The Last Wish, Andrzej Sapkowski

Andrzej Sapkowski, The Last Wish, transl. Danusia Stok, Orbitt, New York, 2007

He stopped in front of the Old Narakort Inn, stood there for a moment, listened to the hubbub of voices. As usual, at this hour, it was full of people. / The stranger did not enter the Old Narakort. He pulled his horse farther down the street to another tavern, a smaller one, called The Fox. Not enjoying the best of reputations, it was almost empty. 3

“What will it be?” / “Beer,” said the stranger. His voice was unpleasant. 4

One of the men behind him raised a fist to strike. The outsider curled up on the spot, throwing the pockmarked man off balance. The sword hissed in its sheath and glistened briefly in the dim light. The place seethed. There was a scream, and one of the few remaining customers tumbled toward the exit. 5

The rest were keen on driving aspen stakes into her body during the day, when the she-devil was asleep in her coffin, worn out by her night’s delights. Unfortunately one, a jester with a pointed hat and a bald pate, a hunchbacked hermit, argued it was magic: the spell could be undone and the striga would turn into Folter’s little daughter, as pretty as a picture. Someone simply had to stay in the crypt throughout the night, and that would be that. After which—can you imagine such a fool?—he went to the palace for the night. Little of him was left in the morning, only, I believe, his hat and stick. But Foltest clung to his idea like a burr to a dog’s tail. He forbade any attempt to kill the striga and brought in charlatans from all corners of Wyzim to reverse the smell and turn her into a princess…I don’t suppose I have to say that the striga, in the meantime, was getting her teeth into all sorts of people every now and again and paying no attention to the fraudsters an their spells. Or that Foltest was no longer living in the palace. No one lived there anymore. 12

“What made your hair so gray? Magic? I can see that you and not old. That was a joke. Say nothing. You’ve had a fair amount of experience, I dare presume?” 18

On the table in front of him he had a small chest with metal fittings. He opened it. Inside, packed tightly in compartments lined with dried grass, stood small vials of dark glass. The witcher removed three. 28

Ostrit did not hear the scrape of the tomb lid being moved aside, but the witcher did. He leaned over and, with his dagger, cut the magnate’s bonds. Ostrit did not wait for the word. He jumped up, numb, hobbled clumsily, and ran. His eyes had grown accustomed enough to the darkness for him to see his way from the main hall to the exit. 33

She was rather ugly. Slim with small pointed breasts, and dirty. Her hair—flaxen red—reached almost to her waist. Standing the lamp on the slap, he knelt beside her and leaned over. Her lips were pale and her face was bloody where he had hit her cheekbone. Geralt removed his gloves, put his sword aside and, without any fuss, drew up her top lip with his finger. Her teeth were normal. 39

He noticed the red tiles of the tower’s conical roof from the summit of a hill as he cut across a bend in the faint trail. The slope, covered with hazel, dry branches and a thick carpet of yellow leaves, wasn’t safe to descend on horseback. The witcher retreated, carefully rode down the incline and returned to the main path. He rode slowly, stopped the horse every now and again, and, hanging from the saddle, looked out for tracks. / The mare tossed her head, neighed wildly, stamped and danced on the path, kicking up a storm of dried leaves. 54

“You aren’t a monster, Nivellen,” the witcher said dryly. / “Pox, that’s something new. So what am I? Cranberry pudding? A flock of wild geese flying south on a sad November morning? 65

“I forgot.” The alderman suppressed a belch, puffing out his cheeks. “And this used to be such a peaceful neighborhood. Even imps only rarely pissed in the women’s milk. And here, right next to us, some sort of felispectre. 98

“Master Irion is not receiving. Leave, my good people.” / Caldemeyn waddled on the spot and looked at Geralt. The witcher shrugged. Carrypebble picked his nose with serious concentration. 101

“Nonsense,” said the witcher. “And what’s more, it doesn’t rhyme. All decent predictions rhyme. 106

“In Yarmurlak, for instance, old man Abrad reigns. He’s got scrofula, not a single tooth in his head, was probably born some hundred years before this eclipse, and can’t fall asleep unless someone’s being tortured to death in his presence. He’s wiped out all his relatives and emptied half of the country in crazy—how did you put it?—attacks of anger. 109

One of Nehalenia’s Mirrors. They’re chiefly used by prophets and oracles because they predict the future accurately, albeit intricately. 110

“Be quiet or you’ll wake the whole house. Am I finally going to learn why you crept in here through the window?” / “You’re slow-witted, witcher. I want to save Blaviken from slaughter. I crawled over the rooftops like a she-cat in March in order to talk to you about it. Appreciate it.” 125

Jewels and trinkets, ponies, goldfish in a pond. Dolls, and a doll’s house bigger than this room. That was my life until Stregobor and that whore Aridea ordered a huntsman to butcher me in the forest and bring back my heart and liver. Lovely, don’t you think?” / “No. I’m pleased you evaded the huntsman, Renfri.” / “Like shit I did. He took pity on my and let me go. After the son of a bitch raped me and robbed me.” 127

