A little-known Polish fairy tale by Bolesław Prus
"Of the Sleeping Maiden and the Enchanted Treasures at the Bottom of the Stream” A less known polish fairy tale by Bolesław Prus Long ago, when water cascaded freely over smooth stones, a stream carved its way through the land. T oday, that stream only awakens with the spring thaw or a fierce downpour. Beneath its ancient bed rested a boulder, heavy and smooth, as though it had sealed away a secret. And indeed, beneath that stone lay a portal to the underworld, a hidden realm said to guard treasures beyond imagination—riches the world itself could scarcely fathom.
There, on a bed of gold, lay a sleeping maiden, adorned in finery befitting a countess.
This maiden was trapped in a deep, cursed slumber, for a golden pin had been driven into her head—whether out of spite, fear, or some forgotten ritual, no one could say. Only by removing the pin and wedding her could she be freed. Yet, this was no simple task; the caverns below were rife with terrors, fierce guardians of the maiden and her wealth. Even the bravest souls who yearned for her beauty or the glittering gold feared the perils of that abyss. For generations, the tale was whispered and retold. On Easter and St. John’s Day, when the stone rolled aside, those bold enough to stand by the stream could glimpse into the yawning dark and behold its wonders.
One Easter, a young blacksmith from Zaslavl, weary of the hammer and bellows, stood by the stream. His eyes, hardened by the forge, softened at the sight of the shadowed realm beneath the water.
“If only these treasures could be mine, ” he mused.
“A handful would mean freedom from this life of toil. ”
As if summoned by his thoughts, the stone shifted. Before him lay heaps of gold, silver goblets, and splendid garments fit for a king’s court. But his gaze was drawn to the maiden at the heart of the trove. Her beauty stole his breath.
Though her eyes were closed, tears traced silent paths down her cheeks, each tear crystallizing into a gem the moment it touched her gown, the golden bed, or the cold stone floor. She sighed, a sound so full of pain that even the wind in the trees shivered in sympathy. The blacksmith, heart pounding, reached to step inside, but the moment passed too quickly, and the stone settled once more with a final, bubbling whisper. From that day, the blacksmith could find no peace. The vision of the maiden haunted him, her tear-streaked face etched into his mind. He worked, but the forge felt lifeless; the clang of metal on metal dulled to a distant echo.
A yearning gnawed at him, searing as if with molten iron. Desperate, he sought the wisdom of an old herb-woman. He placed a silver ruble in her gnarled hand and begged for guidance.
“There is but one way, ” she said, her eyes shadowed with knowing.
“Return at St. John’s Day, wait for the stone to part, and enter the depths. Pull the pin from her head, and she will awaken. Marry her, and you shall be blessed with a life of untold riches. But heed my words:when the terrors rise and your courage wavers, cross yourself and call upon God’s name. Fear will grant them power; bravery keeps them at bay.
” “How will I know when fear has gripped me?” he asked.
The old woman chuckled dryly.
“Step into the abyss, and you will know. ”
For two long months, the blacksmith lingered by the stream, his resolve hardening like tempered steel. As the sun reached its peak on St. John’s Day, the stone moved aside. Gripping his axe, he plunged into the dark. Creatures of nightmare surrounded him—bats with wings as wide as wolves, their flight rustling the air like a storm. T oads the size of millstones lumbered across his path, and serpents slithered through the shadows, hissing and coiling around his legs. One snake spoke in a voice like a wailing child, its cries sharp and brittle. Wolves glared with eyes aflame, their frothing maws dripping fire that sizzled and scorched the stone.
They clawed at him, but none dared strike, sensing the fire in his heart that kept fear at bay.
“You will perish here, blacksmith!” shrieked the horrors.
He met their threats with defiance, clutching his axe so tightly his knuckles blanched. Finally, he reached the golden bed where the maiden lay, even the dark’s sentinels dared not touch her. He grasped the golden pin embedded in her head and began to pull. As it moved, crimson blood welled and ran down her pale brow.
Suddenly, her eyes flew open, and she clutched at his coat, her voice shattering the silence.
“Why do you wound me, stranger?”
Fear surged through the blacksmith’s veins, cold as winter’s breath. His hands faltered, and in that heartbeat of hesitation, the creatures lunged. The one with the widest mouth struck, its blow so fierce that blood sprayed across the chamber, spattering the stone walls. With that, the stone closed with a final, resounding thud, sealing the window to the underworld forever.
The stream dried to a trickle, and the maiden remained trapped, half-awake, her cries echoing beneath the earth. To this day, her weeping can be heard on the wind, a lament that haunts the meadows and forests, destined to outlast the ages.