[Sound effects: clang of the anvil, horses neighing, sounds of a village forge]
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Kuba stood by the anvil and was sweating hard. He had a leather apron, he had a hammer, he had glowing hot iron. He was a blacksmith, and he was shoeing a horse.
Then footsteps sounded behind him. Heavy, confident, metallic.
Kuba turned around.
Before him stood a knight. Tall, in silver armor, with the visor partly lowered. But the eyes—those yellow, sly eyes—Kuba had seen them somewhere before.
“I want golden horseshoes,” said the knight.
“Golden?” Kuba squinted. “Gold is too soft. The horse would slip at every turn.”
“Doesn’t matter. I want golden ones. Make them.”
“I won’t.”
The knight laughed. The laugh was sharp, unpleasant, and oddly familiar.
“Then I won’t pay. For anything.” He waved at the finished horseshoes. “Goodbye, blacksmith.”
And he walked away, clanking in his armor.
“Hey!” Kuba shouted. “Come back here! That’s theft!”
But the knight had already vanished around the corner.
Crash.
Kuba opened his eyes.
Cabin. Ship. The creaking of wood and the rush of waves.
By the bunk stood Patrycja with a cup of tea and a barely hidden smile.
“Captain Kuba. You were snoring again like a cannon.”
“I dreamed I was a blacksmith,” Kuba muttered. “A customer came, wanted golden horseshoes, and didn’t want to pay for anything.”
“Kuba,” Patrycja said patiently, “you’re not a blacksmith. You’re the captain of a ship.”
“A pirate ship,” added Ala from the window without opening her eyes, covered with one wing like a blanket.
“Ala, I told you to go on watch,” said Kuba.
“I am on watch,” Ala muttered. “Inner watch. I’m guarding the cabin.”
(And now a little hint for the listeners—Kuba is still sleeping in a hammock by the lake. The ship, the cabin, Patrycja with tea—that’s his dream. And just before that he dreamed of a blacksmith inside a dream about a ship. A dream inside a dream? For Kuba—absolutely.)
Kuba put on his hat and went up to the deck.
Agata stood by the maps. There were dark circles under her eyes from a sleepless night, but she stood straight.
“That ship,” Kuba said from the doorway.
“It sailed on,” Agata said. “It didn’t even change course. Storm, darkness, high waves—we were invisible to them. Or they had more important matters on the other side of the island.”
“What were they doing for that hour?”
“I don’t know,” Agata said calmly. “But that will be explained later.” She smiled slightly. “We waited until it disappeared beyond the horizon. That’s why you went to sleep so late. And that’s why you snored like a cannon.”
“I do not snore like a cannon,” Kuba said with dignity.
“Captain,” said Alfred from the door, entering with a plate of ant cookies, “I heard you from the kitchen.”
“The kitchen is on the other side of the ship,” said Kuba.
“Exactly,” said Alfred.
There was a moment of silence.
“Go rest, Agata,” said Kuba. “Your watch is over. A watch is a duty on a ship—each sailor stays alert for a few hours so someone is always keeping lookout. Now it’s my turn.”
Agata nodded gratefully and left.
Kuba looked at the map. Island of the Wild Pigs. Irregular shape, rocky shores, a hill in the middle. And a small X—the hiding place of the chest with the Book of Potions.
Just then, a cry rang out from the crow’s nest.
“Smoke!” shouted Red Panda. “I can see smoke from the island!”
Kuba rushed onto the deck. Above the green band of jungle rose white clouds of smoke—three quick puffs, a pause, then three more.
Patrycja was already beside him with a spyglass.
“Regular. Someone’s doing it on purpose,” she muttered.
“That’s Morse code!” said Red Panda, sliding down the mast.
“I don’t think so,” said Zofia, peeking out of the kitchen with a ladle in her hand. “Morse code was invented much later than pirate times.”
Everyone looked at her.
“How do you know?” asked Red Panda.
“I read,” said Zofia, and returned to the kitchen.
Silence.
“I read too,” muttered Patrycja, opening her notebook. “Well then. Smoke signals. Three short puffs with pauses—almost everywhere and always meant one thing: I’m here, I need help.”
“Someone is calling for help,” said Kuba. “We’re sailing there.”
They docked at the beach. Kuba, Patrycja, Zofia, and Red Panda went ashore. Alfred, Agata, and Ala stayed on the ship.
“Be careful,” said Alfred, wrinkling his nose toward the island. “After yesterday’s chase after that mysterious ship in the storm, we need to be especially cautious.”
Kuba stood on the beach and looked around. Dense jungle, huge trees, colorful birds screaming in the treetops, the smell of flowers and sweet fruit.
And suddenly that strange feeling.
“This jungle,” he said slowly, “is a bit like ours. Just without the hut. And without the hammock.”
“I miss the hammock very much,” he added after a moment.
“Focus,” said Patrycja, and walked ahead with a magnifying glass.
Red Panda moved to the front, sniffing the ground every few steps.
“Actually,” she asked suddenly, “why is this island called the Island of the Wild Pigs?”
“Because long ago the first sailors saw black little animals running on the beach from the deck,” Patrycja said. “They looked a bit like pigs, so they wrote that down in the book. Every next sailor read the same book and repeated the same name. No one asked the people living here what they called their home.”
“And the pigs?” asked Red Panda.
“They’re gone now,” Patrycja said softly. “Only the name remains.”
“And the island’s real name?” asked Red Panda.
They walked on, following Red Panda deeper into the island.
