The Witcher

THE EDGE OF THE WORLD III

'One thing is certain,' muttered the witcher, sweeping his eyes over the tangled jungle of hemp spreading before them, 'this devil is not stupid.'

 'How did you deduce that?' Dandilion was curious. 'From the fact that he's sitting in an impenetrable thicket? Any old hare has enough brains for that.'

 'It's a question of the special qualities of hemp. A field of this size emits a strong aura against magic. Most spells will be useless here. And there, look, do you see those poles? Those are hops -their pollen has the same effect. It's not mere chance. The rascal senses the aura and knows he's safe here.'

 Dandilion coughed and adjusted his breeches. 'I'm curious.' He scratched his forehead beneath his hat, 'How are you going to go about it, Geralt? I've never seen you work. I take it you know a thing or two about catching devils - I'm trying to recall some ballads. There was one about a devil and a woman. Rude, but amusing. The woman, you see—'

 'Spare me, Dandilion.'

 'As you wish. I only wanted to be helpful, that's all. And you shouldn't scorn ancient songs.

 There's wisdom in them, accumulated over generations. There's a ballad about a farmhand called Slow, who—'

 'Stop wittering. We have to earn our board and lodging.'

'What do you want to do?'

 'Rummage around a bit in the hemp.'

 'That's original,' snorted the troubadour. 'Though not too refined.'

 'And you, how would you go about it?'

 'Intelligently,' Dandilion sniffed. 'Craftily. With a hounding, for example. I'd chase the devil out of the thicket, chase him on horseback, in the open field, and lasso him. What do you think of that?'

 'Interesting. Who knows, maybe it could be done, if you took part - because at least two of us are needed for an enterprise like that. But we're not going hunting yet. I want to find out what this thing is, this devil. That's why I'm going to rummage about in the hemp.'

 'Hey!' The bard had only just noticed. 'You haven't brought your sword!'

 'What for? I know some ballads about devils, too. Neither the woman nor Slow the farmhand used a sword.'

 'Hmm ..." Dandilion looked around. 'Do we have to squeeze through the very middle of this thicket?'

 'You don't have to. You can go back to the village and wait for me.'

 'Oh, no,' protested the poet. 'And miss a chance like this? I want to see a devil too, see if he's as terrible as they claim. I was asking if we have to force our way through the hemp when there's a path.'

 'Quite right,' Geralt shaded his eyes with his hand. 'There is a path. So let's use it.'

 'And what if it's the devil's path?'

 All the better. We won't have to walk too far.'

 'Do you know, Geralt,' babbled the bard, following the witcher along the narrow, uneven path among the hemp. 'I always thought the devil was just a metaphor invented for cursing: "go to the devil", "to the devil with it", "may the devil". Lowlanders say: "The devils are bringing us guests", while dwarves have "Duvvel hoael" when they get something wrong, and call poor-blooded livestock devvelsheyss. And in the Old Language, there's a saying, "A d'yaebl aep arse", which means—'

 'I know what it means. You're babbling, Dandilion.'

 Dandilion stopped talking, took off the hat decorated with a heron's feather, fanned himself with it and wiped his sweaty brow. The humid, stifling heat, intensified by the smell of grass and weeds in blossom, dominated the thicket. The path curved a little and, just beyond the bend, ended in a small clearing which had been stamped in the weeds.

 'Look, Dandilion.'

 In the very centre of the clearing lay a large, flat stone, and on it stood several clay bowls. An almost burnt-out tallow candle was set among the bowls. Geralt saw some grains of corn and broad beans among the unrecognisable pips and seeds stuck in the flakes of melted fat.

 As I suspected,' he muttered. 'They're bringing him offerings.'

 'That's just it,' said the poet, indicating the candle. 'And they burn a tallow candle for the devil.

 But they're feeding him seeds, I see, as if he were a finch. Plague, what a b****y pigsty.

 Everything here is all sticky with honey and birch tar. What—'

 The bard's next words were drowned by a loud, sinister bleating. Something rustled and stamped in the hemp, then the strangest creature Geralt had ever seen emerged from the thicket.

 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! Bleubeeee-ubleuuuuubleeeeeeee!'

 '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.