‘Geralt,’ he said suddenly, ‘but monsters do exist. Maybe not as many as before, maybe they don’t lurk behind every tree in the forest, but they are there. They exist. So how do you account for people inventing ones, then? What’s more, believing in what they invent? Eh, famous witcher? Haven’t you wondered why?’
‘I have, famous poet. And I know why.’
‘I’m curious.’
‘People,’ Geralt turned his head, ‘like to invent monsters and monstrosities. Then they seem less monstrous themselves. When they get blind-drunk, cheat, steal, beat their wives, starve an old woman, when they kill a trapped fox with an axe or riddle the last existing unicorn with arrows, they like to think that the Bane entering cottages at daybreak is more monstrous than they are. They feel better then. They find it easier to live.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Dandilion, after a moment’s silence. ‘I’ll find some rhymes and compose a ballad about it.’
‘Do. But don’t expect a great applause.’
They rode slowly but lost the last cottages of the hamlet from sight. Soon they had climbed the row of forested hills.
‘Ha.’ Dandilion halted his horse and looked around. ‘Look, Geralt. Isn’t it beautiful here? Idyllic, damn it. A feast for the eyes!’
The land sloped gently down to a mosaic of flat, even fields picked out in variously coloured crops. In the middle, round and regular like a leaf of clover, sparkled the deep waters of three lakes surrounded by dark strips of alder thickets. The horizon was traced by a misty blue line of mountains rising above the black, shapeless stretch of forest.
‘We’re riding on, Dandilion.’
The road led straight towards the lakes alongside dykes and ponds hidden by alder trees and filled with quacking mallards, garganeys, herons and grebes. The richness of bird life was surprising alongside the signs of human activity – the dykes were well maintained and covered with fascines, while the sluice gates had been reinforced with stones and beams. The outlet boxes, which were not in the least rotten, trickled merrily with water. Canoes and jetties were visible in the reeds by the lakes and bars of set nets and fish-pots were poking out of the deep waters.
Dandilion suddenly looked around.
‘Someone’s following us,’ he said, excited. ‘In a cart!’
‘Incredible,’ scoffed the witcher without looking around. ‘In a cart? And I thought that the locals rode on bats.’
‘Do you know what?’ growled the troubadour. ‘The closer we get to the edge of the world, the sharper your wit. I dread to think what it will come to!’
They weren’t riding fast and the empty cart, drawn by two piebald horses, quickly caught up with them.
‘Woooooaaaaahhhh!’ The driver brought the horses to a halt just behind them. He was wearing a sheepskin over his bare skin and his hair reached down to his brows. ‘The gods be praised, noble sirs!’
‘We, too,’ replied Dandilion, familiar with the custom, ‘praise them.’
‘If we want to,’ murmured the witcher.
‘I call myself Nettly,’ announced the carter. ‘I was watching ye speak to the alderman at Upper Posada. I know ye tae be a witcher.’
Geralt let go of the reins and let his mare snort at the roadside nettles.
‘I did hear,’ Nettly continued, ‘the alderman prattle ye stories. I marked your expression and ’twas nae strange to me. In a long time now I’ve nae heard such balderdash and lies.’
Dandilion laughed.
Geralt was looking at the peasant attentively, silently.
Nettly cleared his throat. ‘Care ye nae to be hired for real, proper work, sir?’ he asked. ‘There’d be something I have for ye.’
‘And what is that?’
Nettly didn’t lower his eyes. ‘It be nae good to speak of business on the road. Let us drive on to my home, to Lower Posada. There we’ll speak. Anyways, ’tis that way ye be heading.’
‘Why are you so sure?’
‘As ’cos ye have nae other way here, and yer horses’ noses be turned in that direction, not their butts.’
Dandilion laughed again. ‘What do you say to that, Geralt?’
‘Nothing,’ said the witcher. ‘It’s no good to talk on the road. On our way then, honourable Nettly.’
‘Tie ye the horses to the frame, and sit yerselves down in the cart,’ the peasant proposed. ‘It be more comfortable for ye. Why rack yer arses on the saddle?’
‘Too true.’
