The Tower of Fools

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  He didn’t finish. A sudden swish, whistle and snigger made them duck. A human skull shot above the ravine, trailing sparks and a ribbon of smoke behind it. Before they had time to calm down, another flew over, whistling even more horrifyingly.

  “Let’s turn back,” said Scharley dully. “Right away. I don’t like this place.”

  Reynevan was absolutely certain they were retracing their steps, returning the way they’d come. But a moment later, the steep side of a ravine rose up right in front of their noses. Without a word, he turned into another ravine. After a few paces, they were also stopped by a vertical wall bristling with a tangle of roots.

  “Bugger this,” panted Scharley, turning back. “I don’t understand—”

  “And I’m afraid,” groaned Reynevan, “that—”

  “We don’t have a choice,” growled the penitent, when once again they ended up in a blind alley. “We have to go back and cross the boneyard. Quick, Reinmar. Look lively.”

  “Wait.” Reynevan stooped and looked around, searching for herbs. “There’s another way—”

  “Now?” Scharley interrupted harshly. “Now you’re deciding to use your skills? There’s no time now!”

  Another skull whistled above the forest like a comet and Reynevan agreed with the penitent’s plan. They passed through the heap of bones. The horse snorted, tossed its head and shied, and it took all of Reynevan’s strength to pull it along. The smell of smoke grew stronger. There seemed to be a scent of herbs in it. And something else, something elusive and sickly. Terrifying.

  And then they saw the campfire.

  The fire was smoking near a pit, under a huge fallen tree trunk. A blackened cauldron hung above the fire, belching forth clouds of steam. Beside it towered a pile of human skulls. A black cat was lying on top of the pile in a typically languorous feline pose.

  Reynevan and Scharley stood paralysed. Even the horse stopped snorting.

  Three women were sitting around the fire.

  Two of them were obscured by the smoke and steam pouring from the cauldron. The third, sitting on the right, looked quite old. Although her dark hair was densely shot with grey, her face—tanned by the sun and rainy weather—was a little misleading; the woman could have lived three dozen years as easily as six. She was sitting in a carefree pose, swaying and turning her head around unnaturally.

  “Greetings,” she croaked, then belched thunderously and long. “Greetings, O Thane of Glamis!”

  “Stop talking nonsense, Jagna,” said the second woman, the one in the centre. “You’re drunk again, dammit.”

  A gust of wind dispersed the smoke and steam a little, allowing them to see things more clearly.

  The woman sitting in the middle was tall and quite well built, with wavy, flame-red hair tumbling around her shoulders from beneath a black hat. She had prominent cheekbones flushed bright red, a shapely mouth and very bright eyes. A dirty green woollen scarf was draped around her neck. Her stockings were knitted from the same material—the woman was sitting with legs casually sprawled apart and her skirt raised quite freely, allowing them to admire not only her stockings and calves but also an impressive eyeful of things normally kept covered.

  The third one, sitting on her right, was the youngest, barely a girl. She had sparkling eyes with dark rings under them and a thin, foxy face with a sallow complexion. Her fair hair was adorned with a garland of verbena and clover.

  “Well, just look,” said the red-haired one, scratching her thigh above the green stocking top. “There was nothing to eat, and blow me, the grub’s turned up all by itself.”

  The swarthy one addressed as Jagna belched and the black cat meowed. The feverish eyes of the wench in the garland lit up with an evil flame.

  “We request forgiveness for the intrusion,” Scharley said, bowing. He was pale, but working hard to keep control. “We apologise to you, dear and honourable ladies. But let us not disturb you. We wish no trouble. We’re here by accident, and we’ll be off immediately. If we may, dear ladies—”

  The red-haired witch picked up a skull from the pile, lifted it high and loudly chanted a spell. Reynevan thought he could make out Chaldean and Aramaic words in it. The skull snapped its jaws, shot upwards and whistled over the pine tops.

  “Grub,” repeated the red-haired witch in a voice devoid of emotion. “And talking grub to boot. There’ll be a chance to chat before our meal.”

  Scharley swore under his breath. The woman licked her lips suggestively and fixed him with her gaze. There was no time to delay. Reynevan inhaled deeply.

