In particular, it is believed that Ithlina predicted the Nordling Wars (1239–1268), the Great Plagues (1268, 1272 and 1294), the bloody war of the Two Unicorns (1309–1318) and the Haak Invasion (1350). It was equally believed that she predicted the climate changes observed beginning at the end of the 13th century (The White Frost), which popular superstitions always associated with the end of the word and the prophetic arrival The Destroyer (sic). This fragment of Ithlina's prophecy was the trigger of the infamous Witch Hunts (1272–1276) and caused the deaths of numerous women and unfortunate girls, who were mistaken for the incarnation of The Destroyer. Today, Ithlina is considered as a legendary figure by a number of researchers, and her “prophesies” as contemporary apocrypha cobbled together from bits and pieces, an ingenious literary fraud.
Effenberg and Talbot, Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, Volume IX
CHAPTER SEVEN
The children, who surrounded the wandering storyteller called Pogwizd, expressed their protest by raising an indescribable uproar. Finally, Connor, son of the blacksmith and the largest, strongest and boldest who had brought the storyteller a bowl of cabbage soup and some potatoes seasoned with bacon, was made the spokesperson and expressed the common opinion.
‘How is this so?’ he yelled. ‘How is this so, grandfather? How can this be the end for today? Is it proper to end a story like that? Half way through the story? We want to know what happened! We do not want to wait until you come back to the village, because it may be six months or a year away! Say on!’
‘The sun has set,’ said the old man. ‘It is your bed time, sparrows. What will your parents say when they catch you yawning tomorrow while you work? I know what they’ll say: Again the old storyteller has been telling you his stories, putting romances into the heads of kids and not letting them sleep. When he reappears he will get nothing, no soup or potatoes or bacon, we’ll drive this old man out of town because his stories only bring trouble …’
‘They will not say that!’ the children cried in chorus. ‘Tell us more, please!’
‘Hmmmm,’ said the old man, looking at the sun disappearing behind the treetops on the edge of the Yaruga River. ‘So be it. But let us come to an agreement: Let one of you go to your house and bring me some buttermilk to wet my throat with. The rest of you will decide the fate of what you will hear, because I cannot tell them all, we would be here until tomorrow. So, you decide: who do we hear about now and who next time.’
The boys raised a shout again, one above the other.
‘Silence!’ Pogwizd cried, waving his staff. ‘I said to decide, not screech like nightingales, ret-tret, ret-tret, ret-tret! So what? What am I to tell?’
‘Of Yennefer,’ cried Nimue, the youngest of the listeners, who because of her height was called Thumbelina, was stroking a cat that had fallen asleep on her lap. ‘Tell us about the Sorceress. How she escaped the convent at Bald Peak in a magical way to save Ciri. I’d love to hear it. When I grow up, I want to become a Sorceress.’
‘Certainly!’ the miller’s son, Bronik yelled. ‘Better wipe your nose, Thumbelina because sorceresses don’t teach people with snot! And you, old man, don’t tell us about Yennefer, but about Ciri and the Rats, how they were going to steal …’
‘Quiet,’ said Connor, gloomy and thoughtful. ‘You are a flock of idiots. If we are to hear anything today, then it must be in order. Tell us, grandfather, about the witcher and his companions and how they left the Yaruga.’
‘I want to hear about Yennefer!’ Nimue squeaked.
‘Me too,’ said Orla, her older sister. ‘Of the love between her and the witcher. How they loved one another. But where it ends happily, grandfather. Not where it ends in death.’
‘Shut up, fool, who is interested in love stories? It’s war we want, fighting!’
‘About the witcher’s sword!’
‘About Ciri and the Rats!’
‘Hold up!’ Connor threatened them with his fist. ‘Or I’ll grab a stick and tan you all, bastards! I said in order. Grandfather Pogwizd will tell us about the witcher and how he wandered with Dandelion, Milva …’
‘Yes!’ Nimue squeaked again. ‘About Milva. I want to hear about Milva! Because if the sorceresses do not want me, I’ll become an archer!’
‘Then we have chosen,’ said Connor. ‘And at the same time, grandfather has decided to take a nap; his gray head already nods … Hey, grandfather! Do not sleep! Tell us of the Witcher Geralt, from the point where the company was leaving the Yaruga.’
