Geralt stopped to give way to a procession that was headed in his direction - frenzied, rowdy, and blocking the path. Someone seized his shoulder and tried to give him a wooden mug overflowing with foam. He refused politely, but firmly pushed away the staggering man who carried a barrel of watered beer around to the people. He did not want to drink.
Not on a night like this.
Not far away, on a scaffold built from the trunks of birch trees that overlooked the huge bonfire, the fair-haired King of May, crowned with a wreath and wearing nothing but woolen trousers, kissed the Queen of May; he groped her breasts through her thin, sweat-drenched tunic. The monarch, very drunk, staggered and could not keep his balance without holding onto the back of the queen, his fist clenched on a mug of beer. The queen was not sober either. Encircled by a wreath of flowers that was falling over her eyes, she clung to the neck of the king and kicked up her legs. The crowd danced under the scaffolding, singing, shouting, and waving branches twined with flowers and vines.
‘Belleteyn!’ a girl cried into Geralt's ear.
Tugging at his sleeve, she forced him to join the procession that surrounded him. She danced beside him: her robe and the flowers in her hair fluttered in the breeze. He allowed her to draw him into the dance. He whirled deftly, moving out of the other couples' way.
‘Belleteyn! It's the Night of May!’
Next to them, a scuffle broke out, the cries and nervous laughter of a girl feigning resistance against a boy who carried her off into the darkness, beyond the circle of light. The procession, shouting, followed a path between the burning fires. Someone tripped and fell, breaking the chain of hands and divided the procession into small groups.
The girl looked at Geralt from under the wreath that adorned her brow, pressed hard against him and embraced him with her arms, breathing hard. He grabbed her more forcefully than he had intended. His hands that were pressed against her back felt the warm wetness of her body through the fine linen. She lifted her head. Her eyes were closed. Her teeth gleamed below her slightly raised upper lip. She smell of sweat and reeds, smoke and desire.
Why not, he thought, crumpling the back of her dress. His hands delighted in the warm and wet sensation. The girl was certainly not his type: too small, too plump. He felt with his fingers where the tight dress form two sharp curves on her body, just where he should not feel them. But why not, he thought, on a night like this… it doesn't matter.
Belleteyn… The fires on the horizon. The Night of May.
The fire closest to them devoured dry pine and crackled, momentarily illuminating the surroundings with a bright golden light. The girl opened her eyes, and looked at his face. She inhaled sharply. He felt the hands on his chest tensed up. Geralt let go of her immediately. She hesitated at first, then moved her body away without immediately giving up the contact between her hips the witcher's thigh. She lowered her head, then withdrew her hands, tooked a step back, and looked sideways.
They stood motionless for a moment, until the procession approached them once again. The girl quickly turned away and made a deliberate effort to join the dance. She looked back. Just once.
Belleteyn…
But what am I doing here?
In the darkness a gleaming star caught his eye. The witcher medallion around his neck vibrated. Geralt's pupil widened instinctively, allowing his vision to adapt to the darkness effortlessly.
The woman was not a peasant. Peasant women did not wear black velvet coats. Peasant women, whom, being carried or led by men into the bushes, screamed, giggled, and flapped like a trout taken out of the water. None of them noticed that she was leading a tall, fair-haired man with an unbuttoned shirt into the darkness.
Peasant women never wore a black velvet ribbon around their neck, with an obsidian star encrusted with diamonds hanging from it.
‘Yennefer.’
She advanced rapidly, her violet eyes ablaze in a pale, triangular face.
‘Geralt…’
She let go of the hand of the blond angel whose sweaty torso gleamed like a copper plate. The boy staggered, fell to his knees, turned his head, looked around, and blinked. Then he rose slowly, considered them with a look that was at once confused and embarrassed, and staggered back toward the fires. The sorceress did not even look at him. She gazed intently at the witcher as her hand gripped the edge of her coat tightly.
‘It's good to see you again,’ he said with ease.
He felt that the initial tension between them had lessened.
