The Malady and Other Stories: An Andrzej Sapkowski Sampler

  The creature was about half a rod tall with bulging eyes and a goat’s horns and beard. The mouth, a soft, busy slit, also brought a chewing goat to mind. Its nether regions were covered with long, thick, dark-red hair right down to the cleft hooves. The devil had a long tail ending in a brush-like tassel which wagged energetically.

  ‘Uk! Uk!’ barked the monster, stamping his hooves. ‘What do you want here? Leave! Leave or I’ll ram you down. Uk! Uk!’

  ‘Has anyone ever kicked your arse, little goat?’ Dandilion couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘Uk! Uk! Beeeeee!’ bleated the goathorn in agreement, or denial, or simply bleating for the sake of it.

  ‘Shut up, Dandilion,’ growled the witcher. ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Blebleblebeeeee!’ The creature gurgled furiously, his lips parting wide to expose yellow horse-like teeth. ‘Uk! Uk! Bleubeeeeubleuuuuubleeeeeeee!’

  ‘Most certainly,’ nodded Dandilion, ‘you can take the barrel-organ and bell when you go home—’

  ‘Stop it, damn you,’ hissed Geralt. ‘Keep your stupid jokes to yourself—’

  ‘Jokes!’ roared the goathorn loudly and leapt up. ‘Jokes? New jokers have come, have they? They’ve brought iron balls, have they? I’ll give you iron balls, you scoundrels, you. Uk! Uk! Uk! You want to joke, do you? Here are some jokes for you! Here are your balls!’

  The creature sprang up and gave a sudden swipe with his hand. Dandilion howled and sat down hard on the path, clasping his forehead. The creature bleated and aimed again. Something whizzed past Geralt’s ear.

  ‘Here are your balls!’ Brrreee!’

  An iron ball, an inch in diameter, thwacked the witcher in the shoulder and the next hit Dandilion in the knee. The poet cursed foully and scrambled away, Geralt running after him as balls whizzed above his head.

  ‘Uk! Uk!’ screamed the goathorn, leaping up and down. ‘I’ll give you balls! You shitty jokers!’

  Another ball whizzed through the air. Dandilion cursed even more foully as he grabbed the back of his head. Geralt threw himself to one side, among the hemp, but didn’t avoid the ball that hit him in the shoulder. The goathorn’s aim was true and he appeared to have an endless supply of balls. The witcher, stumbling through the thicket, heard yet another triumphant bleat from the victorious goathorn, followed by the whistle of a flying ball, a curse and the patter of Dandilion’s feet scurrying away along the path.

  And then silence fell.

  IV

  ‘Well, well, Geralt.’ Dandilion held a horseshoe he’d cooled in a bucket to his forehead. ‘That’s not what I expected. A horned freak with a goatee like a shaggy billy-goat, and he chased you away like some upstart. And I got it in the head. Look at that bump!’

  ‘That’s the sixth time you’ve shown it to me. And it’s no more interesting now than it was the first time.’

  ‘How charming. And I thought I’d be safe with you!’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to traipse after me in the hemp, and I did ask you to keep that foul tongue of yours quiet. You didn’t listen, so now you can suffer. In silence, please, because they’re just coming.’

  Nettly and Dhun walked into the dayroom. Behind them hobbled a grey-haired old woman, twisted as a pretzel, led by a fair-haired and painfully thin teenage girl.

  ‘Honourable Dhun, honourable Nettly,’ the witcher began without introduction. ‘I asked you, before I left, whether you yourselves had already tried to do something with that devil of yours. You told me you hadn’t done anything. I’ve grounds to think otherwise. I await your explanation.’

  The villagers murmured amongst themselves, after which Dhun coughed into his fist and took a step forward. ‘Ye be right, sir. Asking forgiveness. We lied – it be guilt devours us. We wanted to outwit the deovel ourselves, for him to go away—’

  ‘By what means?’

  ‘Here in this Valley,’ said Dhun slowly, ‘there be monsters in the past. Flying dragons, earth myriapodans, were-brawls, ghosts, gigantous spiders and various vipers. And all the times we be searching in our great booke for a way to deal with all that vermin.’

  ‘What great book?’

  ‘Show the booke, old woman. Booke, I say. The great booke! I’ll be on the boil in a minute! Deaf as a doorknob, she be! Lille, tell the old woman to show the booke!’

  The girl tore the huge book from the talonned fingers of the old woman and handed it to the witcher.

  ‘In this here great booke,’ continued Dhun, ‘which be in our family clan for time immemorial, be ways to deal with every monster, spell and wonder in the world that has been, is, or will be.’

