‘It’s Samhain night!’ the beggar said in an excited voice. ‘On this night spirits walk the earth! The spirits of the dead knock on the windows. “Let us in,” they moan, “let us in”. Then they should be given honey and groats, all sprinkled with vodka…’
‘I’d sooner sprinkle my own throat with vodka,’ Rispat La Pointe chortled. ‘And your ghosts, old man, can kiss me right here.’
‘Oh, m’lord, don’t make fun of ghosts, they’re liable to hear, and they’re vengeful! Today it’s Samhain Eve, a night of dread and witchcraft! Prick up your eyes, do you hear something rustling and tapping all about? It’s the dead coming from the beyond, they want to steal into homesteads, to warm themselves by the fire and eat their fill. There, over the bare stubble fields and leafless forests rages a gale and a frost, the poor ghosts are chilled, so they head towards homesteads where there’s fire and warmth. Then one mustn’t forget to put out food for them in a bowl on the step, or on the threshing floor, for if the phantoms find nothing there, they go into cottages themselves after midnight, to search for—’
‘Oh my!’ one of the serving wenches whispered loudly, and immediately squealed, as Fripp pinched her behind.
‘Not a bad tale!’ he said. ‘But a long way off being a good one! Pour the old man a mug of mulled wine, landlord, and perhaps he’ll tell a good one! The test of a good ghost story, boys, is when you goose the wenches and they’re so engrossed they don’t even notice!’
The men cackled and the two girls, whose degree of attentiveness was being tested, squealed. The beggar quaffed the mulled wine, slurping loudly and burping.
‘Just don’t get drunk or fall asleep here!’ Dede Vargas warned menacingly. ‘We aren’t giving you drink for nothing! Tell a tale, sing, play the pipes! We want merriment!’
The beggar opened his mouth, where a single tooth stood like a white milepost in a dark steppe.
‘It, it’s Samhain, m’lord! What music? What playing? ’Tis not allowed! Samhain’s music is the gale outside! It’s the howling of werewolves and vampires, the wailing and moaning of vengeful ghosts, and ghouls grinding their teeth! The beann’shie howls and cries and whoever hears her cry is destined to die soon. Every evil spirit leaves its hideaway, witches fly to their last coven before winter! Samhain is a night of frights, of marvels and visions! Don’t venture into the forest or a leshy will maul you to death! Don’t pass through the boneyard or a corpse will seize you! Better not to leave your house at all, and to be on the safe side stick a new iron knife into the threshold. No evil will dare to pass over it. Whereas womenfolk must closely guard their children, for on Samhain night a rusalka or weeper may steal her child and replace it with a loathsome changeling. And if any woman is with child she better not go outside, for a night spirit may enchant the foetus in her womb! Instead of a babe a striga with iron teeth will be born—’
‘Lawks!’
‘With iron teeth. First it bites its mother’s breast. Then her hands. It bites her face… Ooh, but now I have a hunger…’
‘Have a bone, there’s still meat on it. Bain’t be healthy for old people to eat too much, they might choke and peg it, ha, ha! Oh, all right, bring him more wine, wench. Well, old man, go on about those ghosts!’
‘Samhain, m’lord, is the last night for spectres to make merry. Later the frost takes their strength away, so they sink into the Chasm, beneath the earth, from where they don’t stick their noses out the whole winter. For that reason from Samhain right until February, to the holy day of Imbaelk, is the best time for an expedition to haunted places, to search for treasure. If when it’s warm someone pokes around by a wight’s barrow, for example, the wight will awake as sure as eggs is eggs, jump out annoyed and devour the rummager. But from Samhain to Imbaelk poke and dig around, as much as you’re able: the wight sleeps soundly like an old bear.’
‘What has he dreamed up, the old bugger!’
‘But I speaks the truth, m’lord. Yes, yes. Samhain is a magical, awful night, but also at once the best for all kinds of prophecies and predictions. On such a night it’s worth telling fortunes and prophesying from bones and palms and from a white cock, from an onion, from cheese, from a cony’s innards, from a rotting flittermouse…’
Fripp spat on the ground.