  He touched the top of his head, then bent his right leg at the knee, raised it, crossing his other leg behind him, and seized the tip of his boot with his left hand. Although he’d only done it twice before, it went extremely smoothly. It was enough to concentrate and murmur the spell.

  Scharley swore again. Jagna burped. The eyes of the red-haired witch widened.

  And Reynevan, just like that, slowly rose from the ground in the same position. Not very high, just three or four spans. And not for long. But it sufficed.

  The red-haired witch picked up a clay demijohn, took a long drink from it, then another. She didn’t offer it to the girl, and put the vessel out of range of Jagna’s claw-like fingers, who held her hand out greedily. She didn’t take her eyes off Reynevan, and her pupils looked like two dark points in her bright eyes.

  “Well, well,” she said. “Who’d have thought it? Mages, true mages, Toledo. Here, in the presence of a simple witch. What an honour. Come closer. Have no fear! Surely you didn’t take the jest about grub and cannibalism seriously?”

  “No, not at all,” Scharley eagerly assured her, so eagerly it was obvious he was lying. The red-haired witch snorted in laughter.

  “What, then, do you seek in my poor nook, my dear sorcerers?” she asked, “What do you wish for? Perhaps—”

  She broke off, laughing.

  “Or perhaps you’re simply lost, dear sorcerers? Forgetting magic in your male pride? And now that same pride won’t let you admit it, especially before womenfolk?”

  Scharley regained his poise.

  “Your intelligence goes hand in hand with your beauty, madam,” he said, bowing courteously.

  “Just look, Sisters,” said the witch, flashing her teeth, “what a courteous fellow he is, what pleasant compliments he regales us with. He knows how to delight a woman. A veritable troubadour. Or bishop. It’s truly a shame that so rarely… For womenfolk and wenches, indeed, often risk this path through the backwoods and wilderness, since my reputation spreads far and wide. Few know how to remove a foetus so elegantly, safely and painlessly as I. But men… Why, they come here much more seldom… Such a pity…”

  Jagna laughed throatily and the wench sniffed. Scharley blushed, but probably more from desire than embarrassment. Reynevan, meanwhile, also recovered his composure. He had discerned certain fragrances in the steam from the bubbling cauldron and had a good look at the bunches of herbs, both fresh and dried.

  “Your beauty and acuity,” he said, straightening up, a little overbearingly but aware he was making an impression, “are matched only by your humility, for I am certain that countless visitors come here, and not just for medical services. I see burning bush, and devil’s trumpets. And there’s squill, and there ragweed, an oracular herb, and henbane, which calls forth prophetic visions. And there is money to be made from predictions and prophesies, if I’m not mistaken?”

  Jagna belched. The wench gave him a piercing look. The red-haired witch smiled enigmatically.

  “You aren’t in error, O fellow adept,” she said finally. “There is great demand for fortune-telling and prophecies. A time of change and transformation approaches, and many would know what that time will bring. And you also want knowledge of what fate will bring you. Am I not right?”

  The red-haired witch tossed some herbs into the cauldron and stirred them around. But it was the young wench with the face of a vixen and feverishly bright eyes who was to
prophesy. Soon after drinking the decoction, her eyes grew cloudy, the dry skin on her cheeks tightened and her lower lip revealed her teeth.

  “Columna veli aurei,” she suddenly mumbled. “The Column with the Golden Veil. Born in Genazzano, will depart this life in Rome. In six years. The place vacated will be taken by a she-wolf. On Oculi Sunday. In six years.”

  The silence, only disturbed by the crackling of the fire and the cat’s purring, lasted so long that Reynevan began to doubt there was more to come. Wrongly.

  “Before two days pass,” said the wench, holding out a trembling hand towards him, “before two days pass, he will be a renowned poet. His name will be celebrated far and wide.”

  Scharley shook slightly with suppressed laughter, but quietened down at once under the harsh gaze of the red-haired witch.

  “The Wanderer will come,” said the prophetess, exhaling loudly several times. “The Viator will come, the Wanderer, from the sunlit side. An exchange will occur. Someone leaves us and the Wanderer comes to us. The Wanderer says: Ego sum qui sum. Ask not the Wanderer his name, it is obscure. For who will guess what it is? Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness.”

