Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘She came looking for a cure,’ he remarked coldly. ‘That’s what you quarrelled about, admit it.’

  ‘I won’t admit anything.’

  The witcher got up and stood in full light under one of the crystal sheets in the grotto’s vault.

  ‘Come here a minute, Nenneke. Take a look at this.’ He unknotted a secret pocket in his belt, dug out a tiny bundle, a miniature purse made of goat-leather, and poured the contents into his palm.

  ‘Two diamonds, a ruby, three pretty nephrites, and an interesting agate.’ Nenneke was knowledgeable about everything. ‘How much did they cost you?’

  ‘Two and a half thousand Temeria orens. Payment for the Wyzim striga.’

  ‘For a torn neck,’ grimaced the priestess. ‘Oh, well, it’s a question of price. But you did well to turn cash into these trinkets. The oren is weak and the cost of stones in Wyzim isn’t high; it’s too near to the dwarves’ mines in Mahakam. If you sell those in Novigrad, you’ll get at least five hundred Novigrad crowns, and the crown, at present, stands at six and a half orens and is going up.’

  ‘I’d like you to take them.’

  ‘For safe-keeping?’

  ‘No. Keep the nephrites for the temple as, shall we say, my offering to the goddess Melitele. And the remaining stones . . . are for her. For Yennefer. Give them to her when she comes to visit you again, which will no doubt be soon.’

  Nenneke looked him straight in the eyes.

  ‘I wouldn’t do this if I were you. You’ll make her even more furious, if that’s possible, believe me. Leave everything as it is, because you’re no longer in a position to mend anything or make anything better. Running away from her, you behaved . . . well, let’s say, in a manner not particularly worthy of a mature man. By trying to wipe away your guilt with precious stones, you’ll behave like a very, very over-mature man. I really don’t know what sort of man I can stand less.’

  ‘She was too possessive,’ he muttered, turning away his face. ‘I couldn’t stand it. She treated me like—’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said sharply. ‘Don’t cry on my shoulder. I’m not your mother, and I won’t be your confidante either. I don’t give a shit how she treated you and I care even less how you treated her. And I don’t intend to be a go-between or give these stupid jewels to her. If you want to be a fool, do it without using me as an intermediary.’

  ‘You misunderstand. I’m not thinking of appeasing or bribing her. But I do owe her something, and the treatment she wants to undergo is apparently very costly. I want to help her, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re more of an idiot than I thought.’ Nenneke picked up the basket from the ground. ‘A costly treatment? Help? Geralt, these jewels of yours are, to her, knick-knacks not worth spitting on. Do you know how much Yennefer can earn for getting rid of an unwanted pregnancy for a great lady?’

  ‘I do happen to know. And that she earns even more for curing infertility. It’s a shame she can’t help herself in that respect. That’s why she’s seeking help from others – like you.’

  ‘No one can help her, it’s impossible. She’s a sorceress. Like most female magicians, her ovaries are atrophied and it’s irreversible. She’ll never be able to have children.’

  ‘Not all sorceresses are handicapped in this respect. I know something about that, and you do, too.’

  Nenneke closed her eyes. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Something can’t be a rule if there are exceptions to it. And please don’t give me any banal untruths about exceptions proving the rule. Tell me something about exceptions as such.’

  ‘Only one thing,’ she said coldly, ‘can be said about exceptions. They exist. Nothing more. But Yennefer . . . Well, unfortunately, she isn’t an exception. At least not as regards the handicap we’re talking about. In other respects it’s hard to find a greater exception than her.’

  ‘Sorcerers,’ Geralt wasn’t put off by Nenneke’s coldness, or her allusion, ‘have raised the dead. I know of proven cases. And it seems to me that raising the dead is harder than reversing the atrophy of any organs.’

  ‘You’re mistaken. Because I don’t know of one single, proven, fully successful case of reversing atrophy or regenerating endocrine glands. Geralt, that’s enough. This is beginning to sound like a consultation. You don’t know anything about these things. I do. And if I tell you that Yennefer has paid for certain gifts by losing others, then that’s how it is.’

