The fish-eyed creature deftly twisted its long clawed fingers on the hilt and slowly lowered its arms, which were protected by tortoiseshell and copper, and plunged them up to its elbows, concealing the weapon beneath the water. The Witcher grasped his sword in both hands; his right hand just below the cross guard, his left by the pommel, and lifted the weapon up and a little to the side, above his right shoulder. He looked into the monster’s eyes, but they were the iridescent eyes of a fish, eyes with spherical irises, glistening coldly and metallically. Eyes which neither expressed nor betrayed anything. Nothing that might warn of an attack.
From the depths at the bottom of the steps, disappearing into the black chasm, came the sound of a bell. Closer and closer, more and more distinct.
The fish-eyed creature lunged forward, pulling its blade from under the water, attacking as swiftly as a thought, with a montante thrust. Geralt was simply lucky; he had expected the blow to be dealt from the right. He parried with his blade directed downwards, powerfully twisting his body, and rotated his sword, meeting the monster’s sword flat. Now everything depended on which of them would twist their fingers more quickly on the hilt, who would be first to move from the flat, static impasse of the blades to a blow, a blow whose force was now being generated by both of them, by shifting their bodyweight to the appropriate leg. Geralt already knew they were as fast as each other.
But the fish-eyed creature had longer fingers.
The Witcher struck it in the side, above the hips, twisted into a half-turn, smote, pressing down on the blade, and easily dodged a wide, chaotic, desperate and clumsy blow. The monster, noiselessly opening its ichthyoid mouth, disappeared beneath the water, which was pulsating with crimson clouds.
‘Give me your hand! Quickly!’ Dandelion yelled. ‘They’re coming, a whole gang of them! I can see them!’
The Witcher seized the bard’s right hand and hauled him out of the water onto the rocky shelf. A broad wave splashed behind him.
The tide had turned.
They fled swiftly, pursued by the swelling wave. Geralt looked back and saw numerous other fish-like creatures bursting from the water, saw them giving chase, leaping nimbly on their muscular legs. Without a word he speeded up.
Dandelion was panting, running heavily and splashing around the now knee-high water. He suddenly stumbled and fell, sloshing among the bladder wrack, supporting himself on trembling arms. Geralt caught him by the belt and hauled him out of the foam, now seething all around them.
‘Run!’ he cried. ‘I’ll hold them back!’
‘Geralt—’
‘Run, Dandelion! The water’s about to fill the rift and then we won’t get out of here! Run for your life!’
Dandelion groaned and ran. The Witcher ran after him, hoping the monsters would become strung out in the chase. He knew he had no chance taking on the entire group.
They chased him just beside the rift, because the water there was deep enough for them to swim, while he was clambering the slippery rocks with difficulty, wallowing in the foam. In the rift, however, it was too tight for them to assail him from all sides. He stopped in the basin where Dandelion had found the skull.
He stopped and turned around. And calmed down.
He struck the first with the very tip of his sword, where the temple would have been on a man. He split open the belly of the next one, which was armed with something resembling a short battle-axe. A third fled.
The Witcher rushed up the gorge, but at the same time a surging wave boomed, erupting in foam, seethed in an eddy in the vent, tore him off the rocks and dragged him downwards, into the boiling water. He collided with a fishy creature flapping about in the eddy, and thrust it away with a kick. Something caught him by his legs and pulled him down, towards the seafloor. He hit the rock on his back, opened his eyes just in time to see the dark shapes of the creatures, two swift blurs. He parried the first blur with his sword, and instinctively protected himself from the second by raising his left arm. He felt a blow, pain, and immediately afterwards the sharp sting of salt. He pushed off from the bottom with his feet, splashed upwards towards the surface, formed his fingers together and released a Sign. The explosion was dull and stabbed his ears with a brief paroxysm of pain. If I get out of this, he thought, beating the water with his arms and legs, if I get out of this, I’ll ride to Yen in Vengerberg and I’ll try again . . . If I get out of this . . .
He thought he could hear the booming of a trumpet. Or a horn.
The tidal wave, exploding again in the chimney, lifted him up and tossed him out on his belly onto a large rock. Now he could clearly hear a booming horn and Dandelion’s cries, seemingly coming from all sides at once. He snorted the saltwater from his nose and looked around, tossing his wet hair from his face.
