marry you,” Marek said, giving her a kiss, “and then … and then … I shall be king!”
His voice carried loudly through the hall.
The newly crowned King of Syldavia, Krysztof, limped through the gathering.
He was limping because he had fallen off his horse that morning.
Since the terrible day years ago when he almost killed his brother, Krysztof had been very careful never to get angry with anyone, in case he should accidentally hurt them. He never even scolded the servants. So the bad ones did their work badly, and the boy who looked after Krysztof’s horse was lazy. He had not even bothered to check the nails in the horse’s shoes. So it had thrown a shoe, and Krysztof had fallen off.
Nevertheless he looked very regal in his coronation robes.
“What did you say?” he enquired of his brother.
“I said,” Marek roared defiantly, “I shall be king! You’re not fit for the job! Nobody in Syldavia wants a king who sets fire to things when he’s annoyed!”
Everyone gasped in shock.
The fact was that no one at the gathering, except for a few old people who were too wise to gossip, knew about Krysztof’s magical powers. Ever since he accidentally hurt Marek as a child, Krysztof had not set fire to anything. Sometimes it was so hard that he cried, but he had resisted the temptation …
… until now.
“He even set fire to ME once!” Marek boomed, enjoying being the center of attention. “I’m surprised he hasn’t murdered anyone yet!”
Everyone shuffled nervously away from Krysztof.
And Marek sprang.
With his unsurpassed speed and agility, he drew his sword and lunged at the newly crowned King.
Krysztof reacted on pure instinct.
Lances of fire shot from his hands—
—NOT at Marek, but at the red carpet under their feet.
It caught fire.
A wall of flames sprang up between the brothers.
Marek had been scared of fire ever since he was little. He flinched back.
And Krysztof fled.
None of the guests tried to stop him. Some of them were busy running to fetch buckets of water. The others were too scared.
Krysztof left the castle. Because his horse was unshod, he trudged away on foot through the town.
If any brave person tried to speak to him, he threw fireballs at them.
He plodded out into the countryside, heading for the mountains where his parents had died, and where his tears touched the grass, it shrivelled and smoked.
Back at the castle, Marek huddled at the foot of the empty throne, groaning, “What have I done?”
“It’s all right,” Wanda said. “You didn’t hurt him!”
“I know!” Marek shot upright. “I MISSED!”
He stood grinding his teeth and clenching his fists in the middle of the great hall. Soaked with the water people had thrown on the burning carpet, his finery singed, his hair wild, he was a fearsome sight.
“I’m going after him!” he howled. “And THIS time I’ll skewer him like a rabbit!”
Wanda tried to hold him back, but Marek flung her off. He stormed out to the stables.
“Isn’t there a single decent horse in this castle?!” he yelled.
The stablehands, who had been loafing around as usual, tried to look diligent. But Marek was not fooled. He saw that the straw was dirty and the horses looked unhappy. He chased the stablehands away, and there and then he shod the king’s horse himself. He had learnt a lot about horses in Borduria, and he could see that this was the best horse in the stable, although she was not well looked after. Her name was Snowflake.
He galloped out of town with provisions in his saddlebags and his sword at his waist. He did not have a map, but he did not think he needed one. He could see where his brother had gone.
The mountains were on fire.
Mountains ringed the fertile plain of central Syldavia. To the east, the peaks were covered with pinewoods; to the south lay the pass to Borduria; to the west was the sea; to the north, the mountains were simply impassable.
That was the way Krysztof had gone.
He had started small fires as he went, mostly to keep warm, for it was January and he did not have a coat. But when he reached the feet of the Impassable Mountains, he found the road buried in snow. He decided to burn the snow out of his way.
Now as you know, snow does not burn.
It melts.
As Krysztof plodded up the road into the mountains, trickles and streams and rivers of melted snow washed down. At the same time, steam rose like fog, enshrouding the lower slopes. People watching nervously from afar saw the fog rising higher and higher up the sides of the mountains. Within those clammy banks of fog, fires flickered like windows into hell.