  Geralt turned the heavy, thick, greasy, dust-encrusted volume in his hands. The girl was still standing in front of him, wringing her apron in her hands. She was older than he had initially thought – her delicate figure had deceived him, so different from the robust build of the other girls in the village.

  He lay the book down on the table and turned its heavy wooden cover. ‘Take a look at this, Dandilion.’

  ‘The first Runes,’ the bard worked out, peering over his shoulder, the horseshoe still pressed to his forehead. ‘The writing used before the modern alphabet. Still based on elfin runes and dwarves’ ideograms. A funny sentence construction, but that’s how they spoke then. Interesting etchings and illuminations. It’s not often you get to see something like this, Geralt, and if you do, it’s in libraries belonging to temples and not villages at the edge of the world. By all the gods, where did you get that from, dear peasants? Surely you’re not going to try to convince me that you can read this? Woman? Can you read the First Runes? Can you read any runes?’

  ‘Whaaaat?’

  The fair-haired girl moved closer to the woman and whispered something into her ear.

  ‘Read?’ the crony revealed her toothless gums in a smile. ‘Me? No, sweetheart. ’Tis a skill I’ve ne’er mastered.’

  ‘Explain to me,’ said Geralt coldly, turning to Dhun and Nettly, ‘how do you use the book if you can’t read runes?’

  ‘Always the oldest woman knows what stands written in the booke,’ said Dhun gloomily. ‘And what she knows, she teaches some young one, when ’tis time for her to turn to earth. Heed ye, yerselves, how ’tis time for our old woman. So our old woman has taken Lille in and she be teaching her. But for now, ’tis the old woman knows best.’

  ‘The old witch and the young witch,’ muttered Dandilion.

  ‘The old woman knows the whole book by heart?’ Geralt asked with disbelief. ‘Is that right, Grandma?’

  ‘Nae the whole, oh nae,’ answered the woman, again through Lille, ‘only what stands written by the picture.’

  ‘Ah,’ Geralt opened the book at random. The picture on the torn page depicted a dappled pig with horns in the shape of a lyre. ‘Well then – what’s written here?’

  The old woman smacked her lips, took a careful look at the etching, then shut her eyes.

  ‘The horned aurochs or Taurus,’ she recited, ‘erroneously called bison by ignoramuses. It hath horns and useth them to ram—’

  ‘Enough. Very good, indeed.’ the witcher turned several sticky pages. ‘And here?’

  ‘Cloud sprites and wind sprites be varied. Some rain pour, some wind roar, and others hurl their thunder. Harvests to protect from them, takest thou a knife of iron, new, of a mouse’s droppings a half ounce, of a grey heron’s fat—’

  ‘Good, well done. Hmm… And here? What’s this?’

  The etching showed a dishevelled monstrosity with enormous eyes and even larger teeth, riding a horse. In its right hand, the monstrous being wielded a substantial sword, in its left, a bag of money.

  ‘A witchman,’ mumbled the woman. ‘Called by some a witcher. To summon him is most dangerous, albeit one must; for when against the monster and the vermin there be no aid, the witchman can contrive. But careful one must be—’

  ‘Enough,’ muttered Geralt. ‘Enough, Grandma. Thank you.’

  ‘No, no,’ protested Dandilion with a malicious
smile. ‘How does it go on? What a greatly interesting book! Go on, Granny, go on.’

  ‘Eeee… But careful one must be to touch not the witchman, for thus the mange can one acquire. And lasses do from him hide away, for lustful the witchman is above all measure—’

  ‘Quite correct, spot on,’ laughed the poet, and Lille, so it seemed to Geralt, smiled almost imperceptibly.

  ‘—though the witchman greatly covetous and greedy for gold be,’ mumbled the old woman, half-closing her eyes, ‘giveth ye not such a one more than: for a drowner, one silver penny or three halves; for a werecat, silver pennies two; for a plumard, silver pennies—’

  ‘Those were the days,’ muttered the witcher. ‘Thank you, Grandma. And now show us where it speaks of the devil and what the book says about devils. This time ’tis grateful I’d be to heareth more, for to learn the ways and meanes ye did use to deal with him most curious am I.’

  ‘Careful, Geralt,’ chuckled Dandilion. ‘You’re starting to fall into their jargon. It’s an infectious mannerism.’

  The woman, controlling her shaking hands with difficulty, turned several pages. The witcher and the poet leaned over the table. The etching did, in effect, show the ball-thrower: horned, hairy, tailed and smiling maliciously.

