The Mystery of Fonklic

 

Something knocked on the gate. Firmly and nervously. Vaselinn hadn't been expecting any visitors; he also had settled his accounts with the Tax Office. So who could it be? Assassins? A simpleton coming for advice on how to enhance his potency?

He cursed quietly, yet viciously. He hadn't moved to the wilderness to be insolently harassed. He was a magician and had the right to practice his Art in solitude.

"Go away, I'm not home!" he shouted.

However, the newcomer wasn't easily dismissed. He kept knocking and knocking until Vaselinn gave up and headed for the entrance. It wasn't easy to descend the winding staircase of the tower, which was a dozen meters high. But such was the fashion among wizards that anyone with even a modicum of respect had to hire foolish goblins and force them to build a magnificent tower for next to nothing. Later, such a mage would develop rheumatism from constantly sitting among cold, mold-covered walls (cleaning was a task unworthy of those practicing the Most Noble Profession), and even an elven anti-lymphocyte elixir couldn't help.

A moment later, Vaselinn found himself at the door. He leaned against it with his right hand, tracing signs in the air with his left. This was how he opened the gate. He had been using the spell for many years, preventing any thief from entering his tower, and the mage also didn't risk damaging his manicured fingernails, which simply hated padlocks, keys, and bolts.

Finally, the gate stood open. Just a final adjustment to his crimson silk robe embroidered with gold thread, and the mage was ready to dismiss the uninvited guest. He stepped stately onto the porch.

"Good morning, Mr. Wizard!" he heard a shrill voice, and looking down, he saw its owner, a strange, pleasant-looking creature. "A parcel for you, straight from Zuu, still warm!

A letter!" Vaselinn hadn't received one in 30 years. Moreover, this one didn't look like an advertising leaflet or a bill for using magical energy. The envelope was white, and the sender's cursive handwriting bespoke a shy nature and exceptional intelligence. The magician hurried upstairs without thanking the messenger, which he used as an argument for a raise due to the harsh working conditions.

True correspondence! The wizard, his noble face flushed, began searching for a dagger with which to open the letter. Once he had done so, the entire tower was filled with the scent of beer. Without considering the source of the strange smell, he pulled the letter from the envelope and began reading. The letters were scribbled hastily, and there was an ink blot in the corner of the paper. But Vaselinn didn't even notice, so moved was he by the letter's content.

"You pathetic old man! You've been hiding in your hole for so long, and I've been searching for you for so long. Soon my efforts will be rewarded a thousandfold. You'll finally know what it's like to die, and your body will never be found, and you won't be resurrected."

No sooner had he read the last words than a tiny white insect leaped from the envelope. It took flight, and not a second later, Vaselinna had enveloped herself in darkness to take his life.

A crystalline stream flowed through the forest clearing, murmuring softly about ancient times, forgotten stories from centuries past. Two beautiful nymphs listened to his tale, silently contemplating the beauty of nature. Birds sang in the tree branches, flowers timidly poked their heads above the grass and moss. But even amidst such beautiful surroundings, some had problems.

"Have you heard that Vaselinna was murdered?" the nymph Norka asked her friend Frog. "

Come on, how could I not know about it... Someone sent him Fonklic in the mail. It's small, but deadly!

" "Whatever, Fonklic, the old man deserved it! He didn't want to be a whore, so now he has it!" The old man isolated himself from the world and finally learned his lesson. Serves him right; let this be a warning to other magicians to help nymphs in need. What's the point of this...

She didn't get to finish, because instead of saying anything, she blushed. Frog already knew what was going on. Norka blushed at the sight of only one person, namely the witch 3jaja. And indeed, the man's footsteps could already be heard. The nymph saw his green hair blowing in the wind and had difficulty suppressing a laugh.

"Hello, beautiful ladies," 3jaja began bluntly, "it's a nice day today, isn't it?"

Asking this trivial question, he pinched Norka's firm bottom. Like some tavern girl! But the nymph bravely endured this insult. She would force herself to do many things just to get him off... Just once... Just once, she would even get him on a rock...

"Or on a porcupine," Frog added

. "Get off on a porcupine?"

"What a whore?" the witcher asked in surprise. "What's on your mind, you lecher?

" "Well, they killed Vaselinna," she changed the subject. "Fonklic sent him in a letter. This is the job for you! I know you don't kill people, and it was probably a human who sent it to him, but anyone who does such things deserves to be called a monster! You'll find him, and not only will you get a lot of money, but you'll also gain fame!"

And she spoke so convincingly, with sparkling eyes and animated gestures, that 3jaja suddenly wanted to find this evil murderer.

He didn't even say goodbye to the nymphs. He quickly ran into the forest, and the last thing they saw was the glow of Geralt, his trusty sword.