  The dead lion, the bees and the honey, thought Reynevan, the riddle that Samson gave the Philistines. Samson and the honey… What does it mean? What does it symbolise? Who is the Wanderer?

  “Your brother calls,” came the soft voice of the medium, electrifying him. “Your brother calls: Go and come. Go, leaping across the mountains. Do not delay.”

  He listened eagerly.

  “Isaiah says: gathered, imprisoned in a pit, shut up in prison. An amulet… And a rat… An amulet and a rat. Yin and yang, Keter and Malkuth. The sun, the serpent and the fish. They will open, open the gates of Hell, then the tower will tumble, turris fulgurata will fall, the tower struck by a thunderbolt. The Narrenturm will crumble into dust, and bury the fool under the rubble.”

  Narrenturm, Reynevan repeated in his head. The Tower of Fools! By God!

  “Adsumus! Adsumus! Adsumus!” screamed the wench suddenly, tensing up powerfully. “We are here! From the arrow that flieth in the day, a sagitta volante in die, beware it, beware it! Beware the terror by night, beware the pestilence that walketh in darkness; beware the demon that wasteth at noonday! And that which calls: Adsumus! Beware the Wallcreeper! Fear night birds, fear silent bats!”

  Taking advantage of the inattention of the red-haired witch, Jagna noiselessly snatched the demijohn and took several deep gulps. She coughed and hiccoughed.

  “And beware,” she cackled, “of Birnam Wood…”

  The red-haired witch silenced her with a poke in the ribs.

  “And people will burn,” the prophetess sighed piercingly, “running all in flames. Erroneously. Owing to a semblance of names.”

  Reynevan leaned over towards her.

  “Who killed…?” he asked quietly. “Who will shoulder the blame for my brother’s death?”

  The red-haired witch hissed angrily in warning, shaking a large wooden ladle at him. Reynevan was aware that what he was doing was forbidden, that he was risking the irreversible rupture of the prophetic trance. But he repeated the question. And received the answer immediately.

  “The blatant liar is guilty.” The girl’s voice dropped a tone and became hoarser. “The liar or the one that tells the truth. Tells the truth. Lies or tells the truth. And that depends on what beliefs are held in this regard. Scorched, charred, burned. Not burned, because dead. Buried when dead. Disinterred anon. Before three years pass. Ejected from the grave. Buried at Lutterworth, remains taken up and cast out… The ash from burned bones flows down the river… The Swift to the Avon, the Avon to the seas, from the seas to the oceans… Flee, flee, save your lives. So few of us remain.”

  “A horse,” Scharley suddenly rudely interjected. “To flee I need a horse. I’d like to—”

  Reynevan quietened him with a gesture. The girl looked on with unseeing eyes. He doubted whether she would answer. He was mistaken.

  “Chestnut…” she mumbled. “It will be a chestnut.”

  “And on top of that I’d like—” Reynevan began, but broke off, seeing that she had finished. The girl’s eyes closed; her head drooped limply. The red-haired witch held her up and then gently laid her down.

  “I won’t stop you,” she said a moment later. “Ride along the ravine, turning only to the left, always to the left. There’ll be a beechwood, then a glade and in it a stone cross. Directly opposite the cross will be a clearing. It’ll lead you to the Świdnica road.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  “Heed yourselves. So few of us remain.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In which the convoluted prophecy begins to come true in a convoluted way, and Scharley meets a friend. And reveals new, previously unrevealed talents.

  A penitential cross, one of Silesia’s numerous reminders of crimes past and belated contrition, stood among the high grass beyond the beechwood, where the track met the clearing. Judging from the traces of erosion and vandalism, the crime happened long ago, was perhaps older even than the settlement, the ruins of which were still visible nearby in the form of hillocks and hollows densely overgrown by weeds.

  “A very belated penance,” commented Scharley, now riding behind Reynevan on his bay horse. “Passing literally down the generations. Inherited, I’d say. Carving a cross like that takes quite some time, so it’s erected at the earliest by a son, who wonders whom his deceased father killed and what brought on remorse in his old age. What do you think, Reinmar?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Are you still angry with me?”