  ‘The deovel,’ recited the woman. ‘Also called “willower” or “sylvan”. For livestock and domestic fowl, a tiresome and great pest is he. Be it your will to chase him from your hamlet, takest thou—’

  ‘Well, well,’ murmured Dandilion.

  ‘—takest thou of nuts, one fistful,’ continued the woman, running her finger along the parchment. ‘Next, takest thou of iron balls a second fistful. Of honey an utricle, of birch tar a second. Of grey soap a firkin; of soft cheese another. There where the deovel dwelleth, goest thou when ’tis night. Commenceth then to eat the nuts. Anon, the deovel who hath great greed, will hasten and ask if they are tasty indeed. Givest to him then the balls of iron—’

  ‘Damn you,’ murmured Dandilion. ‘Pox take—’

  ‘Quiet,’ said Geralt. ‘Well, Grandma. Go on.’

  ‘… having broken his teeth he will be attentive as thou eatest the honey. Of said honey will he himself desire. Givest him of birch tar, then yourself eateth soft cheese. Soon, hearest thou, will the deovel grumbleth and tumbleth, but makest of it as naught. Yet if the deovel desireth soft cheese, givest him soap. For soap the deovel withstandeth not—’

  ‘You got to the soap?’ interrupted Geralt with a stony expression turning towards Dhun and Nettly.

  ‘In no way,’ groaned Nettly. ‘If only we had got to the balls. But he gave us what for when he bit a ball—’

  ‘And who told you to give him so many?’ Dandilion was enraged. ‘It stands written in the book, one fistful to take. Yet ye gaveth of balls a sackful! Ye furnished him with ammunition for two years, the fools ye be!’

  ‘Careful,’ smiled the witcher. ‘You’re starting to fall into their jargon. It’s infectious.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Geralt suddenly raised his head and looked into the eyes of the girl standing by the woman. Lille didn’t lower her eyes. They were pale and wildly blue. ‘Why are you bringing the devil offerings in the form of grain?’ he asked sharply. ‘After all, it’s obvious that he’s a typical herbivore.’

  Lille didn’t answer.

  ‘I asked you a question, girl. Don’t be frightened, you won’t get the mange by talking to me.’

  ‘Don’t ask her anything, sir,’ said Nettly, with obvious unease in his voice. ‘Lille… She… She be strange. She won’t answer you, don’t force her.’

  Geralt kept looking into Lille’s eyes, and Lille still met his gaze. He felt a shiver run down his back and creep along his shoulders.

  ‘Why didn’t you attack the devil with stancheons and pitchforks, ’ he raised his voice. ‘Why didn’t you set a trap for him? If you’d wanted to, his goat’s head would already be spiked on a pole to frighten crows away. You warned me not to kill him. Why? You forbade it, didn’t you, Lille?’

  Dhun got up from the bench. His head almost touched the beams.

  ‘Leave, lass,’ he growled. ‘Take the old woman and leave.’

  ‘Who is she, honourable Dhun?’ the witcher demanded as the door closed behind Lille and the woman. ‘Who is that girl? Why does she enjoy more respect from you than that bloody book?’

  ‘It be nae yer business.’ Dhun looked at him, and there was no friendliness in his eyes. ‘Persecute wise women in your own town, burn stakes in yer own land. There has been none of it here, nor will there be.’

  ‘You didn’t understand me,’ said the witcher coldly.

  ‘Because I did nae try,’ growled Dhun.

  ‘I noticed,’ Geralt said through his teeth, making no effort to be cordial. ‘But be so gracious as to understand something, honourable Dhun. We have no agreement. I haven’t committed myself to you in any way. You have no reason to believe that you’ve bought yourself a witcher who, for a silver penny or three halves, will do what you can’t do yourselves. Or don’t want to do. Or aren’t allowed to. No, honourable Dhun. You have not bought yourself a witcher yet, and I don’t think you’ll succeed in doing so. Not with your reluctance to understand.’

  Dhun remained silent, measuring Geralt with a gloomy stare.

  Nettly cleared his throat and wriggled on the bench, shuffling his rag sandals on the dirt floor, then suddenly straightened up.

  ‘Witcher, sir,’ he said. ‘Do nae be enraged. We will tell ye, what and how. Dhun?’

  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 favour of those noblemen who collected levies and profited from farming. Farmers always consulted prophetesses on everything an
d 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 learnt 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—’

  ‘Hm…’ 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, honourable Dhun. My questions aim to establish the bond between Lille and the devil. You’ve probably realised 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.’