After twenty minutes Red Panda suddenly stopped and raised a paw. They were very close to the dead-out campfire from which the smoke signals had come.
A noise came from the bushes. Loud, chaotic, and ending with a clear:
“Ouch.”
Out of the leaves rolled a huge backpack, with the corner of a thick Family Code Dictionary sticking out. Behind the backpack rolled its owner—a little rabbit with a twig between his ears. He lay on his back. His legs stuck straight up.
Everyone stared.
The rabbit stared back.
“Hi,” he said uncertainly.
“Hi,” said Kuba.
The rabbit tried to get up, but the backpack was too heavy. He toppled over again. Zofia calmly stepped over and set him on his feet.
“Thank you,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses. “I’m Tuptuś. Rabbit Tuptuś. I’ve been sending smoke signals since dawn. I was afraid nobody would notice.”
“We noticed,” said Red Panda.
Tuptuś sighed with relief so deeply that he sat down.
“What are you doing here alone?” asked Patrycja.
“That’s a long story,” said Tuptuś.
“We have time,” said Kuba, sitting on a stone.
Tuptuś had an unusual gift—he could read old books written in forgotten languages and codes. His great-grandmother had taught him, and she had learned from her own great-grandmother. He was sailing on a ship of researchers with other scholars.
Until one night he saw something troubling. By candlelight, one of the sailors was copying a map—the map marked with the Island of the Wild Pigs. Tuptuś hid behind a barrel and watched without daring to breathe too loudly. The sailor was very careful—copying every detail, every line, every mark. When he finished, he released a pigeon through the cargo hold window.
“A carrier pigeon,” Patrycja explained. “In old times, messages were sent that way. A letter was tied to the bird’s leg, and the pigeon flew straight to the recipient.”
“I knew who it would fly to,” said Tuptuś quietly.
“To Jackal Szymon,” said Kuba.
Tuptuś nodded.
“The sailor was his spy—someone who pretends to be a friend but gathers information for the enemy. Szymon needs me, because without someone who can decode the Book of Potions, the treasure is useless to him. I didn’t sleep all night, thinking what to do. When the ship stopped at the island to refill its water supplies, I slipped off quietly. I said I was going to gather fruit, and I never came back. I hid and waited. I heard from the seagulls that you were sailing this way, so I sent the smoke signals.”
Kuba looked at Patrycja. Patrycja looked at Kuba.
“You’re under our protection,” said Kuba. “From now on.”
Tuptuś smiled for the first time since the conversation began.
They moved together deeper into the island. Tuptuś said the chest should be near the hill of three boulders—three dark rocks jutting from the top like fingers.
Red Panda led the way. Tuptuś trotted beside her, constantly adjusting his glasses and looking nervously around.
“How do you do that?” he finally asked, looking at Red Panda. “The sniffing of the ground.”
“Every metal has its own smell,” said Red Panda without slowing. “Old iron smells of rust and rain. Gold smells different—cooler, sweeter. Copper—sharp. I’ve been learning since I was little.”
“That’s a bit like me with languages,” said Tuptuś.
“Exactly,” said Red Panda, and they both nodded with clear mutual respect.
“Kuba—do you smell anything?” she asked suddenly.
Red Panda stopped. She inhaled. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Metal,” she said slowly. “Rusty fittings on a chest. Somewhere nearby.” She blinked. “But there’s something else. Another smell. Unknown.”
And then a green-red flare shot from the sky.
Before Kuba could think, Ala landed on his shoulder with such force that it nearly knocked off his hat.
“Alfred sent me!” she shouted into his ear. “I smell old wood, gunpowder, and something familiar from the island side. He told you to be very careful!”
“Ala,” said Kuba, as his heart returned to its place, “did you have to land so enthusiastically?”
“A messenger must be fast,” said Ala with dignity, and settled more comfortably on his shoulder.
Patrycja wrote quickly. “Old wood, gunpowder, something familiar. Alfred has a good nose. We must be on guard.”
And just then—from the bushes on the left—a rustle came.
Everyone froze.
Silence.
Again—a rustle. Closer.
“It’s probably the wind,” said Kuba, though his voice trembled a little.
“There is no wind,” said Zofia calmly.
Red Panda inhaled.
“That smell,” she whispered. “That unknown one. It’s here.”
Kuba straightened, adjusted his hat, and took a step toward the bushes.
“We know you’re there,” he said loudly and firmly. “Come out.”
The bushes stayed still.
Five seconds. Ten.
And then—
Plop.
Kuba opened his eyes.
Something hard was lying on his stomach. Above him swayed palm leaves. The hammock creaked lazily.
Kuba looked down.
A coconut.
“Ow,” he said, a little too late.
From the terrace came Alfred’s calm laughter.
“I heard that,” said Alfred.
“A coconut fell on my stomach,” said Kuba with dignity.
“That too,” said Alfred.
Kuba sat for a moment in the hammock, holding the coconut and looking up at the palm leaves.
“I had a dream inside a dream,” he said at last. “And I woke up exactly at the worst moment.”
“Will you tell us?” asked Patrycja, coming out of the hut with her notebook. Alfred sat on the terrace steps. Zofia set down her book.
“Yes,” said Kuba. “But it started with a blacksmith. And with someone who didn’t want to pay.” He narrowed his eyes. “And he had a very familiar laugh.”
Alfred slowly sniffed the evening air. Patrycja was already writing.
And somewhere in the jungle—far away, beyond the trees—a bird screeched.