Forests everywhere, countless trees, and elven cities. 3jaja licked his lips at the thought of how many beautiful, pointy-eared creatures with bows could be running around there. But first the pleasure of defending the people from monsters, and only then private pleasures - playing with elves and drinking good wine.

The witcher sighed. He loved forests, but he hated looking at the white ribbon of the road, like a scar on the ancient, majestic, green face of the forest. It pained him to think that centuries-old pines and oaks had once stood where the road once stood. Now everything was silent, a pure emptiness on the road... But these were the consequences of technological progress, a magnificent phenomenon created by the labor of the people. Soon, great factories would be built, and everyone would live better, easier... Unfortunately, socialism was misunderstood. After all, forests and factories could coexist, and the exploiters would be satisfied with dungeons, not immediate exile to the land of Neversummer.

"Yes, Psotko," he said to his mare, "The revolution will change everything! El viva la Resistance!"

Psotko only neighed. She wasn't a socialist, but she liked to listen to her master's voice. She shivered as he raised his war cries and furiously charged the enemy. She loved the moments when the wind whipped her body, as she galloped like a legendary mustang across the endless steppes. She reveled in spending moonlit nights, lulled to sleep by the rustle of the trees. All their adventures filled her with boundless happiness. She remembered how they had once set out to exterminate wererats in the sewers... The mare sank into sweet thoughts.

She was roused from her half-sleep by the cry of 3jaj, tugging on the reins.

"Psotka, stop! Be careful!"

It's hard to wake up when the image of the cake left on the windowsill by the careless innkeeper is vividly before your eyes. The smell of baked apples stings the hair in your nostrils, and dinner time is long past.

Suddenly, the cake disappeared, and the mare's head experienced a painful encounter with a hard, rough surface. When she opened her eyes, she saw before her an impudent pine tree, deliberately blocking her path. Human rudeness knows no bounds. Nervous and with an offended expression, the little girl turned back to the road and walked more carefully.

So carefully, in fact, that she avoided any accidents. Finally, they passed through the forests and entered fertile fields, sown with rye, wheat, potatoes, corn, and poppy seeds. Here and there, gray, agile hares, graceful maiden hinds, and matted monkeys crossed their path. They could also hear the calls of bats setting out to feed. Dusk was slowly falling, and the three eggs' eyes began to close of their own accord.

"Well, we'll have to find an inn soon." Tomorrow we'll rise at dawn.

Psotka accepted this idea with joyful enthusiasm. Despite her fatigue, she quickened her pace. Soon, 3jaja saw a stockade and the smoke of fires on the horizon. An unmistakable sign that there were people and food nearby.

The mare also saw the settlement and began to gallop so fast that she almost lost her horseshoes. But before the gate, she managed to squeal to a halt, covering the keepers in dust.

"Halt!" shouted one of them, a stout man with a low forehead and a protruding, hairy jaw that reeked of pickled herring.

"What business do you have in our town?" "It's nothing personal," replied the witcher, showing the palm of his hand in a gesture of conciliation. "We only wish to spend the night and leave you at the crack of dawn, without causing any damage.

" "Well," said the second cellarer, scratching his bald head, "if so, please. I thought you'd brought in some lousy business, but you're practically talking and you look kind. You may enter.

" The men began to open the gate. It creaked and grinded, but—surprisingly—no one fell. He would probably do so only when the Black Raiders decided to rudely invade the settlement.

The witcher was already in the town. Curious peasants' heads poked out of the cottages, and children ran around Psotka, making a lot of noise. The dogs howled, barked, and bared their teeth. 3jaja hated these useless mongrels. They stank, ate a lot, and left hair on the couch. Moreover, they pooped in the most unexpected places and, like idiots, could run for hours after a stick thrown by a human. The witcher, on the other hand, sympathized with cats. These fluffy little balls were always clean; even if you poured tar on them, they would quickly clean themselves dry with their pink tongues. They also licked his eyes with that tongue, so delightfully and charmingly. And how they purred so gracefully as they stood on his back and began lifting one paw, then the other, as if kneading dough. And those eyes, green like leaves, like mosses and lichens, and elven minds... 3jaja had always wanted green eyes with vertical pupils, or at least yellow, but he had to settle for brown, the standard witcher color. However, the green-eyed cats sensed the witcher's affection and wholeheartedly returned it. They accompanied him at every step, meowing in friendship and purring with delight when he took them in his arms. Now, a dozen or so furry creatures were also among the children. They smelled the witcher's pheromones, the wise creatures.

They smelled the pheromones, while 3jaja smelled the roast. A juicy, fatty pork knuckle with crispy skin and boiled cabbage, sprinkled with onions, sautéed until golden brown. The witcher's mouth watered at the thought of all the delicious dishes that awaited him.