‘Yes,’ she replied, smiling. It seemed to him that there was something forced about that smile, but he was not sure about it. ‘This is undeniably a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here, Geralt? Oh! Pardon me, and forgive my indiscretion. Of course you are here for the same thing as I am. After all it is the feast of Belleteyn. Only thing is, you have caught me, so to speak, in the act.’
‘I've interrupted you.’
‘I'll live,’ she laughed. ‘The night goes on. If I want, I can always seduce another.’
‘A pity that I can't do the same,’ he managed to say, feigning indifference with great difficulty. ‘A girl saw my eyes in the light and ran away.’
‘In the morning,’ she replied, with a falser smile, ‘when they don't have a clear head, they won't pay so much attention. You'll find another, you'll see…’
‘Yen…’
The rest of the sentence caught in his throat.
They looked at each other for a long, long time. The red glow of the fire reflected off their faces. Yennefer suddenly sighed, her eyes veiled under their lashes.
‘Geralt, no. Don't start…’
‘Did you forget?’ he interrupted, ‘It's Belleteyn.’
She slowly moved closer, put a hand on his shoulder and snuggled up to him, her forehead touching his chest. He stroked the raven-black hair that fell in snake-like curls.
‘Believe me,’ she murmured, lifting her head, ‘I wouldn't hesitate for a moment, if it were only a question of… but it wouldn't make sense. Everything would begin and end again as it did before. There's no point for us…’
‘Must everything make sense? It's Belleteyn.’
‘Belleteyn?’ She turned her face. ‘What difference does that make? Something drew us to these fires and these merry people. We wanted to dance, to let loose, to get a little drunk and to take advantage of freedom from the prevailing mores here, in celebration of the renewal of the cycle of nature. And what? We trip over each other after… how much time has passed since? … A year?’
‘One year, two months and eighteen days.’
‘I'm touched. Did you do that on purpose?’
‘Yes, Yen…’
‘Geralt,’ she interrupted, moving away suddenly and shaking her head, ‘let's be clear: I do not want this.’
He confirmed with a nod that this was clear.
Yennefer pushed her coat back from her shoulders. She wore a thin white blouse and a black skirt held by a belt of silver links.
‘I don't want to start again,’ she repeated. ‘And the thought of doing it with you… what I intended to do with the handsome blond… under the same rules… the thought, Geralt, I find demeaning. Degrading for you and for me. Do you understand?’
He nodded again. She looked at him, through her lowered lashes.
‘You're not leaving?’
‘No.’
She remained silent for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
‘Are you angry?’
‘No.’
‘Come, let's sit down somewhere, away from the noise. Let's talk for a moment. You see, I'm glad that we met, really. Let's sit together for a moment, alright?’
‘Alright, Yen.’
They left in the darkness, away from the bonfire, toward the dark edge of the forest, careful to avoid the embracing couples. They had to walk far before finding a spot for themselves. They stopped on a dry hill flanked by a juniper trees as slender as a cypress.
The sorceress uncla
sped her brooch and spread her cloak on the ground after shaking it out. He sat next to her. He longed to embrace her, but out of defiance he did not do so. Yennefer rebuttoned her wide-open blouse, gazed piercingly at him, sighed, and embraced him. Geralt knew that Yennefer had to make a great effort to read thoughts, but that she could instinctively sense the intentions of others.
They were silent.
‘Oh, by the plague!’ she cried suddenly, pushing up.
The sorceress lifted her arms and recited an incantation. Red and green bubbles flew over their head, burst high in the air, and formed colourful, feathery flowers. Laughter and cries of joy reached them from the fires.
‘Belleteyn,’ she said bitterly. ‘The Night of May… The cycle repeats itself. Let them have fun, if they can…’
There were other sorcerers in the area. From afar three orange flashesshot into the sky; on the other side, from the forest, a geyser of rainbow-colored meteors twirled into the sky and exploded. The people dancing around the fire cried out in admiration. Feeling tense, Geralt caressed Yennefer's curls and inhaled the scent of lilac and gooseberry they gave off. If I desire her too much, he thought, she will sense it; it might upset her and she will push me away. I'll ask her calmly what she has heard.