‘The night of Samhain, a night of frights and phantoms… Better to sit tight at home. With all the family… By the fire…’
‘With all the family,’ Cyprian Fripp repeated, suddenly grinning voraciously at his comrades. ‘All the family, see? Along with her, what’s been slyly hiding away from us in the bushes!’
‘The blacksmith’s daughter!’ Yuz Jannowitz guessed at once. ‘That golden-haired peach! You’re cute, Fripp. Perhaps we’ll catch her at home today! Well, boys? Shall we dart over to the blacksmith’s shack?’
‘Ooh, why not now.’ Dede Vargas stretched vigorously. ‘I can see that blacksmith’s daughter in front of me now, I tell you, those titties bouncing, that little bottom wiggling… We ought to have taken her then, not wait, but Dacre Silifant, that stupid stickler… Well, but now Silifant ain’t here, and the blacksmith’s daughter’s at home! Waiting!’
‘We’ve already hacked down the village headman with a battle axe.’ Rispat grimaced. ‘We butchered the churl who came to help him. Do we need more corpses? The blacksmith and his son are built like oak trees. We won’t take them with fear. We need to—’
‘Cut them up,’ Fripp completed the sentence calmly. ‘Just cut them a little, nothing more. Drink up, we’ll get set and ride to the village. We’ll have ourselves a Samhain! We’ll don our sheepskins with the fur on the outside, we’ll bellow and clamour, the boors will think it’s devils or wights!’
‘Shall we fetch the blacksmith’s daughter here, to our quarters, or make merry our way, in the Gemmerian style, in front of her family?’
‘The one doesn’t rule out the other.’ Fripp the younger looked out into the night through the window’s oiled parchment. ‘What a blizzard’s whipped up, dammit! The poplars are bending right over!’
‘Oh, ho, ho,’ said the beggar from over his mug. ‘That isn’t the wind, m’lord, that’s not a blizzard! It’s witches dashing astride their brooms, though some are in stone mortars, sweeping over their tracks with their brooms. Who knows when one of them may cross a fellow’s path in the forest or steal up from behind? Who knows when she may attack! And she has teeth like these!’
‘It’s children you should be frightening with witches, beggar!’
‘Don’t speak, my liege, at the wrong time. For I’ll tell you more, that the most menacing hags, the countesses and duchesses of the witchly state, oh, ho, ho, they don’t ride on brooms, or on peels or in mortars, no! Those ones gallop on their black cats!’
‘He, he, he, he!’
‘It be the truth! For on Samhain Eve, on that one and only night of the year, hags’ cats turn into mares as black as pitch. And woe betide he who on a night as black as a pall hears the clatter of hooves and sees a hag on a black mare. He who meets such a witch will not shun death. The witch will twist him around like a leaf blown in the wind and carry him off to the beyond!’
‘You can finish when we return! And come up with a good tale, you bloody beggar, and make ready your pipes! When we return, there’ll be revels here! There’ll be dancing and the blacksmith’s maid will be dandled… What is it, Rispat?’
Rispat La Pointe, who had gone out onto the porch to relieve himself, returned at a run with a face as white as snow. He was gesticulating frantically, pointing at the door. He didn’t manage to utter a word. And there was no need. A horse neighed loudly from the courtyard.
‘The black mare,’ said Fripp, his face almost stuck to the parchment. ‘The same black mare. It’s her.’
‘A witch?’
‘It’s Falka, you dolt.’
‘It’s her ghost!’ Rispat sucked in air. ‘A phantom! She can’t have survived! She died and is returned as a spectre! On the night of Samhain…’
‘Weapons, get your weapons,’ Fripp said excitedly. ‘Quickly! Cover the door from both sides! Don’t you understand? We’ve struck lucky! Falka doesn’t know about us, she’s come here to get warm, cold and hunger have driven her out of her hideout! Straight into our arms! Tawny Owl and Rience will shower us with gold! Get your weapons…’
The door creaked.
The beggar hunched over the table and squinted. His sight was poor. His eyes were old and ruined, fogged and chronically sore. On top of that it was gloomy and smoky in the tavern. So the beggar could barely see the slender figure that had entered the main chamber from the hallway, dressed in a jerkin of muskrat pelts, wearing a hood and shawl which covered her face. The beggar had good hearing, though. He heard the soft cry of one of the serving wenches, the clatter of the other’s clogs and the innkeeper’s hushed curse. He heard the scraping of swords in scabbards. And Cyprian Fripp’s quiet, scornful voice:
‘We have you, Falka! Didn’t expect us here, did you?’
