“I understand.” The witcher nodded. “And us, Nenneke? What about us? The sun shines on us, too. Shouldn’t we shelter under a roof like that?”

“In principle, yes,” sighed the priestess. “But…”

“But what?”

“It’s too late.”

THE LAST WISH

I

The catfish stuck its barbelled head above the surface, tugged with force, splashed, stirred the water and flashed its white belly.

“Careful, Dandilion!” shouted the witcher, digging his heels into the wet sand. “Hold him, damn it!”

“I am holding him…” groaned the poet. “Heavens, what a monster! It’s a leviathan, not a fish! There’ll be some good eating on that, dear gods!”

“Loosen it. Loosen it or the line will snap!”

The catfish clung to the bed and threw itself against the current toward the bend in the river. The line hissed as Dandilion’s and Geralt’s gloves smoldered.

“Pull, Geralt, pull! Don’t loosen it or it’ll get tangled up in the roots!”

“The line will snap!”

“No, it won’t. Pull!”

They hunched up and pulled. The line cut the water with a hiss, vibrated and scattered droplets which glistened like mercury in the rising sun. The catfish suddenly surfaced, set the water seething just below the surface, and the tension of the line eased. They quickly started to gather up the slack.

“We’ll smoke it,” panted Dandilion. “We’ll take it to the village and get it smoked. And we’ll use the head for soup!”

“Careful!”

Feeling the shallows under its belly, the catfish threw half of its twelve-foot-long body out of the water, tossed its head, whacked its flat tail and took a sharp dive into the depths. Their gloves smoldered anew.

“Pull, pull! To the bank, the son of a bitch!”

“The line is creaking! Loosen it, Dandilion!”

“It’ll hold, don’t worry! We’ll cook the head… for soup…”

The catfish, dragged near to the bank again, surged and strained furiously against them as if to let them know he wasn’t that easy to get into the pot. The spray flew six feet into the air.

“We’ll sell the skin…” Dandilion, red with effort, pulled the line with both hands. “And the barbels… We’ll use the barbels to make—”

Nobody ever found out what the poet was going to make from the catfish’s barbels. The line snapped with a crack and both fishermen, losing their balance, fell onto the wet sand.

“Bloody hell!” Dandilion yelled so loud that the echo resounded though the osiers. “So much grub escaped! I hope you die, you son-of-a-catfish.”

“I told you.” Geralt shook his wet trousers. “I told you not to use force when you pull. You screwed up, my friend. You make as good a fisherman as a goat’s arse makes a trumpet.”

“That’s not true.” The troubadour was outraged. “It’s my doing that the monster took the bait in the first place.”

“Oh really? You didn’t lift a finger to help me set the line. You played the lute and hollered so the whole neighborhood could hear you, nothing more.”