  ‘If it’s so clear then I don’t understand why she keeps on trying to—’

  ‘You understand very little,’ interrupted the priestess. ‘Bloody little. Stop worrying about Yennefer’s complaints and think about your own. Your body was also subjected to changes which are irreversible. She surprises you, but what about you? It ought to be clear to you too, that you’re never going to be human, but you still keep trying to be one. Making human mistakes. Mistakes a witcher shouldn’t be making.’

  He leant against the wall of the cave and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  ‘You’re not answering,’ stated Nenneke, smiling faintly. ‘I’m not surprised. It’s not easy to speak with the voice of reason. You’re sick, Geralt. You’re not fully fit. You react to elixirs badly. You’ve got a rapid pulse rate, the dilation of your eyes is slow, your reactions are delayed. You can’t get the simplest Signs right. And you want to hit the trail? You have to be treated. You need therapy. And before that, a trance.’

  ‘Is that why you sent Iola to me? As part of the therapy? To make the trance easier?’

  ‘You’re a fool!’

  ‘But not to such an extent.’

  Nenneke turned away and slipped her hands among the meaty stalks of creepers which the witcher didn’t recognise.

  ‘Well, have it your way,’ she said easily. ‘Yes, I sent her to you. As part of the therapy. And let me tell you, it worked. Your reactions were much better the following day. You were calmer. And Iola needed some therapy, too. Don’t be angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry because of the therapy, or because of Iola.’

  ‘But at the voice of reason you’re hearing?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘A trance is necessary,’ repeated Nenneke, glancing around at her cave garden. ‘Iola’s ready. She’s made both physical and psychic contact with you. If you want to leave, let’s do it tonight.’

  ‘No. I don’t want to. Look, Nenneke, Iola might start to prophesy during the trance. To predict, read the future.’

  ‘That’s just it.’

  ‘Exactly. And I don’t want to know the future. How could I do what I’m doing if I knew it? Besides, I know it anyway.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Oh, well, all right,’ she sighed. ‘Let’s go. Oh, and Geralt? I don’t mean to pry but tell me . . . How did you meet? You and Yennefer? How did it all start?’

  The witcher smiled. ‘It started with me and Dandilion not having anything for breakfast and deciding to catch some fish.’

  ‘Am I to understand that instead of fish you caught Yennefer?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what happened. But maybe after supper. I’m hungry.’

  ‘Let’s go then. I’ve got everything I need.’

  The witcher made a move towards the exit and once more looked around the cave hothouse.

  ‘Nenneke?’

  ‘Aha?’

  ‘Half of the plants you’ve got here don’t grow anywhere else anymore. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes. More than half.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘If I said it was through the goddess Melitele’s grace, I daresay that wouldn’t be enough for you, would it?’

  ‘I daresay it wouldn’t.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Nenneke smiled. ‘You see, Geralt, this bright sun of ours is still shining, but not quite the way it used to. Read the great books if you like. But if you don’t want to waste time on it maybe you’ll be happy with the explanation that the crystal roof acts like a filter. It eliminates the lethal rays which are incr
easingly found in sunlight. That’s why plants which you can’t see growing wild anywhere in the world grow here.’

  ‘I understand,’ nodded the witcher. ‘And us, Nenneke? What about us? The sun shines on us, too. Shouldn’t we shelter under a roof like that?’

  ‘In principle, yes,’ sighed the priestess. ‘But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s too late.’

  THE LAST WISH

  I

  The catfish stuck its barbelled head above the surface, tugged with force, splashed, stirred the water and flashed its white belly.

  ‘Careful, Dandilion!’ shouted the witcher, digging his heels into the wet sand. ‘Hold him, damn it!’

  ‘I am holding him . . .’ groaned the poet. ‘Heavens, what a monster! It’s a leviathan, not a fish! There’ll be some good eating on that, dear gods!’

  ‘Loosen it. Loosen it or the line will snap!’

  The catfish clung to the bed and threw itself against the current towards the bend in the river. The line hissed as Dandilion’s and Geralt’s gloves smouldered.

  ‘Pull, Geralt, pull! Don’t loosen it or it’ll get tangled up in the roots!’