‘But first,’ interjected Bronik, ‘Tell us about all the others, grandfather, let us not be bothered by our curiosity. What happened to them? Briefly about Yennefer and Ciri. We can’t wait until you visit our village again. Please.’
‘Yennefer,’ grandfather Pogwizd chuckled, ‘cast a spell and escaped from the castle on Bald Peak and splashed straight into the sea. She found herself in the rough waves of the ocean, between sharp rocks, but she was not afraid, for it was a cinch for a magician to not drown. She arrived on the Skellige Islands and found allies there. Because you see, her anger was great at the wizard Vilgefortz. She was convinced that he had kidnapped Ciri and she was determined to track him down, have her revenge and rescue Ciri. And that’s all I will tell you for now.’
‘What about Ciri?’
‘Ciri was with the Rats, hiding under the name of Falka. She took to the bandit’s life because, although nobody knew it then, in that girl was wickedness and cruelty, all that is wrong, which is hidden in each person, had emerged from her and gradually took advantage over the good. Oh, it was a big mistake made by the witchers of Kaer Morhen, who taught her to kill! She, however, could not imagine that by killing, the Grim Reaper himself was on her heels. Because the terrible Bonhart was on her trail. It was written that they would meet, Ciri and Bonhart. But that is a story for another time. Now you shall hear the story about the Witcher.’
The children were silent and sat in circle around the old man. They listened. Darkness fell. Hemp, raspberry and mallow that grew not far from the huts were transformed suddenly into an incredibly dark forest. What rustled inside? Was it a mouse or a terrible elf with eyes of fire? Or maybe a striga or a witch, who wants to eat the children? Is that the ox in the barn that is kicking or is it the beating hooves of war horses of the cruel invaders from a hundred years ago crossing the Yaruga? Was that a nightjar flying over the thatched rooftops or was it a bloodthirsty vampire? Or was it a beautiful enchantress flying on a magical spell towards a distant sea?
‘The Witcher Geralt,’ began the storyteller, ‘along with his new company set off for Angren, through swamps and forests. There were once dense forests that grew everywhere in the world, ho, ho, but now there are no such forests, except for Brokilon… The companions travelled east up the Yaruga, towards the holy places of the Black Forest. At first they were doing well, but later, ho, ho… I’ll tell you what happened next…’
What followed was a tale of bygone and forgotten times. The children listened.
* * *
The Witcher was sitting on a stump at the top of a cliff, from which unfolded a view of the meadows and reed beds on the banks of the Yaruga. The sun was setting. Cranes ascended from the wetlands, screeching and flying in a wedge.
Everything is fucked up, thought the Witcher, looking at the ruins of a woodcutter’s hut and the little bit of smoke rising from a fire that Milva made. Everything has gone to hell. And everything was going so well, even with this strange company. We had a target, close, real, concrete. East through Angren to Caed Dhu. We were doing so well. But then it went to hell. Bad luck or fate?
The cranes blew a trumpeting call.
* * *
Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy rode at the head of the procession mounted on a Nilfgaardian bay captured by the Witcher in Armeria. The stallion, although at first it was bothered by the vampire and his herbal scent, soon became accustomed and caused little trouble unlike Roach who kicked like he was being bitten by horseflies. B
ehind Regis and Geralt rode Dandelion on Pegasus with his head bandaged like a war hero. Along the way the poet had composed a heroic song, in which military rhymes and melodies resonated and was reminiscent of their recent adventures. The shape of the work clearly suggested that during these adventures, the author of the song and performer had shown himself to be the bravest of the brave. The procession was capped off by Milva and Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach.
Cahir was riding his recovered horse and led by the bridle a gray horse loaded with their modest equipment.
At last they left the riverside wetlands and found themselves on dry lands covered with hills from which they could see to the south the Great Yaruga as a shiny ribbon and to the north in the distance, the Mahakam Mountains. The weather was beautiful, the sun warmed them and the mosquitoes ceased to poke and buzz around their ears. Boots and legs dried. On the sunny slopes blackberry bushes were dark with fruit, the horses nibbled at the grass, the brooks that ran down to meet with the Yaruga were crystal clear and full of trout. As night fell, it was possible to light a fire and sleep warm and dry. In a word, it was wonderful, and moods should have improved immediately. But they did not. And the reason why was proved at one of the first camps.