This was the ghastly landscape into which Marek rode on the third night of his journey. Rivulets of water coursed over muddy rocks. Charred trees leaned, half-uprooted by the earlier floods. There was a horrid smell of wet ashes. The road had been washed away. The fog lay so thickly that Marek could not see more than a stone’s throw in any direction.
Snowflake whinnied nervously.
“It’s all right, girl,” Marek said.
But he knew that he was lost.
“What do you seek?”
Marek twisted in his saddle.
A beautiful girl walked through the trees. Her feet were bare, her skin as white as snow, and her eyes were greener than emeralds.
“Lady,” Marek said. “What are you doing here?”
Her green eyes brimmed with tears. “The king burned my home,” she said. “It is all in ashes. He burned it and passed on without saying a word.”
“Oh, he did, did he? I’m not surprised!” Marek ground his teeth. “Did you see which way he went?”
The girl mutely pointed.
“Climb up behind me.” Marek reached down and helped the girl up onto Snowflake’s back. “We’ll soon track down that dastardly pyromaniac! I’ll make him pay for his crimes.”
Clinging to Marek’s waist, the girl directed him through the fog. She seemed to know every fold and crag of the mountains. Her voice was soft and sweet, but her touch was very cold. And this was no wonder, for she was a rusalka, an evil faerie of the mountains. The dragon of Wawel Forest had sent her to help Marek reach his brother and finish him off.
“Up there,” the rusalka said, pointing.
Marek gulped. They had finally climbed out of the fog. Above them, a steep peak loomed.
Normally, at this time of year, the peak should have been blanketed in snow. But Krysztof had melted it all. Bare rock speared into the night sky, and at the tippy-top of the peak, an enormous bonfire burned.
“It is very steep,” Marek said doubtfully. “Too steep for Snowflake.”
“You’re not giving up now, are you?”
“No! I certainly am not!”
Marek dismounted. He gave Snowflake the last apple out of the saddlebags. Then he handed the reins to the girl.
“Look after Snowflake for me,” he said.
And he began to climb.
As soon as he was out of sight, Snowflake whinnied, reared, and threw the rusalka off. The rusalka melted into mist as she hit the ground, and then reformed into the shape of a girl. Her green eyes glowed. “STAY,” she said in a mean voice. Snowflake shivered, and stood with her head hanging.
Marek scrambled up the mountain. The sharp rocks cut his hands and bruised his knees. At first, the winter wind sliced at him, but soon he began to feel the heat of the bonfire burning above.
As he came closer to the peak, he saw that it was not a bonfire, but a castle all made of fire.
“Let it go … let it go …” Inside the fiery castle, Krysztof was singing to himself as he put the finishing touches on his throne room. He had melted rock into magma and let it harden into a throne with a dragon’s head on the back. Fiery will-o’-the-wisps danced like flowers beneath the arched ceiling of flame. Because of his magical powers, fire did not burn him the way it would burn other people. It had burned his clothes off, though. He had replaced them with robes made of yellow and orange and pure white fire.
Krysztof had never allowed himself to experiment with his powers like this before. But now that he was all alone, he did not have to worry about what other people would think.
He was having fun!
“Let it go, let it go,” he sang at the top of his lungs.
“What’s that Godawful racket?!” a familiar voice bellowed.
Krysztof spun. His brother stomped into the fiery hall. There was enough room between the walls for Marek to enter without getting burned up, but there were smoking holes in his coat, and he kept slapping at sparks that landed on his shoulders and sleeves.
“You can run,” he bellowed at Krysztof, “but you can’t hide! Especially not when you’re lighting fires that can be seen all over the country!”
“Leave me alone!” Krysztof cried. “As you said, I’m not fit to be king! Let me stay up here by myself!”
“I certainly will,” Marek shouted, drawing his sword. “When you’re DEAD, you’ll be alone forever!”
He was very frightened. It had taken all he had to walk into the fiery castle. But his fear made him even angrier. This time, he was going to spit his brother on his sword! He rushed at Krysztof.
Shrinking against the throne, Krysztof conjured a wall of flame between them.
But the rusalka had cast a spell on Marek to protect him!
He crashed through the flames, smoking but unhurt!
Krysztof yelled in terror and darted behind the throne.
“Stop running away and fight like a man!” Marek howled.
