The Last Wish

The elder of the village nodded and sat down.

  “As we be riding here,” began Nettly, “ye did notice how everything here grows, the great harvests we have? There be nae many places ye see all grow like this, if there be any such. Seedlings and seeds be so important to us that ‘tis with them we pay our levies and we sell them and use them to barter—”

  “What's that got to do with the devil?”

  “The deovel was wont to make a nuisance of himself and play silly tricks, and then he be starting to steal a great deal of grain. At the beginning, we be bringing him a little to the stone in the hemp, thinking his fill he'd eat and leave us in peace. Naught of it. With a vengeance he went on stealing. And when we started to hide our supplies in shops and sheds, well locked and bolted, ‘tis furious he grew, sir, he roared, bleated. ‘Uk! Uk!’ he called, and when he goes ‘Uk! Uk!’ ye'd do best to run for yer life. He threatened to—”

  “—screw,” Dandilion threw in with a ribald smile.

  “That too,” agreed Nettly. “Oh, and he mentioned a fire. Talk long as we may, he could nae steal so ‘tis levies he demanded. He ordered grain and other goods be brought him by the sackful. Riled we were then and intending to beat his tailed arse. But—” The freeman cleared his throat and lowered his head.

  “Ye need nae beat about the bush,” said Dhun suddenly. “We judged the witcher wrong. Tell him everything, Nettly.”

  “The old woman forbade us to beat the devil,” said Nettly quickly, “but we know ‘tis Lille, because the woman…The woman only says what Lille tell her to. And we…Ye know yerself, sir. We listen.”

  “I’ve noticed.” Geralt twisted his lips in a smile. “The woman can only waggle her chin and mumble a text which she doesn't understand herself. And you stare at the girl, with gaping mouths, as if she were the statue of a goddess. You avoid her eyes but try to guess her wishes. And her wishes are your command. Who is this Lille of yours?”

  “But ye have guessed that, sir. A prophetess. A Wise One. But say naught of this to anyone. We ask ye. If word were to get to the steward, or, gods forbid, to the viceroy—”

  “Don't worry,” said Geralt seriously. “I know what that means and I won't betray you.”

  The strange women and girls, called prophetesses or Wise Ones, who could be found in villages, didn't enjoy the favor of those noblemen who collected levies and profited from farming. Farmers always consulted prophetesses on everything and believed them, blindly and boundlessly. Decisions based on their advice were often completely contrary to the politics of lords and overlords. Geralt had heard of incomprehensible decrees—the slaughter of entire pedigree herds, the cessation of sowing or harvesting, and even the migration of entire villages. Local lords therefore opposed the superstition, often brutally, and freemen very quickly learned to hide the Wise Ones. But they didn't stop listening to their advice. Because experience proved the Wise Ones were always right in the long run.

  “Lille did not permit us to kill the deovel,” continued Nettly. “She told us to do what the booke says. As ye well know, it did nae work out. There has already been trouble with the steward. If we give less grain in levy than be normal, ‘tis bawl he will, shout and fulminate. Thus we have nay even squeaked to him of the deovel, the reason being the steward be ruthless and knows cruelly little about jokes. And then ye happened along. We asked Lille if we could…hire ye—”

  “And?”

  “She said, through the woman, that she need first of all to look at ye.” “And she did.”

  “That she did. And accepted ye she has, that we know. We can tell what Lille accepts and what she doesnae.”

  “She never said a word to me.”

  “She ne'er has spoken word to anyone—save the old woman. But if she had not accepted ye, she would nay have entered the room for all in the world—”

  “Hmm…” Geralt reflected. “That's interesting. A prophetess who, instead of prophesying, doesn't say a word. How did she come to be among you?”

  “We nae know, witcher, sir,” muttered Dhun. “But as for the old woman, so the older folk remember, it be like this. The old woman afore her took a close-tongued girl under her wing too, one as which came from no one knows. And that girl she be our old woman. My grandfather would say the old woman be reborn that way. Like the moon she be reborn in the sky and ever new she be. Do nae laugh—”

  “I’m not laughing.” Geralt shook his head. “I’ve seen too much to laugh at things like that. Nor do I intend to poke my nose into your affairs, honorable Dhun. My questions aim to establish the bond between Lille and the devil. You've probably realized yourselves that one exists. So if you're anxious to be on good terms with your prophetess, then I can give you only one way to deal with the devil: you must get to like him.”