He was on the shore, right where they had set out from. He was lying belly-down on the rocks, and a breaker was seething white foam around him.
Behind him, in the gorge – now a narrow bay – a large grey dolphin danced on the waves. On its back, tossing her wet, willow-green hair, sat the mermaid. She still had beautiful breasts.
‘White Hair!’ she sang, waving a hand which was holding a large, conical, spirally twisting conch. ‘Are you in one piece?’
‘Yes,’ the Witcher said in amazement. The foam around him had become pink. His left arm had stiffened and was stinging from the salt. His jacket sleeve was cut, straight and evenly, and blood was gushing from the cut. I got out of it, he thought, I pulled it off again. But no, I’m not going anywhere.
He saw Dandelion, who was running towards him, stumbling over the wet pebbles.
‘I’ve held them back!’ the mermaid sang, and sounded the conch again. ‘But not for long! Flee and return here no more, White Hair! The sea . . . is not for you!’
‘I know!’ he shouted back. ‘I know. Thank you, Sh’eenaz!’
VII
‘Dandelion,’ Little Eye said, tearing the end of the bandage with her teeth and tying a knot on Geralt’s wrist. ‘Explain to me how a pile of snail shells ended up at the bottom of the stairs? Drouhard’s wife is clearing them up right now and is making it clear what she thinks of you two.’
‘Shells?’ Dandelion asked. ‘What shells? I have no idea. Perhaps some passing ducks dropped them?’
Geralt smiled, turning his head toward the shadow. He smiled at the memory of Dandelion’s curses; he had spent the entire afternoon opening shells and rummaging around in the slippery flesh, during which process he had nicked himself and soiled his shirt, but hadn’t found a single pearl. And no small wonder, as they weren’t pearl oysters at all, but ordinary scallops and mussels. They abandoned the idea of making soup from the shellfish when Dandelion opened the first shell; the mollusc looked unappealing and stank to high heaven.
Little Eye finished bandaging him and sat down on an upturned tub. The Witcher thanked her, examining his neatly bandaged arm. The wound was deep and quite long, extending as far as the elbow, and intensely painful when he moved it. She had put on a makeshift dressing by the seashore, but before they had got back it had begun to bleed again. Just before the girl arrived, Geralt had poured a coagulating elixir onto his mutilated forearm, and boosted it with an anaesthetic elixir, and Essi had caught them just as he and Dandelion were suturing the wound using a fishing line tied to a hook. Little Eye swore at them and got down to making a dressing herself, while Dandelion regaled her with a colourful tale of the fight, several times reserving himself the exclusive right to compose a ballad about the whole incident. Essi, naturally, flooded Geralt with an avalanche of questions, which he was unable to answer. She took that badly, and evidently had the impression he was concealing something from her. She became sullen and ceased her questioning.
‘Agloval already knows,’ she said. ‘You were seen returning, and Mrs Drouhard ran off to spread the word when she saw the blood on the stairs. The people dashed towards the rocks, hoping the sea would toss something out. They’re still hanging around there, but haven’t
found anything, from what I know.’
‘Nor will they,’ the Witcher said. ‘I shall visit Agloval tomorrow, but ask him, if you would, to forbid people from hanging around the Dragons Fangs. Just not a word, please, about those steps or Dandelion’s fantasies about the city of Ys. Treasure and sensation hunters would immediately go, and there’ll be further deaths—’
‘I’m not a gossip,’ Essi said sulkily, sharply tossing her lock from her forehead. ‘If I ask you something it isn’t in order to dash off to the well at once and blab it to the washerwomen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I must go,’ Dandelion suddenly said. ‘I’ve got a rendezvous with Akeretta. Geralt, I’m taking your jerkin, because mine is incredibly filthy and wet.’
‘Everything here is wet,’ Little Eye said sneeringly, nudging the articles of clothing strewn around with the tip of her shoe in disgust. ‘How can you? They need to be hung up and properly dried . . . You’re dreadful.’
‘It’ll dry off by itself,’ Dandelion pulled on Geralt’s damp jacket and examined the silver studs on the sleeves with delight.
‘Don’t talk rubbish. And what’s this? Oh, no, that bag is still full of sludge and seaweed! And this – what’s this? Yuck!’