They climbed onto the cart. The witcher stretched out comfortably on the straw. Dandilion, evidently afraid of getting his elegant green jerkin dirty, sat on the plank. Nettly clucked his tongue at the horses and the vehicle clattered along the beam-reinforced dyke.
They crossed a bridge over a canal overgrown with water-lilies and duckweed, and passed a strip of cut meadows. Cultivated fields stretched as far as the eye could see.
‘It’s hard to believe that this should be the edge of the world, the edge of civilisation,’ said Dandilion. ‘Just look, Geralt. Rye like gold, and a mounted peasant could hide in that corn. Or that oilseed, look, how enormous.’
‘You know about agriculture?’
‘We poets have to know about everything,’ said Dandilion haughtily. ‘Otherwise we’d compromise our work. One has to learn, my dear fellow, learn. The fate of the world depends on agriculture, so it’s good to know about it. Agriculture feeds, clothes, protects from the cold, provides entertainment and supports art.’
‘You’ve exaggerated a bit with the entertainment and art.’
‘And booze, what’s that made of?’
‘I get it.’
‘Not very much, you don’t. Learn. Look at those purple flowers. They’re lupins.’
‘They’s be vetch, to be true,’ interrupted Nettly. ‘Have ye nae seen lupins, or what? But ye have hit exact with one thing, sir. Everything seeds mightily here, and grows as to make the heart sing. That be why ’tis called the Valley of Flowers. That be why our forefathers settled here, first ridding the land of the elves.’
‘The Valley of Flowers, that’s Dol Blathanna,’ Dandilion nudged the witcher, who was stretched out on the straw, with his elbow. ‘You paying attention? The elves have gone but their name remains. Lack of imagination. And how do you get on with the elves here, dear host? You’ve got them in the mountains across the path, after all.’
‘We nae mix with each other. Each to his own.’
‘The best solution,’ said the poet. ‘Isn’t that right, Geralt?’
The witcher didn’t reply.
II
‘Thank you for the spread.’ Geralt licked the bone spoon clean and dropped it into the empty bowl. ‘A hundred thanks, dear host. And now, if you permit, we’ll get down to business.’
‘Well, that we can,’ agreed Nettly. ‘What say ye, Dhun?’
Dhun, the elder of Lower Posada, a huge man with a gloomy expression, nodded to the girls who swiftly removed the dishes from the table and left the room, to the obvious regret of Dandilion who had been grinning at them ever since the feast began, and making them giggle at his gross jokes.
‘I’m listening,’ said Geralt, looking at the window from where the rapping of an axe and the sound of a saw drifted. Some sort of woodwork was going on in the yard and the sharp, resinous smell was penetrating the room. ‘Tell me how I can be of use to you.’
Nettly glanced at Dhun.
The elder of the village nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Well, it be like this,’ he said. ‘There be this field hereabouts—’
Geralt kicked Dandilion – who was preparing to make a spiteful comment – under the table.
‘—a field,’ continued Dhun. ‘Be I right, Nettly? A long time, that field there, it lay fallow, but we set it to the plough and now, ’tis on it we sow hemp, hops and flax. It be a grand piece of field, I tell ye. Stretches right up to the forest—’
‘And what?’ The poet couldn’t help himself. ‘What’s on that field there?’
‘Well,’ Dhun raised his head and scratched himself behind the ear. ‘Well, there be a deovel prowls there.’
‘What?’ snorted Dandilion. ‘A what?’
‘I tell ye: a deovel.’
‘What deovel?’
‘What can he be? A deovel and that be it.’
‘Devils don’t exist!’
‘Don’t interrupt, Dandilion,’ said Geralt in a calm voice. ‘And go on, honourable Dhun.’
‘I tell ye: it’s a deovel.’
‘I heard you.’ Geralt could be incredibly patient when he chose. ‘Tell me, what does he look like, where did he come from, how does he bother you? One thing at a time, if you please.’
‘Well,’ Dhun raised his gnarled hand and started to count with great difficulty, folding his fingers over, one at a time, ‘one thing at a time. Forsooth, ye be a wise man. Well, it be like this. He looks, sir, like a deovel, for all the world like a deovel. Where did he come from? Well, nowhere. Crash, bang, wallop and there we have him: a deovel. And bother us, forsooth he doesnae bother us overly. There be times he even helps.’
