‘You stink even when bound,’ he said quietly in unaccented common tongue. ‘Like a basilisk. I’ll draw my conclusions from that.’
‘Toruviel started it,’ bleated the devil. ‘She kicked him when he was tied up, as if she’d lost her mind—’
With a gesture the elf ordered him to be quiet. At his command the other Seidhe dragged the witcher and Dandilion under the pine tree and fastened them to the trunk with belts. Then they all knelt by the prostrate Toruviel, sheltering her. After a moment Geralt heard her yell and fight in their arms.
‘I didn’t want this,’ said the sylvan, still standing next to them. ‘I didn’t, human. I didn’t know they’d arrive just when we—When they stunned you and tied your companion up, I asked them to leave you there, in the hops. But—’
‘They couldn’t leave any witnesses,’ muttered the witcher.
‘Surely they won’t kill us, will they?’ groaned Dandilion. ‘Surely they won’t…’
Torque said nothing, wiggling his soft nose.
‘Bloody hell.’ The poet groaned. ‘They’re going to kill us? What’s all this about, Geralt? What did we witness?’
‘Our sylvan friend is on a special mission in the Valley of Flowers. Am I right, Torque? At the elves’ request he’s stealing seeds, seedlings, knowledge about farming… What else, devil?’
‘Whatever I can,’ bleated Torque. ‘Everything they need. And show me something they don’t need. They’re starving in the mountains, especially in winter. And they know nothing about farming. And before they’ve learned to domesticate game or poultry, and to cultivate what they can in their plots of land… They haven’t got the time, human.’
‘I don’t care a shit about their time. What have I done to them?’ groaned Dandilion. ‘What wrong have I done them?’
‘Think carefully,’ said the white-haired elf, approaching without a sound, ‘and maybe you can answer the question yourself.’
‘He’s simply taking revenge for all the wrong that man has done the elves.’ The witcher smiled wryly. ‘It’s all the same to him who he takes his revenge on. Don’t be deluded by his noble bearing and elaborate speech, Dandilion. He’s no different than the black-eyes who knocked us down. He has to unload his powerless hatred on somebody.’
The elf picked up Dandilion’s shattered lute. For a moment, he looked at the ruined instrument in silence, and finally threw it into the bushes.
‘If I wanted to give vent to hatred or a desire for revenge,’ he said, playing with a pair of soft white leather gloves, ‘I’d storm the valley at night, burn down the village and kill the villagers. Childishly simple. They don’t even put out a guard. They don’t see or hear us when they come to the forest. Can there be anything simpler, anything easier, than a swift, silent arrow from behind a tree? But we’re not hunting you. It is you, man with strange eyes, who is hunting our friend, the sylvan Torque.’
‘Eeeeee, that’s exaggerating,’ bleated the devil. ‘What hunt? We were having a bit of fun—’
‘It is you humans who hate anything that differs from you, be it only by the shape of its ears,’ the elf went on calmly, paying no attention to the sylvan. ‘That’s why you took our land from us, drove us from our homes, forced us into the savage mountains. You took our Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers. I am Filavandrel aen Fidhail of Silver Towers, of the Feleaorn family from White Ships. Now, exiled and hounded to the edge of the world, I am Filavandrel of the Edge of the World.’
‘The world is huge,’ muttered the witcher. ‘We can find room. There’s enough space.’
‘The world is huge,’ repeated the elf. ‘That’s true, human. But you have changed this world. At first, you used force to change it. You treated it as you treat anything that falls into your hands. Now it looks as if the world has started to fit in with you. It’s given way to you. It’s given in.’
Geralt didn’t reply.
‘Torque spoke the truth,’ continued Filavandrel. ‘Yes, we are starving. Yes, we are threatened with annihilation. The sun shines differently, the air is different, water is not as it used to be. The things we used to eat, made use of, are dying, diminishing, deteriorating. We never cultivated the land. Unlike you humans we never tore at it with hoes and ploughs. To you, the earth pays a bloody tribute. It bestowed gifts on us. You tear the earth’s treasures from it by force. For us, the earth gave birth and blossomed because it loved us. Well, no love lasts forever. But we still want to survive.’
‘Instead of stealing grain, you can buy it. As much as you need. You still have a great many things that humans consider valuable. You can trade.’
