Twelvetide—Christmas, Nativitas Domini, Wynachten—was observed at the Silver Bell Inn extremely riotously, though only by the small group of companions. After a short-lived thaw, the blizzards returned and the snow-covered roads once again cut the tavern off, and in any case few people travelled at that time. Aside from Reynevan, Scharley and Samson, aside from the Vogelsang, Urban Horn and Tybald Raabe, the innkeeper, Marcin Prahl, also joined in the celebrations. Without regret, he brought up several kegs of Rhenish, Multan and Transylvanian wine to add to the party. The innkeeper’s wife, Berta, made sure there was a rich and delicious bill of fare. The only guest from the “outside” turned out to be the beguiler, Jon Malevolt, who, to everyone’s astonishment, didn’t arrive alone, but accompanied by the two sylvan witches. The astonishment was great, but by no means disagreeable. The witches turned out to be attractive women with endearing looks and bearing. After the ice was broken, they were accepted by everyone, including Berta Prahl, who was horrified at first.

The witches also honoured the celebration by contributing two huge barrels of bigos. Excellent bigos. The term “excellent” was utterly insufficient—why, even the name “bigos” was inadequate. The dish prepared by the sylvan witches was a veritable hymn in honour of stewed cabbage, an ode in praise of smoked bacon and pork fat, a paean to venison and a panegyric to fatty meats, a melodic and loving canzone to dried mushrooms, caraway seed and pepper.

The poetry was enhanced beautifully by the wormwood vodka Malevolt brought, which was prosaic, but effective.

The winter, which had seemed harsh in December, only showed what it was capable of after Circumcisio Domini. The blizzards grew stronger and for some time it snowed hard day and night. Then the sky brightened up and a somewhat pale sun shone from behind the clouds. And then the frosts came. They gripped with such strength that the earth appeared to groan and froze rock solid.

The frost was so bitter that you came back numb with cold after going out to the privy or for firewood, and any longer expeditions threatened severe frostbite. The others looked at Horn and Tybald—who had decided to leave at Epiphany—as though they were mad. But Horn and Tybald did go. They had to.

It was 1428.

Urban Horn returned on the twenty-eighth of January. The shocking news he brought with him wrenched the company out of its drowsy winter lethargy.