Krakow's Story
Twice a day, the Guards on their splendid horses marched from their barracks to the Castle walls, relieving the patient troop whose duty was over, and who marched back in tight formation, a military precision as intricate and dependable as the panoply of bells that rang hourly from the church towers. Wawel Castle, overlooking the Vistula River, with its ancient stonework now rosy in the dawn light, held the Royal Court, and the King was at home. High atop the stonework, in a protected niche that kept the wind from all but his face, sat the gargoyle.
He had stared, impassively, through a century of upheaval, invasion, and peace. Below him in the quickening light, tiny figures began their daily chores, from sweeping steps to the gathering of manure piles left from the day before. There were wisps of smoke trailing from chimneys, and the fragrant sharpness of grilling sausage and baking bread. A prosperous city, proud of its architecture, strong in its industry, ringed with defensive walls that were watched over and tended with particular care when the King was in residence. The unspoken fear and sorrow was that the King, Sigismund II, was dying, and he has no Royal Heir to carry on.
The gargoyle knew nothing of this, human life being so fleeting in his unblinking gaze that he thought of them, when he did, as a child would think of an anthill or a colony of rabbits. He watched their remote pantomimes, witnessed and noted their festivals and riots, and in his eyes the pauper and the King were indistinguishable. His view, from the lead roof below him to the Florian Gate, had given him the vantage point over many processions, and today the streets in front of the Castle were covered in straw to mute the sound of hooves and wheels, so that the dying King may sleep.
As the Church bells began to ring out, uncharacteristically early, the gargoyle passively watched as people began to come out of their houses and shops, and gather together in clumps, gossiping, questioning. The vigil was over, and the King was dead. Although they could not know it, and the gargoyle could not care, his passing was the end of a golden era, and within a few years, the city of Krakow, the ancient and proud city, would fall under French rule, and would never again achieve its current prominence. For though the distant lives and intrigues were remote from the gargoyle's comprehension, just like the rain and the halny wind that ate away at his exposed stone skin, they eroded and changed the city before his very eyes.
He had stared, impassively, through a century of upheaval, invasion, and peace. Below him in the quickening light, tiny figures began their daily chores, from sweeping steps to the gathering of manure piles left from the day before. There were wisps of smoke trailing from chimneys, and the fragrant sharpness of grilling sausage and baking bread. A prosperous city, proud of its architecture, strong in its industry, ringed with defensive walls that were watched over and tended with particular care when the King was in residence. The unspoken fear and sorrow was that the King, Sigismund II, was dying, and he has no Royal Heir to carry on.
The gargoyle knew nothing of this, human life being so fleeting in his unblinking gaze that he thought of them, when he did, as a child would think of an anthill or a colony of rabbits. He watched their remote pantomimes, witnessed and noted their festivals and riots, and in his eyes the pauper and the King were indistinguishable. His view, from the lead roof below him to the Florian Gate, had given him the vantage point over many processions, and today the streets in front of the Castle were covered in straw to mute the sound of hooves and wheels, so that the dying King may sleep.
As the Church bells began to ring out, uncharacteristically early, the gargoyle passively watched as people began to come out of their houses and shops, and gather together in clumps, gossiping, questioning. The vigil was over, and the King was dead. Although they could not know it, and the gargoyle could not care, his passing was the end of a golden era, and within a few years, the city of Krakow, the ancient and proud city, would fall under French rule, and would never again achieve its current prominence. For though the distant lives and intrigues were remote from the gargoyle's comprehension, just like the rain and the halny wind that ate away at his exposed stone skin, they eroded and changed the city before his very eyes.
Story and photo by Joanie Berkwitz.