‘Oh, yes I did,’ the beggar heard. And he trembled at the sound of her voice.
He saw the slender figure move and heard a sigh of terror. The muffled scream of one of the wenches. He couldn’t see that the girl named Falka had removed her hood and shawl. He couldn’t see her hideously disfigured face. Or her eyes painted all around with a paste of soot and grease, like a demon’s.
‘I am not Falka,’ said the girl. The beggar saw again her fast, blurred movement, saw something shine fierily in the light of the cressets.
‘I’m Ciri of Kaer Morhen. I’m a witcher! I’ve come here to kill you.’
The beggar, who had seen many a tavern brawl in his life, had a practiced method for avoiding injury: he ducked under the table, curled up and grabbed the table legs tightly. From that position, naturally, he couldn’t see anything. And didn’t want to. He was clutching the table tightly, and it was sliding around the room with the other furniture, amidst clattering, banging and crunching, the thudding of heavily booted feet, curses, shouts, grunts and the clanging of steel.
One of the serving wenches was yelling shrilly, unremittingly.
Someone tumbled onto the table, shifting it along with the beggar, and fell onto the floor alongside him. The beggar yelled, feeling hot blood splash onto him. Dede Vargas, the one who had at first wanted to drive him away–the beggar recognised him by the brass buttons on his jerkin–croaked horribly and thrashed about, spurting blood and flailing his arms around. One of his wild movements caught the beggar right in the eye. He could no longer see anything. The screaming serving wench choked, fell silent, took a breath and began to yell again, at a somewhat higher pitch.
Someone sprawled on the floor with a thud and blood splashed the freshly cleaned pine floorboards. The beggar couldn’t tell that the dying man was Rispat La Pointe, slashed in the side of the neck by Ciri. He didn’t see her turn a pirouette right in front of Fripp and Jannowitz’s noses, and pass through their guards like a shade, like grey smoke. Jannowitz slipped behind her with a swift, soft, feline turn. He was an expert swordsman. Standing firmly on his right foot he struck out with a long, extended thrust, aiming at the girl’s face, straight at her hideous scar. He couldn’t miss.
But he did.
He was too slow to shield himself. She lunged from close up, two-handed, cutting him across his chest and stomach. And at once sprang back, whirled around, evading Fripp’s blow, and slashing the crouching Jannowitz across the neck. Jannowitz pitched over headfirst against a bench. Fripp leaped over the bench and the corpse and struck powerfully. Ciri parried obliquely, made a half-turn and jabbed him in the side above his hip. Fripp staggered, sprawled onto the table and instinctively extended his arms in front of himself to keep his balance. The moment he rested his hand on the table Ciri hacked it off in a swift slash.
Fripp raised the stump spurting blood, examined it intently and then looked at the hand lying on the table. And suddenly dropped–sitting down heavily on the floor with a thud, just as though he had slipped on some soap. He sat, yelling, and then began to bay, with a savage, high-pitched, long-drawn-out wolf-like howl. Crouching under the table, the blood-drenched beggar heard the ghastly duet continue for a moment–the monotonously yelling serving wench and the spasmodically howling Fripp.
The wench was the first to fall silent, her screaming ending in an inhuman, choking croak. Fripp simply fell silent. ‘Mamma…’ he suddenly said, utterly distinctly and lucidly. ‘Dear mamma… What is this…? How did…? What has… happened to me? What’s… the matter with me?’
‘You’re dying,’ said the disfigured girl.
What was left of the beggar’s hair stood up on his head. He clenched his teeth on the sleeve of his coat in order to stop them chattering.
Cyprian Fripp the younger made a sound as though he was having difficulty swallowing. After that he uttered no more sounds. None at all.
It was completely silent.
‘What have you done…?’ the innkeeper groaned in the silence. ‘What have you done, girl…?’
‘I’m a witcher. I kill monsters.’
‘They’ll hang us… They’ll burn down the tavern and the village!’