  “Know ye, sir,” said Nettly, “it be nae only a matter of the deovel. Lille does nae let us harm anything. Any creature.”

  “Of course,” Dandilion butted in, “country prophetesses grow from the same tree as druids. And a druid will go so far as to wish the gadfly sucking his blood to enjoy its meal.”

  “Ye hits it on the head.” Nettly faintly smiled. “Ye hits the nail right on the head. ‘Twas the same with us and the wild boars that dug up our vegetable beds. Look out the window: beds as pretty as a picture. We have found a way, Lille doesnae even know. What the eyes do nay see, the heart will nae miss. Understand?”

  “I understand,” muttered Geralt. “And how. But we can't move forward. Lille or no Lille, your devil is a sylvan. An exceptionally rare but intelligent creature. I won't kill him; my code doesn't allow it.”

  “If he be intelligent,” said Dhun, “go speak reason to him.”

  “Just so,” Nettly joined in. “If the deovel has brains, that will mean he steals grain according to reason. So ye, witcher, find out what he wants. He does nae eat that grain, after all—not so much, at least. So what does he want grain for? To spite us? What does he want? Find out and chase him off in some witcher way. Will ye do that?”

  “I’ll try,” decided Geralt. “But…”

  “But what?”

  “Your book, my friends, is out of date. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  “Well, forsooth,” grunted Dhun, “not really.”

  “I’ll explain. Honorable Dhun, honorable Nettly, if you're counting on my help costing you a silver penny or three halves, then you are bloody well mistaken.”

  V

  “Hey!”

  A rustle, an angry Uk! Uk! and the snapping of stakes, reached them from the thicket.

  “Hey!” repeated the witcher, prudently remaining hidden. “Show yourself, willower.”

  “Willower yourself.”

  “So what is it? Devil?”

  “Devil yourself.” The sylvan poked his head out from the hemp, baring his teeth. “What do you want?”

  “To talk.”

  “Are you making fun of me or what? Do you think I don't know who you are? The peasants hired you to throw me out of here, eh?”

  “That's right,” admitted Geralt indifferently. “And that's precisely what I wanted to chat to you about. What if we were to come to an understanding?”

  “That's where it hurts,” bleated the sylvan. “You'd like to get off lightly, wouldn't you? Without making an effort, eh? Pull the other one! Life, my good man, means competition. The best man wins. If you want to win with me, prove you're the best. Instead of coming to an understanding, we'll have competitions. The winner dictates the conditions. I propose a race from here to the old willow on the dyke.”

  “I don't know where the dyke is, or the old willow.”

  “I wouldn't suggest the race if you knew. I like competitions but I don't like losing.”

  “I’ve noticed. No, we won't race each other. It's very hot today.”

  “Pity. So maybe we'll pit ourselves against each other in a different way?” The sylvan bared his yellow teeth and picked up a large stone from the ground. “Do you know the game ‘Who shouts loudest?’ I sh
out first. Close your eyes.”

  “I have a different proposition.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “You leave here without any competitions, races or shouting. Of your own accord, without being forced.”

  “You can shove such a proposition a d'yeabl aep arse.” The devil demonstrated his knowledge of the Old Language. “I won't leave here. I like it here.”

  “But you've made too much of a nuisance of yourself here. Your pranks have gone too far.”

  “Duvvelsheyss to you with my pranks.” The sylvan, as it turned out, also knew the dwarves’ tongue. “And your proposition is also worth as much as a duvvelsheyss. I’m not going anywhere unless you beat me at some game. Shall I give you a chance? We'll play at riddles if you don't like physical games. I’ll give you a riddle in a minute and if you guess it, you win and I leave. If you don't, I stay and you leave. Rack your brains because the riddle isn't easy.”

  Before Geralt could protest, the sylvan bleated, stamped his hooves, whipped the ground with his tail and recited:

  It grows in soft clay, not far from the stream,

  Little pink leaves, pods small and full,

  It grows in soft clay, not far from the stream,

  On a long stalk, its flower is moist,

  But to a cat, please show it not,

  'Cos if you do, he'll eat the lot.

