Stephen Hulin

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Lay where you lay,’ the dwarf advised him. ‘You can't impress me neither with your size, nor with the tattoo from Sturefors. I’ve hurt bigger than you, and denizens of heavier prisons. Don't try to get up. Geralt - do your job.’

  ‘Just so it’s clear as crystal to youse,’ he addressed the rest, ‘the witcher and I’re, savin’ yer miserable lives. Captain, to shore please. And lower the dinghy.’

  The Witcher descended the steps leading under the deck, pulled open one door then another. And froze. Behind him Addario Bach swore. Fysh also swore. Van Vliet moaned.

  Lying on a bed was a lean girl with glassy eyes. She was half naked, from waist down completely naked, with her legs obscenely spread. Her neck was twisted in very unnatural way. And still more obscene.

  ‘Master Parlaghy...’ van Vliet forced out of himself. ‘What have you done?’

  The man sitting over the girl looked at them. He moved his head like he didn't saw them, like he was searching for a place from which voice of the businessman came.

  ‘Master Parlaghy!’

  ‘She shouted...’ the man mumbled, shaking his double chin and reeking of alcohol. ‘She started shouting...’

  ‘Master Parlaghy...’

  ‘I wanted to make her stop... I just wanted to stop her screaming...’

  ‘You’ve killed her.’ Fysh stated obvious. ‘You bloody killed her!’

  Van Vliet caught his head with both hands.

  ‘What now? Gods… what now?’

  ‘Now?’ the dwarf explained to him matter-of-factly. ‘Now we’re fucked.’

  ***

  ‘There is no reason to fear.’ - Fysh hit the railing with his fist. ‘We’re on the river, in deep water. Far from the banks. Even if the vulpess is following us, and we have no reason to think she is, she can’t touch us here.’

  ‘Master Witcher?’ Van Vliet fearfully stared at Geralt. ‘What say you?’

  ‘The vupess is following us,’ Geralt patiently repeated. ‘No doubt about it. If something is doubtful, it's Master Fysh's knowledge, and I would like him to keep his silence accordingly. Here’s how I see it: If we had let the young cub loose and left her on the shore there was slim chance that vulpess would leave us be. But after what happened, happened. Now our only hope is escape. It's a miracle that the vulpess didn't get us earlier, truly it proves right that fools are lucky. But we can no longer tempt fate. Set all sails, captain. Every single one you have.’

  ‘S’pose we could,’ Boxcray appraised slowly, ‘add a topsail. Wind is good...’

  ‘And when...’ Van Vliet interrupted. ‘Master Witcher? Will you defend us?’

  ‘Honestly Master van Vliet. I'd rather leave you to your fate. Together with this Parlaghy, whose very memory makes my guts twist and turn. Who is drinking himself into oblivion over the dead body of the child he just murdered.’

  ‘’m leaning that way myself,’ threw in Addario Bach. ‘For, paraphrasing Master Fysh's words about non-humans: the bigger the harm to idiots, the bigger is the advantage of the wise.’

  ‘I would leave Parlaghy and you to the vulpess’s mercy. But my code forbids it. A Witcher's code does not allow me to act according to my will. I can't forsake those threatened with death.’

  ‘A Witcher's nobility!’ Snorted Fysh. ‘Like you never heard of your exploits! But I support the idea to run fast. Rise all the rags, Boxcray, let’s get to the fairway and run as fast as possible!’

  The captain gave the orders and the deck hands got busy with the rigging. Boxcray went to the bow, and after a while of thinking Geralt and the dwarf joined him. Van Vliet, Fysh and Cobbin were arguing on the aft deck.

  ‘Master Boxcray?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘How is it that the ship got this name? And this rather uncommon figurehead? Was it done to get funding from priests?’

  ‘The sloop was built as the "Melusina"’, the captain shrugged. ‘With a figurehead matching the name and pleasing the eyes. And then both were changed. Some said it was funding. Others said that Novigradian priests accused Master van Vliet of heresy and blasphemy every now and then so he wanted to kiss arse.... He wanted to be on their good side.’

  "Prophet Lebioda" broke the waves with its bow.

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘What it is, Addario?’

