The cave he entered was–astonishingly–full of light. Through openings in the ceiling, bristling with stalactites, shone criss-crossing columns of brightness, drawing from the rocks and dripstone formations a kaleidoscope of brilliance and colour. Furthermore, a magical ball blazing with light–amplified by reflections in the quartz on the walls–was suspended in the air. In spite of all this illumination the end of the cave faded into the gloom, and black darkness loomed in the vista of the colonnade of stalagnates.

An immense cave painting was in the process of being created on the wall, which nature had seemingly prepared for that purpose. The painter was a fair-haired elf dressed in a paint-smudged mantle. His head seemed to be ringed by a luminous halo in the magical-natural brilliance.

‘Sit down,’ said the elf, without wresting his gaze away from the painting. He gestured to a boulder with a wave of his brush. ‘They didn’t harm you, did they?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘You’ll have to forgive them.’

‘Indeed. I will.’

‘They’re a bit like children. They were awfully glad you were coming.’

‘I noticed.’

Only then did the elf glance at him.

‘Sit down,’ he repeated. ‘I shall be at your disposal shortly. I’m just finishing.’

What the elf was finishing was a stylised animal, probably a bison. For the moment only its outline was complete–from its splendid horns to its equally magnificent tail. Geralt sat down on the boulder indicated and swore to be patient and meek–to the bounds of his abilities.

The elf, softly whistling through clenched teeth, dipped his brush into a bowl of paint and coloured his bison purple with swift flourishes. After a moment’s thought he painted tiger stripes on the animal’s side.

Geralt watched in silence.

Finally the elf took a step back, admiring the fresco which now depicted an entire hunting scene. The striped purple bison was being pursued in wild leaps by skinny human figures with bows and spears, painted with careless brushstrokes.

‘What’s it meant to be?’ asked Geralt, unable to contain himself.

The elf glanced at him in passing, sticking the clean end of the brush in his mouth.

‘It is,’ he declared, ‘a prehistoric painting executed by the primitive people who lived in this cave thousands of years ago and who mainly lived by hunting the purple bison, which became extinct long ago. Some of the prehistoric hunters were artists and felt a profound artistic need to immortalise what was in their hearts.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘It most certainly is,’ the elf agreed. ‘Your scholars have roamed through caves like this for ages, searching for traces of primitive man. And whenever they find something like this they are inordinately fascinated. For it is proof that you aren’t strangers in this land and in this world. Proof that your forebears have lived here for centuries; thus proof that this world belongs to their heirs. Why, every race has the right to some roots. Even your–human–race, whose roots should be sought in the treetops, after all. Ha, an amusing quip, don’t you think? Worthy of an epigram. Are you fond of light poetry? What do you think I ought to add to the painting?’