‘It's nothing new to me,’ she said, her voice trembled. ‘Nothing worth mentioning.’
‘Don't do that to me, Yen. Don't read my mind. It bothers me.’
‘Forgive me. It's instinctive. And you, Geralt, what's new?’
‘Nothing, nothing worth mentioning.’
They remained silent.
‘Belleteyn!’ she cried suddenly. Geralt felt the shoulders pressed against his chest stiffen. ‘They feast. They celebrate the eternal cycle of nature. But we? What are we doing here? We, relics, condemned to extinction, to extermination and oblivion. Nature is reborn, the cycle repeats itself. But not us, Geralt. We can't perpetuate ourselves. We are denied that possibility. We were given the ability to do extraordinary things with nature, sometimes even against it; yet at the same time the simplest and most natural thing was taken away from us. Does it matter that we live longer than humans? After our winter, there is no rebirth in the spring, what ends, ends with us. But we are still drawn to the fires, even though our presence is a pernicious and blasphemous mockery of what is sacred.’
He remained silent. He did not like to see her fall into such a mood, the cause of which he knew all too well. It's starting to gnaw at her again, he thought. There was a time when she seemed to forget, to come to terms with her fate. He took her in his arms, rocking her gently like a child. She did not resist. Geralt was not surprised; he knew that she needed it.
‘You know, Geralt,’ she said suddenly, regaining calmness, ‘it's your silence that I've missed the most.’
He pressed his lips to her hair, her ears. I want you, Yen, he thought, I want you, you know that. You know it well, Yen.
‘I know,’ she murmured.
‘Yen…’ he sighed again.
‘Only for now,’ she replied, watching him with wide-open eyes. ‘Only on this night which will soon pass. Let this be our Belleteyn. We will part in the morning. I beg you, don't count on anything more. I can't… I couldn't. Forgive me. If I've made you upset, kiss me and walk away.’
‘If I kiss you, I won't leave.’
‘That's what I thought.’
She lowered her head. Geralt kissed her parted lips. Carefully: first the upper lip, then the lower. His hands became entangled in her curls, touched her ears, the gems in the lobes, her neck. Returning his kiss, Yennefer drew herself to him; her nimble fingers made quick work of the clasps of his jacket.
She laid down on her back onto the coat stretched out over the moss. Geralt kissed her breasts. He felt the nipples harden and protruding under the fine fabric of her blouse. Yennefer was breathing raggedly.
‘Yen…’
‘Don't say anything… please…’
The touch of her bare skin, smooth and cool, electrified his palm and his fingers. Geralt's back shuddered under Yennefer's nails. From the fire came the sounds of shouting, singing, whistling; far, far away there was a whirlwind of sparks and purple smoke. Caress and touch. Him, her. Shudder. And impatience. He slid his hand along the slender thighs wrapped around his hips, squeezing like a vice.
Belleteyn!
Sighs and ragged breaths. Flashes under their eyelids. The scent of lilac and gooseberry. The King and the Queen of May? Blasphemous mockery? Oblivion?
It's Belleteyn, the night of May!
A groan. Hers? His? Black curls covered their eyes and mouths. Hands locked. Trembling fingers intertwined. A cry. Hers? Black eyelashes. Wet. Another groan. His?
Then came silence. An eternity of silence.
Belleteyn… The fires on the horizon…
‘Yen?’
‘Oh… Geralt.’
‘Yen, are you crying?’
‘No!’
‘Yen…’
‘I promised myself… I promised…’
‘Don't say anything. It doesn't matter. Aren't you cold?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now?’
‘Warmer.’
The sky brightened at a dizzying speed. The black wall of the forest regained its contours: the distinct line of the ridge of trees emerged from the formless darkness. The azure that followed the announcement of dawn spilled over the horizon, extinguishing the light of the stars. It got colder. Geralt held Yennefer tighter, and covered her with his jacket.