* * *
‘Wait a moment, Geralt,’ the poet began, looking around. ‘Don’t be in such a rush to get back to camp. We want to talk to you in private, here, me and Milva. It’s …Well, about Regis.’
‘Aha,’ The Witcher lay down his arm full of brushwood. ‘You’re starting to be afraid? It is about time.’
‘Shut up,’ Dandelion raised his eyebrows. ‘We have accepted him as a companion; he has offered his support to help find Ciri. He pulled my own neck out of the noose, I will not forget that. But, don’t be surprised that we have concerns, damn it. Are you surprised? All your life you have persecuted and killed those like him.’
‘I have not killed him. Nor do I have any intentions too. Is this declaration sufficient for you? If not, though sorrow fills my heart, I am unable to cure your fear. It’s paradoxical but the only one among us who can cure you is Regis.’
‘I told you to shut up,’ the troubadour said angrily. ‘You are not talking to Yennefer, save us you twisted eloquence. Just answer directly to a simple question.’
‘Ask them. Without twisted eloquence.’
‘Regis is a vampire. It’s no secret what vampires feed on. What will happen when he gets really hungry? Yes, yes, we saw that he ate fish soup and since then he has eaten with us, as normally as any of us. But… But will he be able to control his desire? Geralt, do I have to pry it out of you?’
‘He controlled his lust for blood when he was tending to your head wound. When we were tied up, he did not even lick his fingers. And then, during the full moon, when we were drunk on mandrake liquor and slept in his hut, he had a unique opportunity. Did you check and see if you have teeth marks on your neck?’
‘Do not mock,’ Milva snorted. ‘You know more about vampires than us. You can mock, Dandelion, but you must answer me. I grew up in the mountains, I didn’t go to schools, and I’m in the dark. It is not my fault and not right to mock. I ashamed to admit it, but I am a little bit afraid of… Regis.’
‘And not without reason,’ he nodded. ‘He is one of the so-called higher vampires. Extremely dangerous. If he was our enemy, I’d be afraid as well. But, the plague, for reasons unknown to me, he is our companion. He leads us to Caed Dhu, to the druids who can help me obtain information about Ciri. I’m desperate and so therefore I cannot give up this chance. And so I accept the friendship of a vampire.’
‘Is that the only reason?’
‘No,’ he said with a slight reluctance, but finally opted for honesty. ‘Not just that. He… He behaves honourably. In the camp by the Chotla, at the judgement of the girl, he did not hesitate to act. Although he knew that it would expose him.’
‘He pulled a red-hot horseshoe out of the fire,’ Dandelion recalled. ‘He held it in his hands for a few moments and did not even wince. None of us could repeat that act, not even with baked potatoes.’
‘He is impervious to fire.’
‘What else can he do?’
‘He can become invisible whenever he wants. He can hypnotize you with his eyes, inducing a deep sleep; he did it to the guard in Vissegerd’s camp. He can take the form and fly like a bat. I think that these things can only be performed at night and only during a full moon. But I could be wrong. I’ve already been surprised a few times, and he might have something else up his sleeve. I suspect that he is unusual even among vampires. For years he has quite convincingly posed as a human. Dogs and horses can perceive his true nature but can be tricked by the smell of herbs that he always carries. But my medallion didn’t react to him, and it should have. I repeat he cannot be measured by the standard measure. You will have to ask him about the rest of it. He is our companion; there should be no misunderstanding between us or mutual mistrust and fear. Let us return to camp. Help me with the wood.’
‘Geralt?’
‘I’m listening, Dandelion.’
‘If… Well, I was wondering, theoretically… If…’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ he replied sincerely. ‘I don’t know if I could kill him. I would rather not have to try.’
* * *
Dandelion took the witcher’s advice to heart and decided to clarify the ambiguities and dispel the doubts. He did so as soon as they set out on their journey. He did so with his characteristic tact.
‘Milva!’ he cried out suddenly while riding, squinting at the vampire. ‘You should move ahead with your bow and see if your arrows can take down a deer or a stag. I’ve had enough, by the plague, of eating blackberries and mushrooms, and fish and clams from the river. I could eat real meat for a change. What do you say, Regis?’
‘What?’ the vampire said raising his head from the neck of his horse.