Geralt and Dandelion silently observed the cobalt blue shell Essi was holding between two fingers. They had forgotten. The mollusc was slightly open and clearly reeked.
‘It’s a present,’ the troubadour said, moving back towards the door. ‘It’s your birthday tomorrow, isn’t it, Poppet? Well, that’s a present for you.’
‘This?’
‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ Dandelion sniffed it and added quickly. ‘It’s from Geralt. He chose it for you. Oh, is that the time? Farewell . . .’
Little Eye was quiet for a moment after he had gone. The Witcher looked at the stinking shellfish and felt ashamed. Of Dandelion and of himself.
‘Did you remember my birthday?’ Essi asked slowly, holding the shell at arm’s length. ‘Really?’
‘Give it to me,’ he said sharply. He got up from the palliasse, protecting his bandaged arm. ‘I apologise for that idiot . . .’
‘No,’ she protested, removing a small knife from a sheath at her belt. ‘It really is a pretty shell, I’ll keep it as a memento. It only needs cleaning, after I’ve got rid of the . . . contents. I’ll throw them out of the window, the cats can eat them.’
Something clattered on the floor and rolled away. Geralt widened his pupils and saw what it was long before Essi.
It was a pearl. An exquisitely iridescent and shimmering pearl of faintly blue colour, as big as a swollen pea.
‘By the Gods.’ Little Eye had also caught sight of it. ‘Geralt . . . A pearl!’
‘A pearl,’ he laughed. ‘And so you did get a present, Essi. I’m glad.’
‘Geralt, I can’t accept it. That pearl is worth . . .’
‘It’s yours,’ he interrupted. ‘Dandelion, though he plays the fool, really did remember your birthday. He really wanted to please you. He talked about it, talked aloud about it. Well, fate heard him and did what had to be done.’
‘And you, Geralt?’
‘Me?’
‘Did you . . . also want to please me? That pearl is so beautiful . . . It must be hugely valuable – don’t you regret it?’
‘I’m pleased you like it. And if I regret anything, it’s that there was only one. And that . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘That I haven’t known you as long as Dandelion, long enough to be able to know and remember your birthday. To be able to give you presents and please you. To be able to call you Poppet.’
She moved closer and suddenly threw her arms around his neck. He nimbly and swiftly anticipated her movement, dodged her lips and kissed her coldly on the cheek, embracing her with his uninjured arm, clumsily, with reserve, gently. He felt the girl stiffen and slowly move back, but only to the length of her arms, which were still resting on his shoulders. He knew what she was waiting for, but did not do it. He did not draw her towards him.
Essi let him go and turned towards the open, dirty little window.
‘Of course,’ she said suddenly. ‘You barely know me. I forgot that you barely know me.’
‘Essi,’ he said after a moment’s silence. ‘I—’
‘I barely know you either,’ she blurted, interrupting him. ‘What of it? I love you. I can’t help it. Not at all.’
‘Essi!’
‘Yes. I love you, Geralt. I don’t care what you think. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at that engagement party . . .’
She broke off, lowering her head.
She stood before him and Geralt regretted it was her and not the fish-eyed creature with a sword who had been hidden beneath the water. He had stood a chance against that creature. But against her he had none.
‘You aren’t saying anything,’ she said. ‘Nothing, not a word.’
I’m tired, he thought, and bloody weak. I need to sit down, I’m feeling dizzy, I’ve lost some blood and haven’t eaten anything . . . I have to sit down. Damned little attic, he thought, I hope it gets struck by lightning and burns down during the next storm. And there’s no bloody furniture, not even two stupid chairs and a table, which divides you, across which you can so easily and safely talk; you can even hold hands. But I have to sit down on the palliasse, have to ask her to sit down beside me. And the palliasse stuffed with bean stalks is dangerous, you can’t escape from it, take evasive action.
‘Sit beside me, Essi.’
She sat down. Reluctantly. Tactfully. Far away. Too close.
‘When I found out,’ she whispered, interrupting the long silence, ‘when I heard that Dandelion had dragged you onto the beach, bleeding, I ran out of the house like a mad thing, rushed blindly, paying no attention to anything. And then . . . Do you know what I thought? That it was magic, that you had cast a spell on me, that you had secretly, treacherously bewitched me, spellbound me, with your wolfish medallion, with the evil eye. That’s what I thought, but I didn’t stop, kept running, because I understood that I desire . . . I desire to fall under your spell. And the reality turned out to be more awful. You didn’t cast any spell on me, you didn’t use any charms. Why, Geralt? Why didn’t you bewitch me?’
