Prologue Whom the Gods love die young. ---Polish proverb Poland 1794 2 November All Souls' Day Swollen with recent rains, the river heaved and churned, flowing rapidly away from Warsaw, its burden of bodies propelled carelessly along, like so much flotsam. A partially clad woman clung to something as the current took her. A log? A piece of planking from the broken bridge? Delirious from the fall, she was certain she was dying--or had died. Her faith--or the hazy filaments of a childhood belief that she conjured now--suggested she might expect to ascend into heaven as if on wings. Or plummet to a hell she had thought little about. But she was being carried in an undulating line--like a weightless twig--through the drumming rush of water. The sparkling interplay of the afternoon sunshine on the water was deceiving, for the river was brutally cold. The woman's mind inexplicably fastened on to the mythical river that was thought to usher one to the Greek underworld. Her cousin had told her about it--the river Acheron, was it? She dared not open her eyes. What was she to expect in the underworld? There would be the fee for the ferry boat operator. Did she have any coins? She thought not, and without a coin he would not bring her across. Everyone knew that. Might she use her charms on him? Were charms of her kind taken as legal tender in the underworld? She had her doubts. Her heart felt the icy fingers of the river upon it. How was she to account for her life? The things she had done? The numbing water seemed to run faster now--like her fear--rushing her to her fate. The ancient Poles had believed that those who died by drowning were doomed to become water spirits, forever residing in the waters where they had met death. She imagined Marzanna, Goddess Death, waiting for her at the river's end, dressed in white and carrying her scythe. The woman pushed the Polish deity from her mind. At the age of twenty, she had run out of time. So? What of it? She had often proclaimed that the years of her youth were ducats to be spent. Wishing she had lived a better life was useless. Just as well, she thought--she had never been one for apologies. Or regrets. She was cold, cold to the bone. She took in a mouthful of water and coughed. Despite the urge, she knew not to move a hand to her face. To do so would cause her to lose her grip, and the river would draw her to its bottom. Her arms and hands were frozen in position, locked on to the object they were holding . . . holding. And if God was the Christian God of her parents' beliefs, she wondered, would he forgive her? With the numbing cold, she felt darkness descending--and the angry resignation that death was imminent. It was as certain as the fall of night's curtain. . . . Dog's blood! How had she come to such an ignominious end? * * * The villagers who had hurried down to the river's edge stared in horror at the cargo the River Vistula was carrying past them. Those transfixed with wide eyes were mostly women, their men having gone off to fight with Kosciuszko against the invading forces. An old man gawked much like the others--in silence--as the flotilla of human bodies moved steadily along. Sometimes a corpse became enmeshed in the weeds and foliage at the bank of the river, but the force of other bodies following a similar fateful journey goaded it once again on its way--or the water's strong current drew it down toward the murky bottom. In disbelief, the old man turned toward Warsaw; the city was a great distance away, twenty miles upriver, but he could see an eerie, orange glow and above that, thick black smoke rising high into the air. Had the capital fallen to the Russians? God help us all, he prayed. Then aloud: "God and the Black Madonna!" The man's grandson had braved the sight, going close to the shore. The old man called him back. This was no sight for a sixteen-year-old, even one already wounded in the patriots' cause. The boy seemed not to hear. "Jerzy, come back!" he called again. His grandson turned, a queer look on his face, and waved him forward. Without questioning, the old man obeyed. When he came to the shore, his eyes widened at the sight that held Jerzy spellbound. A raven-haired woman clung to what looked like planking that had become caught in the thick reeds and tubers at the river's side. Her skirt was red as blood, and she was naked above the waist. She was both young and beautiful, . . . Something about her told him she must certainly be noble. The old man saw now what Jerzy had seen. Little bubbles at her mouth. Damn! The woman was gasping for breath. She was alive! The peasant understood what his grandson meant to do and moved closer to assist. Jerzy immediately stepped into the water, reaching for the woman with one arm while the other linked him to his grandfather and to the river's bank. Jerzy tugged at one of the woman's arms, trying to force her to let go of what had held her afloat. Her skin was nearly blue. "Let go! Let go!" he cried. She remained insensible to his directions. The mouth seemed to twist and tighten. Her clawlike hands held fast. The current spun her body now, pulling her, whipping her legs and lower body out toward the river's middle, as if the river had mighty hands that would not allow her to be rescued. Jerzy held on, persisting in loosening her grip, pulling back one finger, then another. At last her hand came free and came to clasp his as he pulled her to him. Her other hand willingly released that which had held her afloat the long distance from Warsaw, and as the old man aided his grandson in pulling the woman to safety, he saw that she had set free the red uniformed body of a Russian soldier, its mustachioed face blue and bloated beneath the waters. Excerpted from Against a Crimson Sky by James Conroyd Martin All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