Filavandrel smiled contemptuously. ‘With you? Never.’
Geralt frowned, breaking up the dried blood on his cheek. ‘The devil with you then, and your arrogance and contempt. By refusing to cohabit you’re condemning yourselves to annihilation. To cohabit, to come to an understanding, that’s your only chance.’
Filavandrel leaned forwards, his eyes blazing.
‘Cohabit on your terms?’ he asked in a changed, yet still calm, voice. ‘Acknowledging your sovereignty? Losing our identity? Cohabit as what? Slaves? Pariahs? Cohabit with you from beyond the walls you’ve built to fence yourselves away in towns? Cohabit with your women and hang for it? Or look on at what half-blood children must live with? Why are you avoiding my eyes, strange human? How do you find cohabiting with neighbours from whom, after all, you do differ somewhat?’
‘I manage.’ The witcher looked him straight in the eyes. ‘I manage because I have to. Because I’ve no other way out. Because I’ve overcome the vanity and pride of being different. I’ve understood that they are a pitiful defence against being different. Because I’ve understood that the sun shines differently when something changes, but I’m not the axis of those changes. The sun shines differently, but it will continue to shine, and jumping at it with a hoe isn’t going to do anything. We’ve got to accept facts, elf. That’s what we’ve got to learn.’
‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ With his wrist Filavandrel wiped away the sweat above his white brows. ‘Is that what you want to impose on others? The conviction that your time has come, your human era and age, and that what you’re doing to other races is as natural as the rising and the setting of the sun? That everybody has to come to terms with it, to accept it? And you accuse me of vanity? And what are the views you’re proclaiming? Why don’t you humans finally realise that your domination of the world is as natural and repellant as lice multiplying in a sheepskin coat? You could propose we cohabit with lice and get the same reaction – and I’d listen to the lice as attentively if they, in return for our acknowledgment of their supremacy, were to agree to allow common use of the coat.’
‘So don’t waste time discussing it with such an unpleasant insect, elf,’ said the witcher, barely able to control his voice. ‘I’m surprised you want to arouse a feeling of guilt and repentance in such a louse as me. You’re pitiful, Filavandrel. You’re embittered, hungry for revenge and conscious of your own powerlessness. Go on, thrust the sword into me. Revenge yourself on the whole human race. You’ll see what relief that’ll bring you. First kick me in the balls or the teeth, like Toruviel.’
Filavandrel turned his head.
‘Toruviel is sick,’ he said.
‘I know that disease and its symptoms.’ Geralt spat over his shoulder. ‘The treatment I gave her ought to help.’
‘This conversation is senseless,’ Filavandrel stepped away. ‘I’m sorry we’ve got to kill you. Revenge has nothing to do with it, it’s purely practical. Torque has to carry on with his task and no one can suspect who he’s doing it for. We can’t afford to go to war with you, and we won’t be taken in by trade and exchange. We’re not so naïve that we don’t know your merchants are just outposts of your way of life. We know what follows them. And what sort of cohabitation they bring.’
‘Elf,’ Dandilion, who had remained silent until now, said quietly, ‘I’ve got friends. People who’ll p
ay ransom for us. In the form of provisions, if you like, or any form. Think about it. After all, those stolen seeds aren’t going to save you—’
‘Nothing will save them anymore,’ Geralt interrupted him. ‘Don’t grovel, Dandilion, don’t beg him. It’s pointless and pitiful.’
‘For someone who has lived such a short time,’ Filavandrel forced a smile, ‘you show an astounding disdain for death, human.’
‘Your mother gives birth to you only once and only once do you die,’ the witcher said calmly. ‘An appropriate philosophy for a louse, don’t you agree? And your longevity? I pity you, Filavandrel.’
The elf raised his eyebrows.
‘Why?’