  “Well, what is it? Guess.”

  “I haven't the faintest idea,” the witcher said, not even trying to think it over. “Sweet pea, perhaps?”

  “Wrong. You lose.”

  “And what is the correct answer? What has…hmm…moist pods?” “Cabbage.”

  “Listen,” growled Geralt. “You're starting to get on my nerves.”

  “I warned you,” chuckled the sylvan, “that the riddle wasn't easy. Tough. I won, I stay. And you leave. I wish you, sir, a cold farewell.”

  “Just a moment.” The witcher surreptitiously slipped a hand into his pocket. “And my riddle? I have the right to a revenge match, haven't I?”

  “No!” protested the devil. “I might not guess it, after all. Do you take me for a fool?”

  “No.” Geralt shook his head. “I take you for a spiteful, arrogant dope. We're going to play quite a new game shortly, one which you don't know.”

  “Ha! After all! What game?”

  “The game is called,” said the witcher slowly, “don't do unto others what you would not have them do to you.’ You don't have to close your eyes.”

  Geralt stooped in a lightning throw; the one-inch iron ball whizzed sharply through the air and thwacked the sylvan straight between the horns. The creature collapsed onto his back as if hit by a thunderbolt. Geralt dived between the poles and grabbed him by one shaggy leg. The sylvan bleated and kicked. The witcher sheltered his head with his arm, but to little effect. The sylvan, despite his mean posture, kicked with the strength of an enraged mule. The witcher tried and failed to catch a kicking hoof. The sylvan flapped, thrashed his hands on the ground and kicked him again in the forehead. The witcher cursed, feeling the sylvan's leg slip from his fingers. Both, having parted, rolled in opposite directions, kicked the poles with a crash and tangled themselves up in the creeping hemp.

  The sylvan was the first to jump up, and, lowering his horned head, charged. But Geralt was already on his feet and effortlessly dodged the attack, grabbed the creature by a horn, tugged hard, threw him to the ground and crushed him with his knees. The sylvan bleated and spat straight into the witcher's eyes like a camel suffering from excess saliva. The witcher instinctively stepped back without releasing the devil's horns. The sylvan, trying to toss his head, kicked with both hooves at once and—strangely—hit the mark with both. Geralt swore nastily, but didn't release his grip. He pulled the sylvan up, pinned him to the creaking poles and kicked him in a shaggy knee with all his might; then he leaned over and spat right into his ear. The sylvan howled and snapped his blunt teeth.

  “Don't do unto others…” panted the witcher, “…what you would not have them do to you. Shall we play on?” The sylvan gurgled, howled and spat fiercely, but Geralt held him firmly by the horns and pressed his head down hard, making the spittle hit the sylvan's own hooves, which tore at the ground, sending up clouds of dust and weeds.

  The next few minutes passed in an intense skirmish and exchange of insults and kicks. If Geralt was pleased about anything, it was only that nobody could see him—for it was a truly ridiculous sight.

  The force of the next kick tore the combatants apart and threw them in opposite directions, into the hemp thicket. The sylvan got up before the witcher and rushed to escape, limpings heavily. Geralt, panting and wiping his brow, rushed in pursuit. They forced their way through the hemp and ran into the hops. The witcher heard the pounding of a galloping horse, the sound he'd been waiting for.

  “Here, Dandilion! Here!” he yelled. “In the hops!”

  He saw the mount breast right in front of him and was knocked over. He bounced off the horse as though it were a rock and tumbled onto his back. The world darkened. He managed to roll to the side, behind the hop poles, to avoid the hooves. He sprung up nimbly but another rider rode into him, knocking him down again. Then suddenly, someone threw themselves at him and pinned him to the ground.

  Then there was a flash, and a piercing pain in the back of his head.

  And darkness.

  VI

  There was sand on his lips. When he tried to spit it out, he realized he was lying facedown on the ground. And he was tied up. He raised his head, a little and heard voices.

  He was lying on the forest floor, by a pine tree. Some twenty paces away stood unsaddled horses. They were obscured behind the feathery fronds of ferns, but one of those horses was, without a doubt, Dandilion's chestnut.