‘Helps?’ cackled Dandilion, trying to remove a fly from his beer. ‘A devil?’
‘Don’t interrupt, Dandilion. Carry on, Dhun, sir. How does he help you, this, as you say—’
‘Deovel,’ repeated the freeman with emphasis. ‘Well, this be how he helps: he fertilises the land, he turns the soil, he gets rid of the moles, scares birds away, watches over the turnips and beetroots. Oh, and he eats the caterpillars he does, they as do hatch in the cabbages. But the cabbages, he eats them too, forsooth. Nothing but guzzle, be what he does. Just like a deovel.’
Dandilion cackled again, then flicked a beer-drenched fly at a cat sleeping by the hearth. The cat opened one eye and glanced at the bard reproachfully.
‘Nevertheless,’ the witcher said calmly, ‘you’re ready to pay me to get rid of him, am I right? In other words, you don’t want him in the vicinity?’
‘And who,’ Dhun looked at him gloomily, ‘would care to have a deovel on his birthright soil? This be our land since forever, bestowed upon us by the king and it has nought to do with the deovel. We spit on his help. We’ve got hands ourselves, have we not? And he, sir, is nay a deovel but a malicious beast and has got so much, forgive the word, shite in his head as be hard to bear. There be no knowing what will come into his head. Once he fouled the well, then chased a lass, frightening and threatening to fuck her. He steals, sir, our belongings and victuals. He destroys and breaks things, makes a nuisance of himself, churns the dykes, digs ditches like some muskrat or beaver – the water from one pond trickled out completely and the carp in it died. He smoked a pipe in the haystack he did, the son-of-a-whore, and all the hay it went up in smoke—’
‘I see,’ interrupted Geralt. ‘So he does bother you.’
‘Nay,’ Dhun shook his head. ‘He doesnae bother us. He be simply up to mischief, that’s what he be.’
Dandilion turned to the window, muffling his laughter.
The witcher kept silent.
‘Oh, what be there to talk about,’ said Nettly who had been silent until then. ‘Ye be a witcher, nae? So do ye something about this deovel. It be work ye be looking for in Upper Posada, I heard so myself. So ye have work. We’ll pay ye what needs be. But take note: we don’t want ye killing the deovel. No way.’
The witcher raised his head and smiled nastily. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Unusual, I’d say.’
‘What?’ frowned Dhun.
‘An unusual condition. Why all this mercy?’
‘He should nae be killed,’ Dhun frowned even more, ‘because in this Valley—’
‘He should nae and that be it,’ interrupted Nettly. ‘Only catch him, sir, or drive him off yon o’er the seventh mountain. And ye will nae be hard done by when ye be paid.’
The witcher stayed silent, still smiling.
‘Seal it, will ye, the deal?’ asked Dhun.
‘First, I’d like a look at him, this devil of yours.’
The freemen glanced at each other.
‘It be yer right,’ said Nettly, then stood up. ‘And yer will. The deovel he do prowl the whole neighbourhood at night but at day he dwells somewhere in the hemp. Or among the old willows on the marshland. Ye can take a look at him there. We won’t hasten ye. Ye be wanting rest, then rest as long as ye will. Ye will nae go wanting in comfort and food as befits the custom of hospitality. Take care.’
‘Geralt.’ Dandilion jolted up from his stool and looked out into the yard at the freemen walking away from the cottage. ‘I can’t understand anything anymore. A day hasn’t gone by since our chat about imagined monsters and you suddenly get yourself hired hunting devils. And everybody – except ignorant freemen obviously – knows that devils are an invention, they’re mythical creatures. What’s this unexpected zeal of yours supposed to mean? Knowing you a little as I do, I take it you haven’t abased yourself so as to get us bed, board and lodging, have you?’
‘Indeed,’ grimaced Geralt. ‘It does look as if you know me a little, singer.’
‘In that case, I don’t understand.’
‘What is there to understand?’
‘There’s no such things as devils!’ yelled the poet, shaking the cat from sleep once and for all. ‘No such thing! To the devil with it, devils don’t exist!’
‘True,’ Geralt smiled. ‘But Dandilion, I could never resist the temptation of having a look at something that doesn’t exist.’