Krysztof did not have a sword.
So he conjured up a sword of fire.
It clashed with Marek’s sword, and instantly melted it to a dripping stump!
“Hey! That’s not FAIR!” Marek shouted.
Krysztof slashed again at Marek’s face.
The rusalka’s spell protected Marek, but he was too confused and frightened to realize it. He dropped his ruined sword and retreated.
“That’s right! Run away, and never come back!” Krysztof yelled.
And he hurled his sword of fire at Marek. It twisted in the air and stuck to the outside of the spell of protection, sizzling. It looked as if Marek had a burning cross stuck to his back.
Witless with terror, Marek plunged out of the fiery castle. He half slithered, half fell back down the bare crags, back to where the rusalka and Snowflake were waiting.
“Did you kill him?” the rusalka said eagerly.
Marek lay in a half-conscious heap at her feet.
The rusalka could tell Marek had failed. The fiery castle on the mountain-top burned as brightly as ever. If Krysztof were dead, the fires would have gone out!
“The dragon of Wawel Forest will be very angry,” she said.
She knew that the dragon wanted Krysztof gone. It did not like anyone ELSE setting fire to things in Syldavia!
Snowflake nuzzled Marek’s head. He moaned.
The fiery sword stuck to his back continued to sizzle and hiss. Although the flames had died down, it was still glowing like red-hot iron.
“My spell of protection cannot hold against that for long,” the rusalka said nervously. “Sooner or later, the sword will dissolve it, and that will be the end of him!” She melted into mist for a moment, and then made up her mind. “We had better take him to the dragon.”
Snowflake willingly allowed Marek to be heaved onto her back, although she refused to let the rusalka mount. The evil faerie had to walk. She flitted ahead like a wisp of mist, leading the horse and her unconscious rider down the mountain.
Wawel Forest was quite nearby. As dawn was breaking, they reached slopes where the trees were unburned, and soon they approached the dragon’s lair, a cave overhung by moss-covered rocks.
The dragon thumped its tail in irritation. “My magic availst not against fire,” it said. “That is why I wished the fool Krysztof dead in the first place! Only fire can fight fire! The young king is a threat to ME!”
The rusalka grovelled. “Then this man is of no more use to you? I may have him?”
“I did not say that,” the dragon grumbled. It hated to admit defeat!
A short distance away, Snowflake stood beneath the ancient trees, stamping uneasily. She was a very intelligent horse, and knew that she was in the presence of evil. Yet she would not desert the man who had kindly shod her, and brushed her coat, and given her apples while going without himself.
A cool breeze whispered through the trees.
Snowflake raised her head.
A ray of the morning sun found its way down to the forest floor, and in it for a moment, two figures seemed to stand. They were clothed in light, and light shone from their faces. They were the late King and Queen.
“Dear Snowflake,” the King said. Neither the birds nor the squirrels could hear him. (The few animals that lived near the dragon’s lair were nasty, scavenging creatures.) The King’s words were for Snowflake alone. “You are a brave, good horse. Will you be brave again for Us?”
Snowflake snuffled. Delicately, she stepped over the squelching moss towards the figures of light.
“Our son Marek is under a curse,” the Queen whispered. “It is the dragon’s doing. We were wrong to seek help from that evil beast. And now both our sons are paying for our mistake.”
“Only one thing can break the curse,” the King said. “An act of true love.”
Snowflake whinnied questioningly.
“Take him home, Snowflake!” the Queen said. “True love awaits at home!”
Snowflake pushed her nose into the ray of sunlight.
The two figures vanished, leaving a perfume behind them that, for a moment, made the slimy, dark forest a sweeter place.
Snowflake threw back her head and trotted back to the dragon’s lair.
Outside the noisome cave, the dragon was prodding Marek with its claws. It had decided to let the rusalka have her way with him, but it wanted to wake him up first, so as to enjoy his terror.
Marek groaned. His eyes opened.
He saw the dragon stooping over him, its hateful eyes gleaming.
And then he saw Snowflake cantering towards him.
He gave a great shout and struggled to his feet. The dragon swiped at him, but missed.
