“I caught a witcher, I caught a witcher!”
“What’s your name, boy?” said Gerald, ignoring the fact that he’d come up out of the water from a swim right at the end of the sitting lad’s line. But word would get around. The witcher caught like a fish. By a mere boy!
“Andre,” answered the boy about his name. “Andre the Dwarf, soon to be a giant among men, he he he he.” And then, rod in hand with line aimlessly dragging behind him now (he was very excited and forgot to reel it in!), he started running around the port streets and alleyways, spreading the word that he’d caught a witcher and the witcher wasn’t that tough of a guy after all. Soon fights would be challenged by the many drunken men standing about here there and there all over town. And worst: duels by the some of the most drunken and therefore most emboldened of the lot, also a pretty numerous group in this wine soaked place. No problem for Gerald of course, being the powerful witcher he was — unique in abilities even among his own kind. But it presented, how you say, bothersome and eventually wearisome distractions. He didn’t really want that now, wanted to live a life of peace and quiet. And alchemy. Gerald begins to wonder if he’d actually chosen the right location to retire in after all, long years of monster hunting finally behind him hopefully with the “slaying” of the Beast of Tousaint and the earning of the local vineyard (and dog) that came along with it. There was always Rivia to the north, his birthplace after all. There was always Merry Gouldbusk. And he also had other options. Through the alchemy, the vineyard leads the vineyard steers. The hypothesized spaceship may land here, providing yet another option. Escape to the stars, hmph. Gerald always shakes his head with the thought, thinking he may be going a bit mad for lack of actual work, the monster slaying he’s so adept and practiced at. The alchemy speaks, though, he knew. Mainly through the graytop mushroom trips he’d learned about through the Caed Myrkvid herbalist Pinastri. But still… real.
“Reel reel reel,” sang a chorus of men in the lower left central square of the town with appropriate fishing gestures, making fun of Gerald once again and one or more of them hoping for a fight most likely. “Reel reel reel,” they finished, and then started to laugh. “What are you going to do about our *singing*? Witcher?” said the most drunken and thus the most emboldened of them, pulling a pistol or rod from his pocket in a continuous gesture leading from the the fishing one. Not again, Gerald thinks, and promptly puts the man down with his own gun. I’ve got to find that boy, he thinks over the bloody body with smoking weapon. I’ve got to put all this nonsense to rest once and for all — have the boy make some sort of declaration to the fact that he *didn’t* catch me like a fish and he just made up a tall tale about the *accidental* conjunction of himself and the end of his line. But then he knew this exhibit wouldn’t fly and the damage had been done. Must be fate, he determined, spying another collection of drunken men just down the way doing that reeling-in gesture once more. Maybe this group at least won’t sing, he tries to console himself, readying his still warm pistol once more just in case.
But then the town surprised him by instead starting another song by the band he was passing on stage to his left, a tribute progressive jazz folk rock outfit he quickly determined, detecting influences of both Steely Dan and Steeleye Span within, throw in a bit of hard rocking Stealers Wheel stuck in the middle (part). He was, as it were, in tune with the town once more and through it the universe. Upper, Middle, Lower as one.
“Nice tune,” he said while turning away after listening a bit, enough to get the gist. Strangely calmed, he looked up at the 4 TILE colored buildings now in front of him and remembered it from that dream.
(to be continued)
Sunklands 