“Of course. He has not been seen.”
“Perhaps you should notify the Connatic.”
“I have already done so.”
“In that case there is nothing to do but wait,” said Jantiff
reluctantly. “A message to the Old Groar Tavern will reach me.”
“This is understood.”
Jantiff went out to stand in the wide main street. The
weather had changed. Clouds hung heavy and full, like great black udders; huge
raindrops struck into the sandy dust Jantiff hunched his shoulders and hurried
to the Old Groar. With a confident step he entered the common-room, seated himself
at a table, and signaled Voris for a mug of ale.
Fariske, glancing through the kitchen door, saw Jantiff, and
approached in a portentous manner. “Jantiff, I am vexed with you.”
Jantiff looked up in wonder. “What have I done?”
“You are supplying percebs to the Cimmery. This is not
conceivably a benefit to me.”
“It is neither a benefit—nor a hindrance. Her patrons eat
percebs like your own. If I failed to supply them, someone else would do so.”
“Using my buckets, my pry-bars, my forceps?”
Jantiff contrived a negligent laugh. “Really, a trivial matter.
The equipment is not damaged. I reserve all the best coronels for the Old
Groar. No matter what fault your patrons may find, they will always say: Fariske’s
percebs, at least, are superior to those at the Cimmery.’ So why do you
complain?”
“Because I had hoped for your loyalty!”
“That you have, naturally.”
“Then why do I hear that you are about to paint that ramshackle
old place, so that it presents an impression of sanitary conditions?”
“I will do the same for the Old Groar, if you will pay my
wage.”
Fariske heaved a sigh. “So that is how the wind blows. How
much does Madame pay?”
“The exact amount is confidential. I will make a general
statement to the effect that forty ozols is quite a decent sum.”
Fariske jerked around in astonishment. “Forty ozols? From
old Tchaga, who carries every dinket she has ever owned strapped to the inside
of her legs?”
“Remember,” said Jantiff, “I am an expert at the craft!”
“How can I remember something you never told me?”
“You gave me hardly enough time to clear my throat, much
less describe my talents to you.”
“Bah!” muttered Fariske. “Forty ozols is an outrageous sum,
just for a bit of daubing.”
“How would you like a series, of ten decorative plaques to
hang on your walls, at five owls each? Or for six owls I will use silver-gilt
accentuations. It will put the Cimmery to shame.”
Fariske made a cautious counter-proposal and the discussion
proceeded. Meanwhile Booch came into the tavern with a number of burly young
men: farmhands, fishermen, laborers and the like. They seated themselves, commanded
ale and discussed their affairs in boisterous voices. Jantiff could not evade
their conversation: “—with my four’ wurgles through the Sych—”
“—out to Wamish Water; that’s where the creatures collect!”
“Careful, Booch! Remember the yellows!”
“No fear: I’ll get none in my mouth!”
At last Jantiff complained to Fariske. “What are those people
shouting about?”
“They’re off for a bit of witch chasing. Booch is famously
keen.”
“Witch-chasing? To what end?”
Fariske considered the group over his shoulder. “Herchelman
farms his acres like a priest growing haw; last year someone stole a bushel of wattledabs,
and now he punishes the witches. Maw ate-witch-tainted food; he underwent the
cure and now he carries a great club when he goes on a hunt. Sittle is bored;
he’ll do anything novel. Dusselbeck is proud of his wurgles and likes to put
them to work. Booch specializes in witch kits; he chases them down and forces
his. body upon them. Pargo’s case is absolutely simple; he enjoys witch killing.”
Jantiff darted a lambent glance toward the witch chasers,
who, had just commanded additional ale from the sweating Voris. “It seems a
vulgar and brutal recreation.”
“Quite so,” said Fariske. “I never relished the sport. The
witches were fleet; I continually blundered into bogs and thickets. The witches
enjoy the game as much as the chasers.”
“I find this hard to believe.”
Fariske turned up the palms of his hands. “Why else do they
frequent our woods? Why do they steal wattledabs? Why do they startle our
nights with witchfires and apparitions?”
“Nevertheless, witch chasing seems an ugly recreation.”
Fariske gave a snort of rebuttal. “They are a perverse folk;
I for one cannot understand their habits. Still, I agree that the chases should
be conducted with decorum. Booch’s conduct is vulgar; I am surprised that he
has not come down with the yellows. You know how the disease is cured? Booch,
for his risks, must be considered intrepid.”