  ‘This vixen... That is vulpess... From what I have heard she can shapeshift. She can show up like woman, but she can also take form of a vixen. Is it like a werewolf?’

  ‘It's different. Werewolfs, werebears, wererats and so on are therianthrops, humans able to transform into animals. Vulpesses are anterions. Beasts, or beings able to take the form of a human.’

  ‘And their powers? I’ve heard unbelievable stories... An vulpess is reportedly able to...’

  ‘I hope,’ interrupted the witcher, ‘to get to Novigrad, before the vulpess will show what she is capable of.’

  ‘And if...’

  ‘It would be better if there were no "ifs".’

  The wind broke, the sails fluttered.

  ‘The sky grows dark,’ indicated Addario Bach. ‘And I think I've heard distant thunder.’

  The dwarf's hearing wasn't off. It took but a short while, and there again was thunder. Everyone heard this time.

  ‘Storm is coming!’ Boxcray shouted. ‘On in deep water it will turn us upside down. We have to run, to hide, find cover from the wind! To sails, boys!’

  He pushed the helmsman aside and took the helm himself.

  ‘Brace yourselves, brace yourselves everyone!’

  The sky over the right bank became a deep dark blue. Suddenly the wind blew, tugged at the forest on a riverside cliff, stirring it to a boil. Larger trees were violently rocking, while smaller where bent in half by the force pushing at them. There was a cloud of leaves and whole branches flying, some of them big ones. There was blinding lightning and almost the same instant there was piercing boom of thunder. After this one, almost instantly there was a second. And then the third.

  In the next moment, signaled earlier by growing noise, the intense rain started. They ceased to see anything from beyond the wall of water. "Prophet Lebioda" rocked and danced on the waves, every now and then getting significantly slanted. And it was cracking at that. For Geralt it seemed that every single board was cracking. Every single board came alive, it seemed, with its own life, and moved independently from any other. There was worry that the sloop would just fall apart. The Witcher was telling himself again and again that it's impossible, that construction of the ship enables travel over still more disturbed waters, that they were on a river not the ocean. He repeated this to himself, spat out water, and clung on to the ropes.

  It was hard to tell how long this carried on. But finally the rocking ceased, the wind ceased tugging, and the thunderstorm rocking the water eased, at first, changing into rain and then into a light drizzle. They saw then that Boxcray's maneuver had worked. They managed to hide behind an isle covered with a forest, where they were not being tossed so much by the wind. The thunderclouds, it seemed, were getting further, and the storm calmed.

  Mist rose from the waters.

  ***

  From Boxcray's cap, completely soaked, dripped water, flowing over his face. Despite this the captain did not remove his cap. He probably never did.

  ‘Devils by the dozen!’ He wiped droplets from his nose. ‘Where’s the squall driven us? Some offshoot? An oxbow o’ sorts? The water near still.’

  ‘Current may be weak, but it’s carrying us.’ Fysh spat into the water and looked at the spittle. He no longer had his straw hat, it must have been carried away by the thunderstorm.

  ‘Current may be weak, but it’s carrying us,’ he repeated. ‘Seems we’re in an inlet between two isles. Keep her steady, Boxcray. It’ll carry us to the main river before it’s done.’

  ‘Fairway,’ the captain leaned over the compass, ‘lies to the north, I reckon. Meaning we ought to take the right fork
. Not left, but right.’

  ‘Where do you see a fork?’ asked Fysh. ‘But one route ahead. Stay the course.’

  ‘I seen two branches moments ago, I swear it,’ Boxcray argued. ‘Might be the damned rain was still in me eyes? Or ‘twere the fog. No matter. We’ll let the current carry us. Thing is...’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘The compass. Way it’s pointing don’t make sense. No, no, it's fine. Must’ve been skewed by the water in the glass from my cap. Sail on.’

  ‘Yes, let's sail.’

  The fog was getting alternately thinner and thicker, then the wind died completely and it was suddenly very warm.

  ‘The water,’ said Boxcray. ‘Can you smell it? I’s different somehow. Where exactly are we?’