He was silent.
‘If it had been magic,’ she said, ‘it would all be so simple and easy. I would have succumbed to your power and I’d be happy. But this . . . I must . . . I don’t know what’s happening to me . . .’
Dammit, he thought, if Yennefer feels like I do now when she’s with me, I feel sorry for her. And I shall never be astonished again. I will never hate her again . . . Never again.
Because perhaps Yennefer feels what I’m feeling now, feels a profound certainty that I ought to fulfil what it is impossible to fulfil, even more impossible to fulfil than the relationship between Agloval and Sh’eenaz. Certainty that a little sacrifice isn’t enough here; you’d have to sacrifice everything, and there’d still be no way of knowing if that would be enough. No, I won’t continue to hate Yennefer for not being able and not wanting to give me more than a little sacrifice. Now I know that a little sacrifice is a hell of a lot.
‘Geralt,’ Little Eye moaned, drawing her head into her shoulders. ‘I’m so ashamed. I’m ashamed of what I’m feeling, it’s like an accursed infirmity, like malaria, like being unable to breathe . . .’
He was silent.
‘I always thought it was a beautiful and noble state of mind, noble and dignified, even if it makes one unhappy. After all, I’ve composed so many ballads about it. And it is organic, Geralt, meanly and heartbreakingly organic. Someone who is ill or who has drunk poison might feel like this. Because like someone who has drunk poison, one is prepared to do anything in exchange for an antidote. Anything. Even be humiliated.’
‘Essi. Please . . .’
‘Yes. I feel humiliated, humiliated by having confessed everything to you, disregarding the dignity that demands one suffers in
silence. By the fact that my confession caused you embarrassment. I feel humiliated by the fact that you’re embarrassed. But I couldn’t have behaved any differently. I’m powerless. At your mercy, like someone who’s bedridden. I’ve always been afraid of illness, of being weak, helpless, hopeless and alone. I’ve always been afraid of sickness, always believing it the worst thing that could befall me . . .’
He was silent.
‘I know,’ she groaned again. ‘I know I ought to be grateful to you for . . . for not taking advantage of the situation. But I’m not grateful to you. And I’m ashamed of it. For I hate your silence, your terrified eyes. I hate you. For staying silent. For not lying, for not . . . And I hate her, that sorceress of yours, I’d happily stab her for . . . I hate her. Make me go, Geralt. Order me to leave here. For of my own free will I cannot, but I want to get out of here, go to the city, to a tavern . . . I want to have my revenge on you for my shame, for the humiliation, I’ll go to the first man I find . . .’
Dammit, he thought, hearing her voice dropping like a rag ball rolling down the stairs. She’ll burst into tears, he thought, there’s no doubt, she’ll burst into tears. What to do, what to bloody do?
Essi’s hunched up shoulders were trembling hard. The girl turned her head away and began to weep, crying softly, dreadfully calmly and unrelentingly.
I don’t feel anything, he noticed with horror, nothing, not the smallest emotion. That fact that I will embrace her is a deliberate, measured response, not a spontaneous one. I’ll hug her, for I feel as though I ought to, not because I want to. I feel nothing.
When he embraced her, she stopped crying immediately, wiped away her tears, shaking her head forcefully and turning away so that he could not see her face. And then she pressed herself to him firmly, burying her head in his chest.
A little sacrifice, he thought, just a little sacrifice. For this will calm her, a hug, a kiss, calm caresses. She doesn’t want anything more. And even if she did, what of it? For a little sacrifice, a very little sacrifice, is beautiful and worth . . . Were she to want more . . . It would calm her. A quiet, calm, gentle act of love. And I . . . Why, it doesn’t matter, because Essi smells of verbena, not lilac and gooseberry, doesn’t have cool, electrifying skin. Essi’s hair is not a black tornado of gleaming curls, Essi’s eyes are gorgeous, soft, warm and cornflower blue; they don’t blaze with a cold, unemotional, deep violet. Essi will fall asleep afterwards, turn her head away, open her mouth slightly, Essi will not smile in triumph. For Essi . . .
Introducing the Witcher Page 53