“Go to hell, you ugly worm!” Marek shouted. He ran to the horse. The fiery sword still smouldered on his back, but he hardly noticed the discomfort in his desperation to escape from the dragon. Snowflake slowed down, and he leapt astride. “Oh, you beauty! Go, Snowflake, go!”
The rusalka darted at them, screeching. Her face was twisted into a frightful grimace, and her green eyes bulged out of her head. Marek was astonished that he had ever thought her pretty.
“Mine!” she screeched.
Marek rode straight at her, and Snowflake trampled her into shreds of mist. The horse had never liked the rusalka one bit.
Marek felt faint. But he bent low over Snowflake’s neck and urged her into a gallop. They rode away from the dragon’s lair, while behind them the dragon roared in vexation and charred the forest floor with its breath.
While the rusalka was guiding Snowflake towards the dragon’s lair, Krysztof had been having second thoughts.
Slumped on his fiery throne, he desperately regretted fighting his brother.
He knew that the red-hot magical sword stuck to Marek’s back must burn him to the bone. Marek would die in agony. And it was all Krysztof’s fault!
Marek had been right!
Krysztof was a murderer. He was not fit to live, let alone to rule Syldavia!
As dawn touched the mountain-top, he decided that there was only one thing for it. He must go home and face the music.
He would probably be condemned to death for killing his brother. So be it!
“Let it go,” he whispered. “Let it go.” Taking a deep breath, he willed the flames around him to go out. The castle of fire dwindled to a house of fire, and then to a shed, and then to nothing.
Krysztof’s fiery robes vanished, too.
Only the dragon-headed throne remained, poised on the now-cold summit.
Naked and shivering, Krysztof scrambled down the mountain. The fog had dispersed. Struggling through the charred trees, he met a group of woodsmen taking stock of the damage. (None of the people who lived in the mountain villages had been hurt, nor had their houses been burned. Krysztof had been careful about that.) The woodsmen were astonished to see their king in such a state. They did not think much of him for it. But these were some of the people whom the late King and Queen had always helped, bringing them presents at Christmas and paying them fairly for their timber and furs. For the sake of Krysztof’s parents, they gave him trousers and a tunic, and lent him one of their donkeys to ride.
Thus dressed as a peasant, riding a stubborn donkey, Krysztof crept shamefully back towards the Syldavian capital.
The donkey kept stopping to eat grass, so Marek got there first.
He slid off Snowflake’s back and lay on his face, groaning, in the courtyard of the castle.
The rusalka’s spell of protection was wearing off.
The red-hot sword stuck to Marek’s back was slowly burning through his clothes. Soon it would burn his flesh. He was already in great pain.
The servants, courtiers, and a few guests left over from the disastrous coronation party gathered around him, staring fearfully.
Golden-haired Wanda was there. She wrapped a sack around her hand and tried to pull the sword off, but as soon as she touched it, it burst into flame. She reeled away, tearing the burning sack off her hand. Some men stamped on it to put it out.
“He’s dying,” she shouted at them. “Are you all just going to stand there?”
Everyone shuffled their feet and looked away. It was terrible to see Marek suffering so, but the fact was that none of them knew him very well, since he had been away most of his life. And what they had seen of him they did not like.
Wanda, however, had seen Marek’s kindly heart. That was why she had fallen in love with him.
She ran up to her father, a knight, and snatched his sword from the scabbard that hung at his belt. Perhaps no mortal remedy would prevail against Krysztof’s magic, but Wanda could not just stand there. There must be SOMETHING she could do!
She tried to lever the fiery sword away from Marek’s back with the tip of her father’s sword. All that happened was Marek’s coat tore, and the fiery sword began to burn through his shirt.
“Give it up, my dear,” her father said. “He’s a goner.”
At that moment Krysztof rode into the courtyard on his donkey.
Wanda let out a scream. “There he is!”
She ran at him, sword raised.
“You’ve killed him, you vile murderer! You’ve slain your own brother!”
Krysztof did not say a word in his own defense. His first glance had taken in the dreadful sight of Marek lying, apparently lifeless, on the cobblestones. He slid off the donkey and knelt, mutely bending his neck for the blow that he knew must fall. He deserved it!