  ‘The line will snap!’

  ‘No, it won’t. Pull!’

  They hunched up and pulled. The line cut the water with a hiss, vibrated and scattered droplets which glistened like mercury in the rising sun. The catfish suddenly surfaced, set the water seething just below the surface, and the tension of the line eased. They quickly started to gather up the slack.

  ‘We’ll smoke it,’ panted Dandilion. ‘We’ll take it to the village and get it smoked. And we’ll use the head for soup!’

  ‘Careful !’

  Feeling the shallows under its belly, the catfish threw half of its twelve-foot-long body out of the water, tossed its head, whacked its flat tail and took a sharp dive into the depths. Their gloves smouldered anew.

  ‘Pull, pull! To the bank, the son-of-a-bitch!’

  ‘The line is creaking! Loosen it, Dandilion!’

  ‘It’ll hold, don’t worry! We’ll cook the head . . . for soup . . .’

  The catfish, dragged near to the bank again, surged and strained furiously against them as if to let them know he wasn’t that easy to get into the pot. The spray flew six feet into the air.

  ‘We’ll sell the skin . . .’ Dandilion, red with effort, pulled the line with both hands. ‘And the barbels . . . We’ll use the barbels to make—’

  Nobody ever found out what the poet was going to make from the catfish’s barbels. The line snapped with a crack and both fishermen, losing their balance, fell onto the wet sand.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Dandilion yelled so loud that the echo resounded through the osiers. ‘So much grub escaped ! I hope you die, you son-of-a-catfish.’

  ‘I told you,’ Geralt shook his wet trousers. ‘I told you not to use force when you pull. You screwed up, my friend. You make as good a fisherman as a goat’s arse makes a trumpet.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ The troubadour was outraged. ‘It’s my doing that the monster took the bait in the first place.’

  ‘Oh really? You didn’t lift a finger to help me set the line. You played the lute and hollered so the whole neighbourhood could hear you, nothing more.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Dandilion bared his teeth. ‘When you fell asleep, you see, I took the grubs off the hook and attached a dead crow, which I’d found in the bushes. I wanted to see your face in the morning when you pulled the crow out. And the catfish took the crow. Your grubs would have caught shit-all.’

  ‘They would have, they would have.’ The witcher spat into the water, winding the line on to a little wooden rake. ‘But it snapped because you tugged like an idiot. Wind up the rest of the lines instead of gabbling. The sun’s already up, it’s time to go. I’m going to pack up.’

  ‘Geralt!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s something on the other line, too . . . No, dammit, it only got caught. Hell, it’s holding like a stone, I can’t do it! Ah, that’s it . . . Ha, ha, look what I’m bringing in. It must be the wreck of a barge from King Dezmod’s time! What great stuff! Look, Geralt!’

  Dandilion was clearly exaggerating; the clump of rotted ropes, net and algae pulled out of the water was impressive but it was far from being the size of a barge dating from the days of the legendary king. The bard scattered the jumble over the bank and began to dig around in it with the tip of his shoe. The algae was alive with leeches, scuds and little crabs.

  ‘Ha! Look what I’ve found!’

  Geralt approached, curious. The find was a chipped stoneware jar, something like a two-handled amphora, tangled up in netting, black with rotten algae, colonies of caddis-larvae and snails, dripping with stinking slime.

  ‘Ha!’ Dandilion exclaimed again, proudly. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘It’s an old pot.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ declared the troubadour, scraping away shells and hardened, shiny clay. ‘This is a charmed jar. There’s a djinn inside who’ll fulfil my three wishes.’

  The witcher snorted.

  ‘You can laugh,’ Dandilion finished his scraping, bent over and rinsed the amphora. ‘But there’s a seal on the spigot and a wizard’s mark on the seal.’

  ‘What mark? Let’s see.’

  ‘Oh, sure.’ The poet hid the jar behind his back. ‘And what more do you want? I’m the one who found it and I need all the wishes.’

  ‘Don’t touch that seal! Leave it alone!’

  ‘Let go, I tell you! It’s mine!’

