Physiologus
‘They’re safe,’ confirmed the vampire, spurring his mule, Draakul. ‘All three of them – Milva, Dandelion and of course, Angouleme, who in time overtook us in the valley of Sansretour and told us everything, without sparing us the picturesque words. I could never understand why you humans have so many curses and insults related to the spheres of eroticism. After all, sex is beautiful and is associated with beauty, joy and pleasure. How can you use the names of the reproductive organs in such vulgar synonyms…’
‘Stick to the topic, Regis,’ Geralt interrupted.
‘Of course, I’m sorry. Angouleme warned us of the approaching bandits and we immediately crossed the border into Toussaint. In truth, Milva was against it, and was eager to turn around and seek you both out. I managed to persuade her. And Dandelion, instead of rejoicing in the asylum, which the duchy gives, showed considerable displeasure… Any idea what our poet is so afraid of in Toussaint?’
‘I don’t know, but I can guess,’ Geralt said sourly. ‘Because it would not be the first place where our friend, the bard visited. Now he has settled down a little, because he is keeping decent company, but in his youth he was not known for his holiness. I would say that the only people who were safe from him were those women who jumped into the water or who were able to climb to the tops of very tall trees. And often the husbands, fiancés, fathers and brothers frequently showed him hostility, you can be sure. In Toussaint there is undoubtedly a husband, which the sight of Dandelion may revive memories… But this is not important. Let’s get back to the facts. What about the pursuers? I hope you…’
‘I do not think,’ Regis smiled, ‘they would have followed us into Toussaint. The border is full of knights-errant, who are extremely bored and looking for any excuse to fight, In addition, we joined a group of pilgrims on the border who were on their way to the sacred groves of Myrkvid. A place that inspires fear. Even the pilgrims, the sick and the lame who make the far journey to Myrkvid for healing, remain in the camps on the outskirts of the forest and do not dare enter its depths. It is said that those who dares enter the sacred groves will be burned in a slow fire inside a wicker hag.’
Geralt gasped.
‘Really…’
‘Of course,’ the vampire interrupted him again. ‘In the Myrkvid Forest dwell Druids. Those who formerly lived in Angra, in Caed Dhu, then migrated to Loc Monduirn and finally to Myrkvid in Toussaint. We were destined to eventually meet with them. Do you not remember that I said that long ago.’
Geralt took a deep breath. Cahir was riding behind him.
‘Is your friend among these Druids?’
The vampire smiled again.
‘They are not my friend, but an acquaintance,’ he explained. ‘Yes, she is among them. She has even been promoted. She leads the whole circle.’
‘A hierophant?’
‘A flaminica. That is what a woman is called when she achieves the highest druidic title. Only men are called hierophants.’
‘True, I forgot. So Milva and the rest…’
‘They are now under the protection of the Circle and the flaminica,’ as was his custom, the vampire answered the question while the question was still being asked. ‘For my part, I hastened to come and fetch you. A strange thing happened. The flaminica, when I began to present our case, would not let me finish. She said that she already knew everything. She said that they had been expecting our visit for some time…’
‘How?’
‘I could not hide my disbelief,’ the vampire stopped the mule, stood in the stirrups and looked around.
‘Looking for someone or something?’ Cahir asked.
‘I’m not looking, I’ve found. Dismount.’
‘We should go as quickly as possible…’
‘Dismount. I’ll explain everything to you.’
They had to speak louder to be understood because of the sound of a waterfall falling from a considerable height on a vertical wall of a rocky cliff. Down below where the waterfall spilled into a large lake, the rock opened into the black mouth of a cave.
‘Yes, here is the place,’ Regis confirmed the assumptions of the witcher. ‘I came to meet you because I was ordered to go here. You have to enter that cave. I told you, the Druids knew about you, knew about Ciri and knew of our mission. And they heard it all through the person living in there. This person, if we believe the Druids, wants to talk to you.’