Jantiff, finding the topic oppressive, tilted his mug but found
it dry. He signaled, but Voris was busy with the witch chasers. “If we are
entirely agreed upon the decorative panels and their cost—”
“I will pay twenty ozols, no more, for the ten compositions,
and I insist upon a minimum of four colors, with small touches of silver-gilt.”
Jantiff squared around as if to depart. “I can waste no more
time. With works of aesthetic quality one does not niggle over an ozol or two.”
“The concept works in a double direction, like an apothecary’s
tremblant. Remember: it is you, not I who will experience the joys of artistic
creation. This is no small consideration, or so I am told.”
Jantiff refuted the remark and eventually the two reached
agreement Fariske served Jantiff a pint of old Dankwort and the two parted on
good terms.
Jantiff returned to his but with Dwan low in the west and
the pale light slanting over his shoulder down Dessimo Beach. The clouds had
scattered to blasts of wind from the south which had now abated to random gusts
of no great force. The Moaning Ocean, still churned in angry recollection, and
pounded itself to spume on the offshore rocks: Jantiff was grateful that he
need collect no more percebs this day. Passing the forest, he halted to listen
to the far hooting of wurgles, a mournful throbbing sound which sent tingles of
ancient dread along Jantiff’s back. More faintly came whoops and ululations
from the throats of, men. Hateful sounds, thought Jantiff. He walked
more-quickly along the beach, shoulders hunched, head low.
The outcry of the wurgles waxed and waned, then suddenly
grew loud. Jantiff stopped short and stared in apprehension toward the Sych.
He glimpsed movement under the trees, and a moment later discerned a pair of
human figures scurrying through the shadows. Jantiff stirred his numb limbs and
proceeded on his way. A frightful outcry sounded suddenly loud: the wailing of
wurgles, gasps of human horror and pain. Jantiff stood frozen, his face
wrenched into a contorted grimace. Then, crying out wordlessly, he ran toward
the sound, pausing only to pick up a stout branch to serve as a cudgel.
A brook, issuing from the Sych, widened into a pond. The
wurgles bounded back and forth across the brook and splashed into the pond, the
better to tear at the woman who had mired herself in the mud. Jantiff ran screaming
around the pond, to halt at the edge of the mire. Two wurgles hanging
on the woman’s shoulders had borne her down to press her head into the water.
One gnawed at her scalp; the other rent the nape of her neck. Blood swirled out
to darken the pond; the woman made spasmodic motion and died. Jantiff backed
slowly away, sick with disgust and fury. He turned and lurched away toward the
road. The wurgles keened again; Jantiff swung around with ready cudgel, hoping
for attack, but the wurgles had flushed forth the second member of the pair.
From the Sych ran a girl with contorted features and streaming brown-blond
hair; Jantiff instantly recognized the girl-witch he had met at the roadmender’s
shed. Four wurgles bounded in pursuit, massive heads out-thrust to display
gleaming fangs. The girl saw Jantiff and stopped short in dismay; the wurgles
lunged and she fell to her knees. But Jantiff was already beside her. He swung
his cudgel, to break the back of the foremost wurgle; it, slumped and lay
kinked on the trail, bending and unbending in agonized jerks. Jantiff struck
the second wurgle on the head; it somersaulted and lay still. The two survivors
backing away, set up a desolate outcry. Jantiff chased them but they leapt
smartly away.
Jantiff returned to the girl, who knelt gasping for breath.
From the Sych came the calls of the witch chasers, ever more distinct; already
different voices and different cries could be detected.
Jantiff spoke to the witch-girl. “Listen carefully! Do you
hear me?”
The girl lifted a face bloated with despair; she gave no
other sign.
“Up! To your feet,” cried Jantiff urgently. “The chasers are
coming; you’ve got to bide.” He seized her arm and hauled her erect. The third
wurgle suddenly darted close; Jantiff was ready with his cudgel and struck
hard. The animal ran screaming in a circle, snapping at its own mouse-colored
hind quarters. Jantiff struck again and again in hysterical energy until the
creature dropped. He stood panting’ a moment, listening. The chasers had
become confused; Jantiff could hear them calling to each other. He thrust the
dead wurgle into the brook, then did the same with the other two bodies. The
current swung them away, and they drifted toward the sea.