  ‘Dandilion, be careful!’

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘Don’t touch it! Oh, bloody hell!’

  The jar fell to the sand during their scuffle, and luminous red smoke burst forth.

  The witcher jumped back and rushed towards the camp for his sword. Dandilion, folding his arms across his chest, didn’t move.

  The smoke pulsated and collected in an irregular sphere level with Dandilion’s eyes. The sphere formed a six-foot-wide distorted head with no nose, enormous eyes and a sort of beak.

  ‘Djinn!’ said Dandilion, stamping his foot. ‘I freed thee and as of this day, I am thy lord. My wishes—’

  The head snapped its beak, which wasn’t really a beak but something in the shape of drooping, deformed and ever-changing lips.

  ‘Run!’ yelled the witcher. ‘Run, Dandilion!’

  ‘My wishes,’ continued the poet, ‘are as follows. Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, die of apoplexy as soon as possible. Secondly, there’s a count’s daughter in Caelf called Virginia who refuses all advances. May she succumb to mine. Thirdly—’

  No one ever found out Dandilion’s third wish.

  Two monstrous paws emerged from the horrible head and grabbed the bard by the throat. Dandilion screeched.

  Geralt reached the head in three leaps, swiped his silver sword and slashed it through the middle. The air howled, the head exhaled smoke and rapidly doubled in diameter. The monstrous jaw, now also much larger, flew open, snapped and whistled; the paws pulled the struggling Dandilion around and crushed him to the ground.

  The witcher crossed his fingers in the Sign of Aard and threw as much energy as he could muster at the head. The energy materialised in a blinding beam, sliced through the glow surrounding the head and hit its mark. The boom was so loud that it stabbed Geralt’s ears, and the air sucked in by the implosion made the willows rustle. The roar of the monster was deafening as it grew even larger, but it released the poet, soared up, circled and, waving its paws, flew away over the water.

  The witcher rushed to pull Dandilion – who was lying motionless – away. At that moment, his fingers touched a round object buried in the sand.

  It was a brass seal decorated with the sign of a broken cross and a nine-pointed star.

  The head, suspended above the river, had become the size of a haystack, while the open, roaring jaws looked like the gates of an average-sized barn. Stret
ching out its paws, the monster attacked.

  Geralt, not having the least idea of what to do, squeezed the seal in his fist and, extending his hand towards the assailant, screamed out the words of an exorcism a priestess had once taught him. He had never used those words until now because, in principle, he didn’t believe in superstitions.

  The effect surpassed his expectations.

  The seal hissed and grew hot, burning his hand. The gigantic head froze in the air, suspended, motionless above the river. It hung like that for a moment then, at last, it began to howl, roar, and dispersed into a pulsating bundle of smoke, into a huge, whirling cloud. The cloud whined shrilly and whisked upstream with incredible speed, leaving a trail of churned-up water on the surface. In a matter of seconds, it had disappeared into the distance; only a dwindling howl lingered across the water.

  The witcher rushed to the poet, cowering on the sand.

  ‘Dandilion? Are you dead? Dandilion, damn it! What’s the matter with you?’

  The poet jerked his head, shook his hands and opened his mouth to scream. Geralt grimaced and narrowed his eyes – Dandilion had a trained – loud – tenor voice and, when frightened, could reach extraordinary registers. But what emerged from the bard’s throat was a barely audible, hoarse croak.

  ‘Dandilion! What’s the matter with you? Answer me!’

  ‘Hhhh . . . eeee . . . kheeeee . . . theeee whhhhorrrrrrre . . .’

  ‘Are you in pain? What’s the matter? Dandilion!’

  ‘Hhhh . . . Whhhooo . . .’

  ‘Don’t say anything. If everything’s all right, nod.’

  Dandilion grimaced and, with great difficulty, nodded and then immediately turned on his side, curled up and – choking and coughing – vomited blood.

  Geralt cursed.

  II

  ‘By all the gods!’ The guard stepped back and lowered the lantern. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘Let us through, my good man,’ said the witcher quietly, supporting Dandilion, who was huddled up in the saddle. ‘We’re in great haste, as you see.’