  “No.”

  “Aha. Let’s ride on, then. Our new friends weren’t lying. The clearing right opposite the cross, though it must date back to Bolko the Courageous, will surely lead us out onto the Świdnica road.”

  Reynevan urged on his horse. Still saying nothing, although it didn’t bother Scharley.

  “I must confess you impressed me, Reinmar of Bielawa. With the witches, I mean. Let’s face it, any old folk healer or wise woman can toss a handful of herbs on a fire, mutter an incantation and spell, even make a talisman. But that levitation of yours, why, that’s no joke. Come clean, where did you study in Prague? At the Charles University or with Czech sorcerers?”

  “The former doesn’t rule out the latter,” said Reynevan with a smile.

  “I see. You mean everybody levitated during lectures?”

  Without waiting for an answer, the penitent made himself more comfortable on the horse’s rump.

  “But it astonished me that you’re simply running away, hiding from your pursuers in the undergrowth in a manner more befitting a hare than a mage. If mages ever have to run away, they do it with more class. Medea, for example, fled from Corinth in a chariot pulled by dragons. Atlantes flew away on a hippogryph. Morgan le Fay used mirages to confuse her pursuers. Viviane… I can’t recall what Viviane did.”

  Reynevan made no comment. He couldn’t recall, either.

  “You don’t have to answer,” continued Scharley, mockery even more evident in his voice. “I understand. You have too little knowledge and skill; you’re but a novice of the secret arts, barely a sorcerer’s assistant. A fledgling of magic who will one day grow into an eagle, a Merlin, an Alberich or a Maugris. And thus, woe betide—”

  He broke off, seeing on the road what Reynevan was seeing.

  “Our friends the witches really weren’t lying,” he whispered. “Don’t move.”

  In the clearing, head bowed and nibbling grass, stood a horse. A fine saddle horse, a light palfrey with slender cannons, chestnut coat and darker mane and tail.

  “Don’t move,” Scharley repeated, dismounting gingerly. “This might be an unrepeatable opportunity.”

  “That horse is somebody’s property,” said Reynevan firmly. “It belongs to somebody.”

  “Indeed. To me. As long as you don’t frighten it. So don’t.”
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  Seeing the penitent approaching very slowly, the horse raised its head high, shook its mane and gave a long snort, but didn’t take fright and allowed him to grasp its bridle. Scharley stroked its muzzle.

  “It’s someone else’s property,” repeated Reynevan. “Not yours, Scharley. You’ll have to give it back to its owner.”

  “Good people…” Scharley muttered softly. “I say, whose horse is this? See, Reinmar? No one’s coming forward. So res nullius cedit occupanti.”

  “Scharley—”

  “Very well, calm down, don’t trouble your fragile conscience. We’ll give the horse back to its rightful owner. On condition that we meet them. And may the gods save us from that, I entreat.”

  His entreaties clearly didn’t reach their addressees or were ignored, for the clearing suddenly teemed with men on foot, panting and pointing at the horse.

  “Is this your chestnut?” asked Scharley, smiling benignly. “Are you looking for it? You’re in luck. He was heading north at full gallop. I barely managed to stop it.”

  One of the visitors, a large bearded man, observed him suspiciously. Judging from his dishevelled clothing and repugnant appearance, he was—like the others—a peasant. And like the others, he was armed with a stout stick.

  “You stopped him, so you deserve credit,” he said, jerking the bridle tether from Scharley. “And now be on your way.”

  The others approached, surrounding him in a tight ring and the chokingly unbearable stench of agriculture. They weren’t free peasants, but the rural poor: landless tenants, labourers and shepherds. Arguing with people like that about a reward made no sense, which Scharley understood at once. He forced his way wordlessly through the crowd. Reynevan followed him.

  “Hey.” A stocky, foul-smelling shepherd suddenly seized the penitent by the sleeve. “Friend Gamrat! Just letting them go? Without asking who they be? P’raps they’re them outlaws? Those two what the Strzegom lords are seeking? And promising a bounty for seizing them? Ain’t it them?”

  The peasants murmured. Friend Gamrat moved closer, resting on his ash staff, as gloomy as a wet All Saints’ Day.