‘I kill monsters,’ she repeated, but in her voice suddenly appeared something like surprise. Something like hesitancy. Uncertainty.
The innkeeper moaned and groaned. And sobbed.
The beggar slowly emerged from under the table, moving away from Dede Vargas’s body, and his hideously mutilated face.
‘You ride a black mare…’ he mumbled. ‘On a night as black as a pall… You sweep away the tracks behind you…’
The girl turned around and looked at him. She had already wrapped the shawl around her face and the black-ringed spectral eyes looked out from over it.
‘Whoever meets you,’ the beggar mumbled, ‘will not avoid death… For you yourself are death.’
The girl looked long at him. Long. And rather dispassionately.
‘You’re right,’ she said finally.
Somewhere in the swamps, far away, but much closer than before, a beann’shie’s plaintive wailing sounded a second time.
Vysogota lay on the floor, where he had collapsed as he was getting out of bed. He found to his horror that he couldn’t stand up. His heart pounded in his throat, choking him.
Now he knew whose death the elven apparition’s nocturnal cry was auguring. Life was beautiful, he thought. In spite of everything.
‘O Gods…’ he whispered. ‘I don’t believe in you… But if you do exist…’
A dreadful pain suddenly exploded in his chest, behind his breastbone. Somewhere in the swamps, far away, but much nearer than before, the beann’shie howled savagely for the third time.
‘If you do exist, protect the witcher girl on the road!’
‘I have enormous eyes, all the better to see you with!’ shrieked the great, iron wolf. ‘I have enormous paws, all the better to seize and hug you with! Everything about me is enormous, everything, and soon you will discover it for yourself. Why are you looking at me so strangely, little girl? Why do you not answer?
The witcher girl smiled.
‘I have a surprise for you.’
Flourens Delannoy, The Surprise, from the book Fairy Tales and Stories
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The novices stood before the high priestess as straight as ramrods, tense, mute, slightly pale. They were ready to set off, prepared down to the minutest detail. Men’s grey travelling clothes, warm, loose-fitting sheepskin coats and comfortable elven boots. Haircuts which could easily be kept clean and tidy on camps and marches, so as not to interfere with work. Very small bundles, containing only provisions and essential equipment. The army was to provide them with the rest. The army they were enlisting in.
The faces of the two girls were composed. Seemingly. Triss Me
rigold could see that the hands and lips of the two girls were quivering faintly.
The wind tugged at the bare branches of the trees in the temple grounds, swept dead leaves across the flagstones of the courtyard. The sky was a deep blue. A blizzard was in the air. You could feel it.
Nenneke broke the silence.
‘Do you have your postings?’
‘I don’t,’ Eurneid mumbled. ‘For the moment I’ll be in winter quarters in a camp outside Vizima. The recruiting officer said that in the spring mercenary units from the North will be stopping there… I’m to be a nurse in one of them.’
‘But I,’ said Iola the Second, ‘already have my posting. To Mr Milo Vanderbeck, field surgeon.’
‘Mind you don’t disgrace me.’ Nenneke gave the novices a menacing look. ‘Mind you dishonour neither myself, nor the temple, nor the name of Great Melitele.’
‘Certainly not, O mother.’
‘And look after yourselves.’
‘Yes, O mother.’
‘You’ll be dead tired attending the wounded, you will not know sleep. You’ll be frightened and have doubts as you gaze on pain and death. And then it’s easy to misuse narcotics or stimulants. Be careful of that.’
‘We know, O mother.’
‘War, fear, slaughter and blood,’ the high priestess’ eyes drilled into the two girls, ‘mean a slackening of morals, and for some are also a powerful aphrodisiac. How they will act on you, my girls, you do not and cannot know at present. Please be careful about that too. If, though, it comes to it, take preventative measures. Should one of you get into trouble, in spite of that, stay well away from shady quacksalvers and village wise-women! Search for a temple, or better yet a sorceress.’
‘We know, O mother.’
‘That’s everything. Now come closer to receive my blessing.’
She placed her hands on their heads in turn, embraced and kissed them in turn. Eurneid sniffed, Iola the Second simply burst into tears. Nenneke, although her eyes were shining a little more than usual, snorted.
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