  The mist lifted, they saw then the thickly overgrown banks, littered with rotten tree trunks. Instead of pines, firs and yews growing on the island there were forked water birches, and tall, cone-like at the base cypresses. The cypresses' trunk were grown over by trumpet vines, their vividly red flowers were the only strong accent among the rotten green of the swamp plants. The water was covered by duckweed and full of wrack, which "Prophet" was splitting with its bow and then pulled behind it like a train. The water was murky, and had an unpleasant, somewhat rotten smell. From the bottom large bubbles were rising. Boxcray was still holding the helm himself.

  ‘There could be shoals here,’ he said, suddenly disturbed. ‘Come now! Let someone get the plummet on the bow!’

  They sailed, carried by the weak flow, still among the swampy views. And the rotten stench. The deck hand on bow was constantly shouting depth readings.

  ‘Master Witcher,’ Boxcray leaned over his compass, knocking at the glass, ‘Take a gander.’

  ‘At what?’;

  ‘thought the glass had fogged up... But unless the needle gone completely awry, we’re sailing westward. Meaning we’re going back. Back where we came from.’

  ‘Impossible. The current. It’s carrying us. The river...’

  He stopped.

  Over the water hung a huge, partially uprooted tree. On one of branches stood a woman, in a long, tight dress. She stood there motionless staring at them.

  ‘Turn,’ said the witcher in a low voice. ‘Turn, Captain. Toward the other bank. Away from the tree.’

  The woman vanished. And over the branch ran a great fox, which ran away and hid in a thicket. The animal seemed all black, but for the white on the tip of its tail.

  ‘Gone. Vanished. But she’s has found us.’ Addario Bach also noticed. ‘The vulpess has found us.’

  ‘Blast it! You think she’ll find a way to...’

  ‘Shut up. Both of you. Don't panic.’

  They sailed. From the dried trees the pelicans were staring at them.

  Interlude

  A hundred and twenty-seven years later

  ‘There, behind the hillock,’ the merchant indicated with his lash, ‘that's Ivalo, young lady. Half a furlong, no more, you will be there in no time. I have to take the left fork for Maribor at the crossroads, so it is time to part ways. Be in good health, let the gods guide you and guard you.’

  ‘Let them guard you too, good master.’ Nimue jumped off the cart, took her bundle, and the rest of her baggage and then curtsied ungracefully. ‘I'm very grateful that then, in the forest... Very grateful...’

  She swallowed remembering the dark forest, into which she was led by the road. Great scary trees with twisted branches, forming a ceiling high above the empty road. A road that she suddenly traveled alone, all alone. Remembering the terror which she felt then, and a wish to turn back and escape. Back to her home. To drop this stupid idea of a lone quest through the world. To forget this idea.

  ‘For gods' sake, don't thank me, there is nothing to thank me for.’ The merchant laughed. ‘To help on the road is a humane thing. Farewell. Happy travels!’

  She stood a while at the crossroads, looking at the stone pillar, polished by the rains and winds to a smooth slipperiness. It has stood here for a very long time. Who knows, maybe even over a hundred years? Maybe this pillar remembers The Year of the Comet? The Armies of the Northern kings, proceeding to Brenna, for the battle with Nilfgaard?

  Like every single day she repeated the route, known by heart. Like a magic formula. Like a spell.

  Vyrva, Guado, Sibell, Brugge, Casterfurt, Mortara, Ivalo, Dorian, Anchor, Gors Velen.

  The town of Ivalo could be known from afar. By its noise and stench.

  The forest ended by the crossroads, further, up to the very buildings was a clearing beset with cut stumps, reaching, far, far away - to the very horizon. Everywhere there was smoke, in rows stood iron barrels, retorts used to kiln the charcoal. It smelled of resin. The closer it was to town the louder the noise got, a strange metallic sound that made the ground tremble palpably under feet.

  Nimue entered the town, and sighed from awe. The source of the noise and tremors was from the strangest machine she had ever seen. A huge, round copper boiler with a huge wheel, whose rotations propelled piston shining with tar. The machine hissed, smoked, snorted with hot water and puffed with vapor, and then it emitted a whistle. A whistle so frightful and terrible that Nimue squealed. She got hold of herself quickly, she even approached and looked with interest at the belts, which helped the hellish machine to drive a saw like a lumber mill, which was cutting boles in unbelievable haste. She would have observed longer, but her ears started to ache because of the noise and the grinding of saws.