III
‘One thing is certain,’ muttered the witcher, sweeping his eyes over the tangled jungle of hemp spreading before them. ‘this devil is not stupid.’
‘How did you deduce that?’ Dandilion was curious. ‘From the fact that he’s sitting in an impenetrable thicket? Any old hare has enough brains for that.’
‘It’s a question of the special qualities of hemp. A field of this size emits a strong aura against magic. Most spells will be useless here. And there, look, do you see those poles? Those are hops – their pollen has the same effect. It’s not mere chance. The rascal senses the aura and knows he’s safe here.’
Dandilion coughed and adjusted his breeches. ‘I’m curious.’ He scratched his forehead beneath his hat, ‘How are you going to go about it, Geralt? I’ve never seen you work. I take it you know a thing or two about catching devils – I’m trying to recall some ballads. There was one about a devil and a woman. Rude, but amusing. The woman, you see—’
‘Spare me, Dandilion.’
‘As you wish. I only wanted to be helpful, that’s all. And you shouldn’t scorn ancient songs. There’s wisdom in them, accumulated over generations. There’s a ballad about a farmhand called Slow, who—’
‘Stop wittering. We have to earn our board and lodging.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Rummage around a bit in the hemp.’
‘That’s original,’ snorted the troubadour. ‘Though not too refined.’
‘And you, how would you go about it?’
‘Intelligently,’ Dandilion sniffed. ‘Craftily. With a hounding, for example. I’d chase the devil out of the thicket, chase him on horseback, in the open field, and lasso him. What do you think of that?’
‘Interesting. Who knows, maybe it could be done, if you took part – because at least two of us are needed for an enterprise like that. But we’re not going hunting yet. I want to find out what this thing is, this devil. That’s why I’m going to rummage about in the hemp.’
‘Hey!’ The bard had only just noticed. ‘You haven’t brought your sword!’
‘What for? I know some ballads about devils, too. Neither the woman nor Slow the farmhand used a sword.’
‘Hmm…’ Dandilion looked around. ‘Do we have to squeeze through the very middle of this thicket?’
‘You don’t have to. You can go back to the village and wait for me.’
‘Oh, no,’ protested the poet. ‘And miss a chance like this? I want to see a devil too, see if he’s as te
rrible as they claim. I was asking if we have to force our way through the hemp when there’s a path.’
‘Quite right,’ Geralt shaded his eyes with his hand. ‘There is a path. So let’s use it.’
‘And what if it’s the devil’s path?’
‘All the better. We won’t have to walk too far.’
‘Do you know, Geralt,’ babbled the bard, following the witcher along the narrow, uneven path among the hemp. ‘I always thought the devil was just a metaphor invented for cursing: “go to the devil”, “to the devil with it”, “may the devil”. Lowlanders say: “The devils are bringing us guests”, while dwarves have “Duvvel hoael” when they get something wrong, and call poor-blooded livestock devvelsheyss. And in the Old Language, there’s a saying, “A d’yaebl aep arse”, which means—’
‘I know what it means. You’re babbling, Dandilion.’
Dandilion stopped talking, took off the hat decorated with a heron’s feather, fanned himself with it and wiped his sweaty brow. The humid, stifling heat, intensified by the smell of grass and weeds in blossom, dominated the thicket. The path curved a little and, just beyond the bend, ended in a small clearing which had been stamped in the weeds.
‘Look, Dandilion.’
In the very centre of the clearing lay a large, flat stone, and on it stood several clay bowls. An almost burnt-out tallow candle was set among the bowls. Geralt saw some grains of corn and broad beans among the unrecognisable pips and seeds stuck in the flakes of melted fat.
‘As I suspected,’ he muttered. ‘They’re bringing him offerings.’
‘That’s just it,’ said the poet, indicating the candle. ‘And they burn a tallow candle for the devil. But they’re feeding him seeds, I see, as if he were a finch. Plague, what a bloody pigsty. Everything here is all sticky with honey and birch tar. What—’
The bard’s next words were drowned by a loud, sinister bleating. Something rustled and stamped in the hemp, then the strangest creature Geralt had ever seen emerged from the thicket.
The Malady and Other Stories: An Andrzej Sapkowski Sampler Page 9