‘Geralt?’
‘Hmm…’
‘It will be dawn.’
‘I know.’
‘Have I hurt you?’
‘A little.’
‘Will it start all over again?’
‘It never ended.’
‘Please… I feel good with you…’
‘Don't say anything. Everything's fine.’
The smell of smoke was rising from the heather. The smell of lilac and gooseberries.
‘Geralt?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you remember when we met at the Big Kestrel Mountain? And the golden dragon… What was his name?’
‘Three Jackdaws. I remember.’
‘He told us…’
‘I remember, Yen.’
She kissed him on the spot between his neck and his collar bone, then pressed her head there, and tickling him with her hair.
‘We were made for each other,’ she murmured. ‘Perhaps even destined for each other. But none of this can happen. It's a shame, but we shall part at dawn. It can't be otherwise. We have to separate so that we don't hurt one another. Us, destined for each other. Made for each other. It's a shame. The one who created us for himself should have thought of something more. Just sharing the same fate is not enough. We need something more. Forgive me. I had to tell you this.’
‘I know.’
‘I knew that it made no sense for us to be together.’
‘A mistake. It was. In spite of everything.’
‘Go back to Cintra, Geralt.’
‘What?’
‘Go to Cintra. Go, and this time don't give up. Don't repeat the mistake from last time…’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know everything about you. Have you forgotten? Go to Cintra, go as fast as possible. A dark time approaches. Very dark. You must get there in time…’
‘Yen…’
‘Don't say anything, please.’
It was getting warmer. And brighter.
‘Don't go yet. Let's wait until dawn.’
‘Let's wait.’
IV
‘Don't get up, sir. I need to change your dressing, because the wound is dirty and your leg is horribly swollen. By the gods, it looks awful… We need to find a healer as soon as possible…’
‘To hell with healers!’ groaned the witcher. ‘Give me my casket, Yurga. Yes, this flask. Pour it directly on the wound. Oh, bloody hell! It's nothing, go on… Ouch! Good. Dress it and cover me…
’
‘It's swollen, sir, the whole thigh… And you're stricken with fever…’
‘To hell with the fever… Yurga?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I forgot to thank you…’
‘No, sir, I should be thanking you. It's you who saved my life, and you were wounded while doing so. And I? What have I done? I only tended to an injured and unconscious man. I carried him in my cart and kept him from perishing. It's trivial matter, sir witcher.’
‘It's not so, Yurga. I have been abandoned in similar situations, like a dog…’
The merchant was silent, bowing his head.
‘Yes… it happens. We live in an ugly world,’ he muttered at last. ‘But that's no reason for all of us to behave despicably. We need goodness. That's what my father taught me and that's what I will teach my sons.’
The witcher fell silent. He watched the tree branches that hung over the road and disappeared with the movement of the cart. His thigh came alive. The pain was gone.
‘Where are we?’
‘We have just forded the Trava river. We are actually in the woods of Alkekenge. It's no longer Temeria, but Sodden. You were sleeping when we crossed the border and when customs officers searched the cart. I must tell you that they were surprised to find you there. But the oldest one knew you and they allowed us to go through without delay.’
‘He knew me?’
‘Yes, without a doubt. He called you Geralt. That's what he said: Geralt of Rivia. Is that your name?’
‘I…’
‘He promised to send someone ahead with word that a healer is needed. I gave him a little something so that he doesn't forget.’
‘I thank you, Yurga.’
‘No, sir witcher. As I already said, it's I who should thank you. And that's not all. I am still in your debt. We agreed… What's happening, lord? Are you feeling ill?’
‘Yurga… the flask with the green seal…’
‘Sir… Again, you will… You cried out so terribly in your sleep…’
‘I need it, Yurga…’
‘As you wish. Wait while I pour it into a bowl… By the gods, we need a healer, as soon as possible, because otherwise…’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher] Page 33