‘If we believe the Druids’ Geralt repeated with emphasis. ‘I’ve been here before. I know what lives in the deep caves under Devil’s Mountain. Different people live there. But the overwhelming majority you cannot talk to unless it is with a sword. What else did you Druid say? What else do I have to believe?’
‘She specifically,’ the vampire looked into Geralt’s shining eyes, ‘made me understand that she does not like individuals that destroy and slay living nature in general, and that includes witchers in particular. I explained to her that currently you are a rather titular Witcher. That absolutely does not bother nature, as long as the latter is not bothering you. The flaminica, you should know is a woman of extraordinary intelligence, she realized that you left the witcher’s path not due to a change in your mind-set, but because you were forced by circumstances. ‘I know very well,’ she told me, ‘that misfortune has befallen someone close to the witcher. The witcher was forced to abandon the witcher’s path and hurry to the rescue…’’
Geralt did not comment but his look was so elegant that the vampire hastened to explain.
‘She said, quote, ‘The Witcher, not being a sorcerer, must prove himself capable of humility and sacrifice. He must enter into the dark depths of the earth. Disarmed. Abandoning all weapons, any sharp iron. All evil thoughts. And aggression, rage, anger or pride. He must enter with humility. And once there, in the depths of the earth, the humble witcher will find the answers to the questions that torment him. He will find answers to many questions. But is he stays, the witcher, will never learn anything.’ Those were her words.’
Geralt spat towards the waterfall and the cave.
‘It seems like an inept game,’ he said. ‘A distraction. Entertainment. Divination, sacrifice, a mysterious meeting in the basement, answers to all questions... Such hackneyed tricks you might encounter only from wandering storytellers. Someone here is mocking me. In the best case. And if this is not a mockery...’
‘I would not call it a mockery under any circumstance,’ Regis said firmly. ‘Under no circumstances, Geralt of Rivia.’
‘So, what is it? One of the Druid’s famous oddities?’
‘We will not know,’ said Cahir, ‘until you find out. Come on, Geralt, we’ll go in there together...’
‘No,’ the vampire shook his head. ‘The flaminica was categorical in this regard. The Witcher has to go in there by himself. Without weapons. Give me your sword. I’ll take care of it while you are gone.’
‘I’ll be damned...’ Geralt started, but Regis interrupted with a quick gesture.
‘Give me your sword,’ he extended his hand. ‘And if you have any other weapons, leave them with me as well. Think about the words of the flaminica. No aggression. Sacrifice. Humility.’
‘Do you know who I’ll meet in there? Who... or what is waiting for me in this cave?’
‘No, I do not know. All kinds of creatures inhabit the underground passages of the Gorgon.’
‘I’ll be damned!’
‘That cannot be ruled out,’ he said gravely. ‘But you have to undertake the risk. There is nothing else you can do.’
He was right. As expected at the entrance of the cave was strewn with an impressive pile of skulls, ribs, bones and vertebrae. Yet, he could not smell the odor of decay. These remnants of earthly life were apparently centuries old and fulfilled the role of decoration to scare intruders.
Or so he thought.
He entered the darkness, bones crackled and snapped under his feet. His eyes quickly adapted to the darkness. He found himself in a huge cave with a rocky dome, whose size
could not be estimated because the dimensions were lost and disappeared in a forest of stalactites that hung from the ceiling like colorful branches. From the floor grew white and pink stalagmites, thick at the base and tapering to a tip. Some of the peaks reached high above the head of the witcher. Some stalagmites joined at the top to stalactites, forming columns. The only sound echoing in the stone chamber was the echo of falling water drops.
He walked straight ahead, deeper into the cave. He knew he was being watched.
The lack of a sword on his back was strongly felt, and clearly unwelcome. As the lack of a tooth that has been recently broken.
He slowed his pace.
What he had taken a second before as a bunch of round boulders at the foot of a stalagmite was now looking at him with great glowing eyes. The compact mass of dusty grey tuffs opened their huge jaws and their conical fangs gleamed.
Barbegazi.