‘You’re pathetic, with your little stolen sacks of seeds on pack horses, with your handful of grain, that tiny crumb thanks to which you plan to survive. And with that mission of yours which is supposed to turn your thoughts from imminent annihilation. Because you know this is the end. Nothing will sprout or yield crops on the plateaux, nothing will save you now. But you live long, and you will live very long in arrogant isolation, fewer and fewer of you, growing weaker and weaker, more and more bitter. And you know what’ll happen then, Filavandrel. You know that desperate young men with the eyes of hundred-year-old men and withered, barren and sick girls like Toruviel will lead those who can still hold a sword and bow in their hands, down into the valleys. You’ll come down into the blossoming valleys to meet death, wanting to die honourably, in battle, and not in sick beds of misery, where anaemia, tuberculosis and scurvy will send you. Then, long-living Aen Seidhe, you’ll remember me. You’ll remember that I pitied you. And you’ll understand that I was right.’
‘Time will tell who was right,’ said the elf quietly. ‘And herein lies the advantage of longevity. I’ve got a chance of finding out, if only because of that stolen handful of grain. You won’t have a chance like that. You’ll die shortly.’
‘Spare him, at least,’ Geralt indicated Dandilion with his head. ‘No, not out of lofty mercy. Out of common sense. Nobody’s going to ask after me, but they are going to take revenge for him.’
‘You judge my common sense poorly,’ the elf said after some hesitation. ‘If he survives thanks to you he’ll undoubtedly feel obliged to avenge you.’
‘You can be sure of that!’ Dandilion burst out, pale as death. ‘You can be sure, you son-of-a-bitch. Kill me too, because I promise otherwise I’ll set the world against you. You’ll see what lice from a fur coat can do! We’ll finish you off even if we have to level those mountains of yours to the ground! You can be sure of that!’
‘How stupid you are, Dandilion,’ sighed the witcher.
‘Your mother gives birth to you only once and only once do you die,’ said the poet haughtily, the effect somewhat spoilt by his teeth rattling like castanets.
‘That settles it.’ Filavandrel took his gloves from his belt and pulled them on. ‘It’s time to end this.’
At his command the elves positioned themselves opposite Geralt and Dandilion with bows. They did it quickly; they’d obviously been waiting for this a long time. One of them, the witcher noticed, was still chewing a turnip. Toruviel, her mouth and nose bandaged with cloth and birch bark, stood next to the archers. Without a bow.
‘Shall I bind your eyes?’ asked Filavandrel.
‘Go away.’ The witcher turned his head. ‘Go—’
‘A d’yeable aep arse,’ Dandilion finished for him, his teeth chattering.
‘Oh, no!’ the sylvan suddenly bleated, running up and sheltering the condemned men with his body. ‘Have you lost your mind? Filavandrel! This is not what we agreed! Not this! You were supposed to take them up to the mountains, hold them somewhere in some cave, until we’d finished—’
‘Torque,’ said the elf, ‘I can’t. I can’t risk it. Did you see what he did to Toruviel while tied up? I can’t risk it.’
‘I don’t care what you can or can’t! What do you imagine? You think I’ll let you murder them? Here, on my land? Right next to my hamlet? You accursed idiots! Get out of here with your bows or I’ll ram you down. Uk! Uk!’
‘Torque.’ Filavandrel rested his hands on his belt. ‘This is necessary.’
‘Duvvelsheyss, not necessary!’
‘Move aside, Torque.’
The sylvan shook his ears, bleated even louder, stared and bent his elbow in an abusive gesture popular among dwarves.
‘You’re not going to murder anybody here! Get on your horses and out into the mountains, beyond the passes! Otherwise you’ll have to kill me too!’
‘Be reasonable,’ said the white-haired elf slowly. ‘If we let them live, people are going to learn what you’re doing. They’ll catch you and torture you. You know what they’re like, after all.’
‘I do,’ bleated the sylvan still sheltering Geralt and Dandilion. ‘It turns out I know them better than I know you! And, verily, I don’t know who to side with. I regret allying myself with you, Filavandrel!’
‘You wanted to,’ said the elf coldly, giving a signal to the archers. ‘You wanted to, Torque. L’sparellean! Evellienn!’
The elves drew arrows from their quivers. ‘Go away, Torque,’ said Geralt, gritting his teeth. ‘It’s senseless. Get aside.’ The sylvan, without budging from the spot, showed him the dwarves’ gesture.
‘I can hear… music…’ Dandilion suddenly sobbed.
‘It happens,’ said the witcher, looking at the arrowheads. ‘Don’t worry. There’s no shame in fear.’