But Marek was not quite lifeless.
Not yet.
Aroused by the commotion, he sat up.
He saw his beloved Wanda standing over Krysztof with a sword raised in both hands. All the courtiers and servants were cheering her on.
Forgetting the agony in his back, Marek shot to his feet and sprinted towards them.
As if a ray of sunlight had pierced his mind, he realized that Krysztof was meekly preparing to die for his crimes.
And that was wrong! It was not fair!
It had been MAREK who started it!
Wanda swung the sword at Krysztof’s neck. With the last of his strengh, Marek hurled himself on top of his brother, protecting him.
Wanda’s sword clanged onto the red-hot sword stuck to Marek’s back. She dropped it with a yelp.
BOTH swords fell to the ground, and melted into a mingled puddle of steel and fire that ran in rivulets between the cobblestones, until it cooled.
“You’re squashing me,” Krysztof grunted.
“Sorry,” Marek said. Dazed, he rolled off his brother.
His back hurt like anything.
But he was alive!
And Krysztof was alive!
He sat up. “Good to see you back, brother,” he said with a grin.
Krysztof’s self-sacrificial act of true love had broken the dragon’s curse.
Marek could not even remember why he had resented his mild-mannered, yet noble-hearted brother so much.
“Welcome home, Marek,” Krysztof said. And he hugged him.
Wanda apologized from her heart for trying to kill Krysztof. Both brothers told her not to worry about it.
“Thanks to you,” Krysztof said, “justice was done.”
Marek and Wanda got engaged. They were to be married in summer.
Krysztof tried to abdicate in favor of his brother. But Marek refused to accept the crown. “It’s yours!” He grew thoughtful for a moment. “This is how Mama and Tata would have wanted it.”
“I can think of something else they would have wanted, too,” Krysztof said grimly.
“Yes.” Marek patted the neck of the faithful Snowflake. Krysztof had given her to him. “And we’d better not waste any more time!”
As soon as Marek’s back healed, the brothers rode out once more towards the north.
The Impassable Mountains once again glared white with snow. The dead trees stuck out like burned sticks. When summer came, new saplings would spring up. Krysztof had been coming out here every so often with cartloads of supplies, to help the woodsmen and their families through the winter.
But today, the small party turned aside into Wawel Forest.
Marek was on Snowflake. Krysztof rode a big, steady bay. Wanda was with them, too, riding a gray palfrey. A score of courtiers followed with buckets.
As they neared the dragon’s lair, Krysztof spurred ahead.
“Come out of your hole, you hideous worm!” he shouted. “My brother and I have unfinished business with you!”
Then followed a terrific battle. Flames lanced across the sky and stabbed the forest. The unearthly thunder of colliding fireballs was heard all the way in Borduria.
The battle went on most of the day. As the sun sank, the dragon bowed to the inevitability of defeat. It fled northward across the Impassable Mountains, screeching in frustration. It had thrown everything it had at the brothers, but its searing breath could not out-burn Krysztof’s fireballs, and its enchantments were no match for the bond of love that shielded the two.
As the dragon itself had said before, you can only fight fire with fire.
But with love, you can fight anything.
The brothers cantered back to Wanda and the waiting courtiers, singed but happy. The courtiers had filled their buckets with water from a stream, in case they had to put out fires, but because the trees around the dragon’s lair were so slimy and soggy, they did not burn very well. The buckets were still full. Snowflake and the bay drank thirstily.
“Well, that’s one dragon that won’t trouble us again for a while!” Marek declared. “Krysztof has chased him off beyond the Impassable Mountains. He won’t dare show his ugly nose in Syldavia again!”
“At last, I found a good use for my fireballs,” Krysztof said, smiling. “Let’s go home.”
And so home they went.
In time, Krysztof married a gentle girl named Elena. They had six children, whom Krysztof would amuse by juggling fireballs … very small ones.
Marek and Wanda got married, too. They had four children. With his men, Marek patrolled the Impassable Mountains on Snowflake’s back, making sure that the dragon never dared to return.
The curse it had laid on him was a distant memory.
But he carried a scar on his back in the shape of a cross until the end of his days.