He walked slowly and carefully settling his feet. The Barbegazi were everywhere, large, medium and small ones lay in his way, with no intention of departing. So far they had behaved calmly, but he was not sure what would happen if he stepped on one. He could not hold a straight course and had to weave through the forest of stalagmites. Cold water from the ceiling dripped down on him.
The Barbegazi – there were still more – accompanied him at every turn, crossing and rolling over the floor. He could hear their panting and gasping. He could fell their pungent, sour smell.
He had to stop. Between two columns, at a place where there was no other way around, a huge Echinops blocked the way, bristling with long masses of spikes. Geralt swallowed. Echinops could fire spikes at a distance up to ten feet. The spikes had an unpleasant feature – once driven into the body they shattered and the sharp tip penetrated and travelled deeper and deeper into the body, until it eventually reached a sensitive organ.
‘The stupid Witcher,’ he heard from the darkness. ‘The cowardly Witcher! He is afraid, ha, ha!’
The voice sounded strange and alien, but Geralt had heard voice like that more than once. Thus spoke beings who were not used to communicating with the aid of articulate speech, they had strange accents and intonation, with unnaturally lengthened syllables.
‘Foolish Witcher! Foolish Witcher!’
He declined to say anything. He bit his lip and pass the echinopsae. The spines of the monster waved like the tentacles of an anemone. But only for a moment, the echinopsae froze, then went back to looking like a large clump of mash grass.
Two huge Barbegazi crossed his path, muttering and growling. From above, from the top of the cave, came the flutter of membranous wings and the cackling and hissing, a sure sign of the presence of vespertyls.
‘Here comes the murderer! The butcher! The Witcher!’
From the darkness came the same voice he had heard previously.
‘He has come here! He has dared! But, the butcher has no sword! How will he kill? With his gaze? Ha, ha, ha!’
‘Maybe,’ there was a second voice, with an even more unnatural articulation, ‘we will kill him? Hmmm?’
The barbegazi croaked in a loud chorus. One of them, as big as a ripe pumpkin, walked after Geralt and snapped hit teeth together on his heels. The witcher stifled the curse that came to his lips. He continued. The water dripping from the stalactites, created a silvery echo.
Something clung to his leg. He refrained from shaking it off violently.
The creature was small, a little larger than a Pekingese dog. It also resembled a Pekingese, in the face. The rest looked like a monkey. Geralt had no idea what it was. He’d never seen anything like it.
‘Witcher!’ articulated the thing, which was clearly not a Pekingese, tightly clinging to Geralt’s boot. ‘The Witcher! You son of a bitch!’
‘Go away,’ he growled through clenched teeth. ‘Let go of my boot, or I’ll kick your ass.’
The Barbegazi muttered loudly. Something bellowed in the darkness. Geralt did not know what it was. I sounded like a cow, but the witcher bet anything that it was no cow.
‘Witcher, son of a bitch.’
‘Let go of my boot,’ he repeated, controlling himself with difficulty. ‘I came here in peace, unarmed. You are hindering...’
He stopped and choked on a wave of stench which made his eyes water and gave him goose bumps.
The being clinging to his leg rolled its eyes and defecated directly onto his boot. The foul stench was accompanied by sounds even more disgusting.
He cursed the situation adequately and pushed the troublesome intruder off of his leg. Far more gently then it deserved. Even so what he feared happened.
‘He kicked it!’ something shouted in the dark, above the hurricane of snorting from the barbegazi. ‘He kicked it! He has hurt the poor creature!’
The closes Barbegazi grabbed onto his feet. He felt their strong, hard as stone paws on his feet and ankles, immobilizing him. He did not defend himself, he was resigned. The fur of the largest and most aggressive rubbed up against his offensive boot. They tugged on his clothes and he sat down. Something big crawled from a stalactite and dropped to the ground. He knew what it was. A knocker. He was squat, dumpy, shaggy, with bowed legs and broad shoulders, with a huge red beard.
As the knocker approached the ground trembled, as if it was not one knocker approaching but a Clydesdale. Although they seemed comical his feet were over half a foot long each.
The knocker bent over him and emanated the stench of vodka. That bastard is distilling his own moonshine here, Geralt thought mechanically.