Jantiff turned back to the witch-girl. “Come, quickly now!
Remember me? We met in the forest, Now, this way, at a run!”
Jantiff tugged her into a trot; they ran beside the brook, across
the road, over the shore stones to the water’s edge. The girl stopped short; by
main force Jantiff pulled her out into the surf and led her stumbling and tottering
for fifty yards parallel to the shore. For a moment they rested, Jantiff anxiously
watching the edge of the forest, the girl staring numbly down at the surging
water. Jantiff lifted her into his arms and staggered up the beach to his hut.
Kicking open his makeshift door he carried her to one of his rickety chairs. “Sit
here until I come back,” said Jantiff. “I think—I hope—you’ll be safe. But don’t
show yourself, and don’t make any noise!” This last, so Jantiff reflected, as
he went back along the beach, was possibly an unnecessary warning; she had
uttered no sound from the moment he had seen her.
Jantiff went back to where the brook crossed the path. From
the Sych came three men, the first two led by leashed wurgles. The third man
was Booch.
The wurgles, sniffing out the witch-girl’s track, paused
where she had fallen, then strained toward the sea.
Booch caught sight of Jantiff. “Hallo, you, whatever your
name! Where are the witches we chased through the Sych?”
“I saw but one,” said Jantiff, contriving a meek and eager
voice. “I heard the wurgles as I came from town. She crossed the path and led
them yonder.” He pointed toward the sea, in which direction the wurgles already
strained.
“What did she look like?” rasped Booch.
“I barely saw her, but she seemed young and agile: a witch
kit, for sure!”
“Quick then!” cried Booch. “She’s the one I’ve ranged the forest
to find!”
The wurgles followed the trail to the water’s edge where they
halted and made fretful outcries. Booch looked up and down the beach, then out
to sea. He pointed. “Look! There’s something out there: a body!”
“It’s a wurgle,” one of his fellows said. “Damnation and
vileness!
[40]
I believe it’s my Dalbuska!”
“Then where’s the kit?” bellowed Booch. “Did she drown
herself? Hey, fellow!”—this to Jantiff—“What did you see?”
“The kit and the wurgles. She led them down to the water and
when I came to look she was gone.”
“And my good wurgles! Pastola put a curse on her; the witches
swim underwater like smollocks!”
Booch shouldered Jantiff aside and returned to the mad. The
other two followed.
Jantiff watched as they marched to the pool and there observed
the corpse of the witch-woman. After a few minutes’ muttered conversation they
called up their wurgles and tramped off toward Balad into the last lavender
rays of the setting sun.
Jantiff returned to his hut. He found the witch-girl where
he had left her, sitting wan and still.
“You’re safe now,” said Jantiff. “Don’t be frightened; no
one will harm you here. Are you hungry?”
The girl responded by not so much as quiver.
In a
state
of shock,
thought Jantiff. He built a good blaze in his fireplace and
turned her chair toward the heat. “Now: warm yourself. I’ll cook soup, and
there’ll be roast percebs as well, with scallions and oil!”
The girl stared into the fire. After a few moments she listlessly
held out her hands to the blaze. Jantiff, preparing the meal, watched her from
the corner of his eye. Her face, no longer contorted by terror, was pinched and
pale; Jantiff wondered about her age. It was certainly less than his own, still
he could not regard her as a child. Her breasts were small and round; her hips,
while unmistakably feminine, were slender and unobtrusive. Perhaps, thought Jantiff,
she was of a constitution naturally slight. He bustled here and there, and presently
served up the best meal his resources allowed.
The girl showed no diffidence about eating, though she took
no great quantity of food. Jantiff from time to time attempted conversation: “There,
now! Are you feeling better?”
No response.
“Would you like more soup? And here: a nice perceb.” Again
no answer. When Jantiff tried to serve out more food, she pushed the plate
away.
Her conduct was almost that of a deaf-mute, thought Jantiff.
Nonetheless, something about her manner left him in doubt. Perhaps his language
was strange to her? This consideration bore no weight: at the clearing in the
woods there had likewise been no conversation.
“My name is Jantiff Ravensroke. What is your name?” Silence.