‘Meat!’ repeated the poet emphatically. ‘I’m encouraging Milva to hunt something. Do you eat fresh meat?’
‘I eat it.’
‘And blood, do you drink fresh blood?’
‘Blood?’ Regis swallowed. ‘No. In the case of blood, no. But if you fancy it, do not hesitate.’
Geralt, Milva and Cahir observed the exchange in silence, as heavy as a tomb.
‘I know what you are doing, Dandelion,’ Regis said slowly. ‘And let me reassure you. I’m a vampire, yes. But I do not drink blood.’
The silence was a heavy as lead. But Dandelion being Dandelion did not remain silent.
‘Maybe you misunderstood me,’ he said with apparently blithely. ‘I do not refer…’
‘I do not drink blood,’ Regis interrupted. ‘For a long time now. I lost the habit.’
‘How is it that you lost the habit?’
‘The usual way.’
‘I really don’t understand…’
‘Sorry, it is a personal matter.’
‘But…’
‘Dandelion,’ the Witcher could not stand it anymore and turned in his saddle. ‘Regis has just told you to fuck off. He just put it politely. Be courteous and finally close your mouth.’
* * *
However, the seeds of uncertainty and insecurity had been planted. When they stopped for the night, the atmosphere was still heavy and tense and was not even lightened by Milva who had caught a fat, river goose, weighing nearly eight pounds. They covered it in mud, roasted and ate it, chewing on the bones and not leaving even the smallest crumb. Their hunger was sated but the anxiety remained. The conversation curdled despite Dandelion’s titanic efforts. The talk of the poet became a monologue, which even he finally noticed and shut up. Only the sound of the horses chewing hay disturbed the silence that surrounded the fire like a cemetery.
Despite the late hour, no one seemed inclined to go to sleep. Milva heated water in a pot hung over the fire and used the steam to straighten the fletching on her arrows that were wrinkled. Cahir was repairing a broken boot buckle. Geralt was carving a stick. And R
egis ran his eyes over each of them in order.
‘Well, well,’ He said finally. ‘I see that this is inevitable. It seems that I should have explained some things to you a long time ago…’
‘Nobody is forcing you,’ Geralt threw a long and carefully carved piece of wood into the fire and raised his head. ‘I do not need your explanations. I’m the old-fashioned type, when someone extends their hand to me; I accept them as a companion and that means more to me that a contract signed in the presence of a notary.’
‘I too am old-fashioned.’ Cahir said, still bent over his boot.
‘I do not know there was a new fashion,’ Milva said dryly, placing another arrow in the steam the rose from the pot.
‘Do not worry about Dandelion’s chatter,’ added the witcher. ‘He doesn’t. You do not need to confide or to explain. We also don’t need to confide in you.’
‘I suppose, however,’ the vampire smiled slightly, ‘you will hear what I need to say without being forced. I feel the need to be sincere with the people to whom I have extended my hand and accepted as companions.’
This time no one spoke.
‘I’ll begin by saying,’ he said after a moment’s hesitation, ‘that the fears surrounding my vampire nature are completely unfounded. I will not throw myself onto anybody at night and sink my teeth into their neck while they sleep. And it is not only my companions to whom I have a relationship with, it is all others. I do not drink blood. Never. I weaned myself off of it when it became a problem for me. A serious problem, that was not easy to solve.’
‘The problem,’ he took a moment, ‘emerged and took on all the characteristics on a truly bad textbook, early in my younger years, I loved … hmmm … to party in good company, moreover, I was not different in this respect from most of my peers. You know how it is when you’re young. But among you there is a system of prohibitions and restrictions – parental authority, guardians, superiors and elders, and finally, custom. Among us there is not. Young people have complete freedom and were using it. I created my own behavioural patterns, stupid, of course, truly youthful stupidity. “You don’t drink? What kind of vampire are you? He does not drink? Do not invite him, he’ll spoil the fun!” I did not want to spoil the fun and the possible loss of social acceptance frightened me. So I partied. Revelry and playfulness, libation and drunkenness, every full moon we flew to a village and we drank until full. The quality was disgusting, the worst kind of … liquid. We did not care who we drank from as long as they was … haemoglobin … without blood there was no fun! A vampire did not have boldness if he wouldn’t drink.’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 04] Page 30