  “Three sacks of corn,” he heard. “Good, Torque. Very good. You've done well.”

  “That's not all,” said the bleating voice, which could only be the sylvan devil. “Look at this, Galarr. It looks like beans but it's completely white. And the size of it! And this, this is called oilseed. They make oil from it.”

  Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. No, it wasn't a dream. The devil and Galarr, whoever he was, were using the Old Language, the language of elves. But the words corn, beans, and oilseed were in the common tongue.

  “And this? What's this?” asked Galarr.

  “Flaxseed. Flax, you know? You make shirts from flax. It's much cheaper than silk, and more hardwearing. It's quite a complicated process as far as I know but I’ll find out the ins and outs.”

  “As long as it takes root, this flax of yours; as long as it doesn't go to waste like the turnip,” grumbled Galarr, in the same strange Volapuk. “Try to get some new turnip seedlings, Torque.”

  “Have no fear,” bleated the sylvan. “There's no problem with that here. Everything grows like hell. I’ll get you some, don't worry.”

  “And one more thing,” said Galarr. “Finally find out what that three-field system of theirs is all about.”

  The witcher carefully raised his head and tried to turn around.

  “Geralt…” He heard a whisper. “Are you awake?”

  “Dandilion…” he whispered back. “Where are we…? What's happening?”

  Dandilion only grunted quietly. Geralt had had enough. He cursed, tensed himself and turned on to his side.

  In the middle of the glade stood the sylvan devil with—as he now knew—the sweet name of Torque. He was busy loading sacks, bags and packs on to the horses. He was being helped by a slim, tall man who could only be Galarr. The latter, hearing the witcher move, turned around. His hair was black with a distinct hint of dark blue. He had sharp features, big, bright eyes and pointed ears.

  Galarr was an elf. An elf from the mountains. A pure-blooded Aen Seidhe, a representative of the Old People.

  Galarr wasn't alone. Six more sat at the edge of the glade. One was busy emptying Dandilion's packs; another strummed the troubadour's lute. The re
mainder, gathered around an untied sack, were greedily devouring turnips and raw carrots.

  “Vanadain, Toruviel,” said Galarr, indicating the prisoners with a nod of his head. “Vedrai! Enn'le!”

  Torque jumped up and bleated. “No, Galarr! No! Filavandrel has forbidden it! Have you forgotten?”

  “No, I haven't forgotten.” Galarr threw two tied sacks across the horse's back. “But we have to check if they haven't loosened the knots.”

  “What do you want from us?” the troubadour moaned as one of the elves knocked him to the ground with his knee and checked the knots. “Why are you holding us prisoners? What do you want? I’m Dandilion, a poe—”

  Geralt heard the sound of a blow. He turned around, twisted his head.

  The elf standing over Dandilion had black eyes and raven hair, which fell luxuriantly over her shoulders, except for two thin plaits braided at her temples. She was wearing a short leather camisole over a loose shirt of green satin, and tight woollen leggings tucked into riding boots. Her hips were wrapped around with a colored shawl which reached halfway down her thighs.

  “Que glosse?” she asked, looking at the witcher and playing with the hilt of the long dagger in her belt. “Que l'en pavienn, ell'ea?”

  “Nell'ea,” he contested. “T’en pavienn, Aen Seidhe.”

  “Did you hear?” The elf turned to her companion, the tall Seidhe who, not bothering to check Geralt's knots, was strumming away at Dandilion's lute with an expression of indifference on his long face. “Did you hear, Vanadain? The ape-man can talk! He can even be impertinent!”

  Seidhe shrugged, making the feathers decorating his jacket rustle. “All the more reason to gag him, Toruviel.”

  The elf leaned over Geralt. She had long lashes, an unnaturally pale complexion and parched, cracked lips. She wore a necklace of carved golden birch pieces on a thong, wrapped around her neck several times.

  “Well, say something else, ape-man,” she hissed. “We'll see what your throat, so used to barking, is capable of.”

  “What's this? Do you need an excuse to hit a bound man?” The witcher turned over on his back with an effort and spat out the sand. “Hit me without any excuses. I’ve seen how you like it. Let off some steam.”