‘You kicked a defenseless little creature, witcher,’ the knocker breathed alcoholic vapors into his face. ‘Without any reason you attacked a little, defenseless, innocent creature. We knew we could not trust you. You are aggressive. You posses the instincts of a murderer. How many of us have you killed, you bastard?’
There seemed no appropriate answer.
‘Ooh!’ the knocker further choked him with the stench of alcohol. ‘I’ve dreamed of this since childhood! Since childhood! Finally my dreams are being fulfilled. Look to the left.’
He looked like a fool. He received a fist right on the jaw and saw an explosion of brightness.
‘Ooh!’ the knocker showed his large curved teeth from inside his thick, smelly beard. ‘I’ve dreamed of this since childhood! Look to the right.’
‘Enough,’ from somewhere in the depths of the cave came a loud and sonorous command. ‘Enough of these games and practical jokes. Please let him go.’
Geralt spat out blood from his cut lip. He washed his boot in a steam of water running down the wall. The dog faced Pekingese smiled sarcastically, but from a safe distance. The knocker also smiled as he massaged his fist.
‘Go, witcher,’ he barked. ‘Go to the one calling you. I’ll wait. You will still have to come back this way.’
The cave into which he entered was surprisingly full of light. Through holes in the roof brightness penetrated into the cave, it fell onto sedimentary formations and caused a spectacle of color and glitter. In addition to this, in the air hung a magic ball of fiery light, which was reflected by the quartz on the walls. Despite all the light, the edges of the cavern were cloaked in darkness, with columns of stalagmites disappearing into the blackness.
On one wall, which nature had prepared for that purpose, was someone creating a huge painting. The painter was a tall elf with blond hair, wearing a paint-stained robe. The magical light seemed to reflect off of him creating a halo around his head.
‘Sit,’ said the elf, pointing to a boulder, not taking his eyes from the painting. ‘Did they hurt you?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘You’ll have to forgive them.’
‘Indeed. I have to.’
‘They are like children. They were terribly glad of your coming.’
‘I’ve seen.’
The elf looked at him.
‘Sit down,’ he repeated. ‘In a moment I will be at your disposal. I’m finishing.’
What
the elf was finishing was a stylized animal, probably a buffalo. At present only the outline was complete, from the imposing horns to the no less wonderful tail. Geralt sat on the boulder mentioned and promised himself to remain patient and humble – to the limits of the possible.
The elf, whistling softly through his teeth, dipped a brush into a container of paint and painted with rapid movements, a purple buffalo. After a moment of reflection he painted tiger stripes on the side of the animal.
Geralt looked at him in silence.
Finally the elf took a step back in order to access from a distance the finished work – a hunting scene. The striped, purple buffalo was being chased by carelessly sketched figures of people with bows and spears.
‘What is that supposed to be?’ Geralt could not resist.
The elf looked at him briefly, putting the clean end of the brush to his lips.
‘It is,’ he said, ‘a prehistoric painting done by primitive people who lived in a cave thousands of years ago and worked mainly as hunters of the long extinct purple buffalo. Some of the prehistoric hunters were artists and felt a deep need to respond artistically. To perpetuate what was in their souls.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘Of course,’ admitted the elf. ‘Your scientists wander for years through caves looking for traces of prehistoric man. And whenever they find them, they are fascinated beyond measure. Since it provides evidence that you are not strangers in this land and in this world. Proof that your ancestors lived here for centuries, so that the world belongs to your heirs. Well, every race is entitled to some roots. Including yours, humans, whose roots should be sort in large trees. Ha, a funny pun, is it not? Worthy of an epigram. Do you like poetry? What else can you think to paint here?’
‘Draw a picture of prehistoric hunters with enormous erected penises.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ the elf dipped the brush into the paint. ‘Phallic worship was typical of early civilizations. It can also be used to forge the theory that the human race suffers from physical degeneration. The ancestors had phalluses the size of batons, and the descendants had no more than ridiculous twigs... Thank you, witcher.’