My first noble deed. You see, they’d told me again and again in Kaer Morhen not to get involved in such incidents, not to play at being knight errant or uphold the law. Not to show off, but to work for money. And I joined this fight like an idiot, not fifty miles from the mountains. And do you know why? I wanted the girl, sobbing with gratitude, to kiss her savior on the hands, and her father to thank me on his knees. In reality her father fled with his attackers, and the girl, drenched in the bald man’s blood, threw up, became hysterical and fainted in fear when I approached her. Since then, I’ve only very rarely interfered in such matters. 148

“Let’s go on.” Calanthe accepted a pheasant leg offered to her by Drogodar and picked at it gracefully. “As I said, you’ve aroused my interest. I’ve been told that witchers are an interesting caste, but I didn’t really believe it. Now I do. When hit, you give a not which shows you’re fashioned of pure steel, unlike these men molded from bird shit. Which doesn’t, in any way, change the fact that you’re here to execute a task. And you’ll do it without being so clever.” 166

“You’re right as usual, Eist.” Calanthe smiled warmly. Geralt was amazed by her arsenal of smiles. 167

…obedience will be generously rewarded—or you can render me a paid service. Note that I didn’t say ‘I can buy you,’ because I’ve decided not to offend your witcher’s pride. There’s a huge difference, isn’t there?” / “The magnitude of this difference has somehow escaped my notice.” / “Then pay greater attention. The difference, my dear witcher, is that one who is bought is paid according to the buyer’s whim, whereas one who renders a service sets his own price. Is that clear?” 168

The younger and less important lords gathered at the end of the table, tipsy, started singing a well-known song—out of tune—about a little goat with horns and a vengeful old women with no sense of humor. 171

“No. It’s Dandillion this time, your fellow. That idler, parasite and good-for-nothing, that priest of art, the bright-shining star of the ballad and love poem. As usual, he’s radiant with fame, puffed up like a pig’s bladder and stinking of beer. Do you want to see him?” 202

Ah, plague on it, let’s go south as soon as possible, to those wild countries. As soon as you’ve cut down a couple of monsters, your blues will disappear. And there’s supposed to be a fair number of monsters down there. They say that when an old woman’s tired of life, she goes alone and weaponless into the woods to collect brushwood. The consequences are guaranteed. 209

Geralt and Dandillion learned of misguids and mamunes, which prevent an honest peasant from finding his way home in a drunken stupor, of the flying drake which drinks milk from cows, of the head on spider’s legs which runs around in the forest, of hobolds which wear red hats and about a dangerous pike which tears linen from women’s hands as they wash it—and just you wait and it’ll be at the women themselves. They weren’t spared hearing that old Nan the Hag flies on a broom at night and performs abortions in the day, that miller tampers with the flour by mixing it with powdered acorns and that a certain Duda believed the royal steward to be a thief and scoundrel. 213

He looks, sir, like a deovel, for all the world like a deovel. Where did he come from? Well, nowhere. Crash, bang, wallop and there we have him: a deovel. And bother us, forsooth he doesnae bother us overly. There be times he even helps.” / “Helps?” cackled Dandillion, trying to remove a fly from his beer. “A devil?” / “Don’t interrupt, Dandillion. Carry on, Dhun, sir. How does he help you, this, as you say—” / “Deovel,” repeated the freeman with emphasis. “Well, this be how he helps: he fertilizes the land, he turns the soil, he gets rid of the moles, scares birds away, watches over the turnips and beetroots. Oh, and he eats the caterpillars he does, they as do hatch in the cabbages. But the cabbages, he eats them too, forsooth. Nothing but guzzle, be what he does. Just like a deovel…We spit on his help. We’ve got hands ourselves, have we not? And he, sir, is nay a deovel but a malicious beast and has got so much, forgive the word, shite in his head as be hard to bear. There be no knowing what will come into his head. Once he fouled the well, then chased a lass, frightening and threatening to fuck her. He steals, sir, our belongings and victuals. He destroys and breaks things, makes a nuisance of himself, churns the dykes, digs ditches like some muskrat or beaver—the water from one pond trickled out completely and the carp in it died. He smoked a pipe in the haystack he did, the son-of-a-whore, and all the hay it went up in smoke—” 221-222

We never cultivated the land. Unlike you humans, we never tore at it with hoes and ploughs. To you, the earth pays a bloody tribute. It bestowed gifts on us. You tear the earth’s treasures from it by force. For us, the earth gave birth and blossomed because it loved us. 253

“Duvvelsheyss, not neighborhood.” Torque put his pipes aside. “A desert, that’s what it is. A wilderness. A shit-whole. Eh, I miss my hemp!” / “He misses his hemp,” laughed Dandillion, carefully turning the delicately engraved lute pegs. 262

“Here, take it. Not as an installment. Accept it from a witcher as proof of his gratitude for having treated him more kindly, albeit in a calculated manner, than the majority of your brethren would have done. Accept it as evidence of goodwill, which ought to convince you that, having seen to my friend’s safety, I’ll return to repay you. I didn’t see the scorpion amidst the flowers, Yennefer. I’m prepared to pay for my inattention.” / “A pretty speech.” The sorceress folded her arms. “Touching and pompous Pity it’s in vain. 307

“So that’s it,” said the priest after a moment’s silence. “A fine kettle of fish. 320

“Help?” She snorted. “You?” / “Me.” / “In spite of what I did to you?” / “In spite of it.” / “Interesting. But not important. I don’t need your help. Get out of here.” 331