Filavandrel’s face changed, screwed up in a strange grimace. The white-haired Seidhe suddenly turned round and gave a shout to the archers. They lowered their weapons.
Lille entered the glade.
She was no longer a skinny peasant girl in a sackcloth dress. Through the grasses covering the glade walked – no, not walked – floated a queen, radiant, golden-haired, fiery-eyed, ravishing. The Queen of the Fields, decorated with garlands of flowers, ears of corn, bunches of herbs. At her left-hand side a young stag pattered on stiff legs, at her right rustled an enormous hedgehog.
‘Dana Meadbh,’ said Filavandrel with veneration. And then bowed and knelt.
The remaining elves also knelt; slowly, reluctantly, they fell to their knees one after the other and bowed their heads low in veneration. Toruviel was the last to kneel.
‘Hael, Dana Meadbh,’ repeated Filavandrel.
Lille didn’t answer. She stopped several paces short of the elf and swept her blue eyes over Dandilion and Geralt. Torque, while bowing, started cutting through the knots. None of the Seidhe moved.
Lille stood in front of Filavandrel. She didn’t say anything, didn’t make the slightest sound, but the witcher saw the changes on the elf’s face, sensed the aura surrounding them and was in no doubt they were communicating. The devil suddenly pulled at his sleeve.
‘Your friend,’ he bleated quietly, ‘has decided to faint. Right on time. What shall we do?’
‘Slap him across the face a couple of times.’
‘With pleasure.’
Filavandrel got up from his knees. At his command the elves fell to saddling the horses as quick as lightening.
‘Come with us, Dana Meadbh,’ said the white-haired elf. ‘We need you. Don’t abandon us, Eternal One. Don’t deprive us of your love. We’ll die without it.’
Lille slowly shook her head and indicated east, the direction of the mountains. The elf bowed, crumpling the ornate reins of his white-maned mount in his hands.
Dandilion walked up, pale and dumbfounded, supported by the sylvan. Lille looked at him and smiled. She looked into the witcher’s eyes. She looked long. She didn’t say a word. Words weren’t necessary.
Most of the elves were already in their saddles when Filavandrel and Toruviel approached. Geralt looked into the elf’s black eyes, visible above the bandages.
‘Toruviel…’ he said. And didn’t finish.
The elf nodded. From her saddle-bow, she took a lute, a marvellous instrument of light, tastefully
inlaid wood with a slender, engraved neck. Without a word, she handed the lute to Dandilion. The poet accepted the instrument and smiled. Also without a word, but his eyes said a great deal.
‘Farewell, strange human,’ Filavandrel said quietly to Geralt. ‘You’re right. Words aren’t necessary. They won’t change anything.’
Geralt remained silent.
‘After some consideration,’ added the Seidhe, ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that you were right. When you pitied us. So goodbye. Goodbye until we meet again, on the day when we descend into the valleys to die honourably. We’ll look out for you then, Toruviel and I. Don’t let us down.’
For a long time, they looked at each other in silence. And then the witcher answered briefly and simply:
‘I’ll try.’
VII
‘By the gods, Geralt.’ Dandilion stopped playing, hugged the lute and touched it with his cheek. ‘This wood sings on its own! These strings are alive! What wonderful tonality! Bloody hell, a couple of kicks and a bit of fear is a pretty low price to pay for such a superb lute. I’d have let myself be kicked from dawn to dusk if I’d known what I was going to get. Geralt? Are you listening to me at all?’
‘It’s difficult not to hear you two.’ Geralt raised his head from the book and glanced at the sylvan, who was still stubbornly squeaking on a peculiar set of pipes made from reeds of various lengths. ‘I hear you, the whole neighbourhood hears you.’
‘Duvvelsheyss, not neighbourhood,’ Torque put his pipes aside. ‘A desert, that’s what it is. A wilderness. A shit-hole. Eh, I miss my hemp!’
‘He misses his hemp,’ laughed Dandilion, carefully turning the delicately engraved lute pegs. ‘You should have sat in the thicket quiet as a dormouse instead of scaring girls, destroying dykes and sullying the well. I think you’re going to be more careful now and give up your tricks, eh, Torque?’
The Malady and Other Stories: An Andrzej Sapkowski Sampler Page 12