  She crossed the bridge, the river flowing underneath was murky and stank terribly, carrying woodchips, bark and froth. The town of Ivalo, which she had just entered smelled like a huge outhouse, an outhouse in which someone was roasting spoilt meat at that. Nimue, who spent last week among meadows and forest was getting short of breath. The town of Ivalo, an end to a leg of her journey was supposed to be a place to rest awhile. She now knew that she would not stay here any longer than there was need to. And that she would not remember Ivalo kindly.

  At the market - as usual - she sold a basket of mushrooms, and healing roots. It went smoothly, she came to know what was needed, and to whom to sell her wares. While trading she acted the fool, which made selling fast, as merchants tried to outdo themselves in cheating her. She earned little, but fast. And tempo was of importance.

  The only source of clean water around was a well in a small square, and Nimue had to wait in quite long queue. Buying food for further travel went more smoothly. Allured by the smell, she also bought a few filled patties. The filling seemed suspicious at closer inspection. She sat by the creamery, to eat the patties while they were still edible without too much of a danger to her health. It didn't seem that they would stay so much longer.

  On the opposite site was an inn call "Under Green ..." which was missing the lower board of the sign making it a mystery and intellectual challenge of the name. Nimue after a while got completely lost in trials of guessing what could be green except for a frog or lettuce. She was brought out of her reverie by a loud discussion, which was held by frequent visitors.

  ‘"Prophet Lebioda", I tell you.’ perorated one of them. ‘That brig of legend. A ghost ship, that was lost more than a hundred years ago without any clue, with the whole crew. Every time it later appeared on the river something bad happened. It appeared with wraiths on board, as saw by many. It was told that it would show up until it's wreck will be found. And it was finally found.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the Mouth, on oxbow, among swamps, that were dried. It was overgrown by swamp plants. And moss. When they scraped algae and moss off they saw the sign "Prophet Lebioda".’

  ‘What about treasure? Did they find treasure? There was supposed to be treasure in the hold. Were they found?’

  ‘It's unknown. Priests, they tell, claimed the ship. As a relic.’

  ‘Oh, what bullshit,’ belched another patron. ‘You believe in tall tales, like a child. Some old barge was found
and they all go instantly: ghost ship, treasure, relics. All of this is I assure you total bullshit, tall tales, foolish gossip, women's lies. Hey, you there! Girl! Who are you! Whose are you?’

  ‘I'm my own,’ Nimue had practiced how to respond.

  ‘Pull your hair back, show us your ear! Because you look the elven brood. And we don't want any elven mongrels here!’

  ‘Leave me alone, I don't trouble you. And I'm going on soon.’

  ‘Huh! And where?’

  ‘To Dorian.’ Nimue learned to always just tell the next stop, and never ever reveal the final goal of her travel, because it just made everyone around laugh.

  ‘Whoa! That's a lot of road to cover.’

  ‘So I'm taking off. And I will tell you that there was no treasure on the "Prophet Lebioda", the legend doesn't say anything about it. Then ship was lost and became a ghost ship because it was cursed, and its captain didn't want to listen to good advice. The Witcher, who was there advised him to keep away from the side branches, until he could lift the curse. I've read about it.’

  ‘You have milk under your nose,’ the first patron decided, ‘and you're so smart? You should sweep the room girl, take care of pots, and wash underpants, that's it! A great reader, you see!’

  ‘A Witcher!’ snorted the third. ‘Fairy tales, only fairy tales.’

  ‘If you are such a know-all,’ interjected another, ‘then you should also know about our Jay's Forest. Don't you? Then we will tell you: In Jay's Forest something evil sleeps. And it awakes every few years, and then woe to anyone crossing the forest. And your road, if you truly go to Dorian is just exactly through this forest.’

  ‘So is there any forest left? You have felled everything around, naked clearing was left.’

  ‘Look what a know-all, loudmouthed greenhorn. The forest is there to fell it, isn’t it? What we felled, we felled, what was left is left. And even lumberjacks avoid Jay's Forest such is the terror there. You will see yourself. You will wet your pants from fear.’

  ‘Then I'd better go.’

  Buckhole, Guado, Sibell, Brugge, Casterfurt, Mortara, Ivalo, Dorian, Anchor, Gors Velen.