A Little Sacrifice 9

IX

They left Bremervoord early on a cool morning, among fog which dulled the intensity of the red sun rolling out from below the horizon. They rode as a threesome, as they had agreed. They did not talk about it, they were making no plans–they simply wanted to be together. For some time.

They left the rocky headland, bade farewell to the precipitous, jagged cliffs above the beaches, the fantastic limestone formations carved out by the sea and gales. But as they rode into the green, flower-strewn valley of Dol Adalatte, they still had the scent of the sea in their nostrils, and in their ears the roar of breakers and the piercing, urgent cries of seagulls.

Dandelion talked ceaselessly, hopping from one subject to another and virtually not finishing any. He talked about the Land of Barsa, where a stupid custom required girls to guard their chastity until marriage; about the iron birds of the island of Inis Porhoet; about living water and dead water; about the taste and curious properties of the sapphire wine called ‘cill’; and about the royal quadruplets of Ebbing–dreadful, exasperating brats called Putzi, Gritzi, Mitzi and Juan Pablo Vassermiller. He talked about new trends in poetry promoted by his rivals, which were, in Dandelion’s opinion, phantoms simulating the movements of the living.

Geralt remained silent. Essi also said nothing or replied in monosyllables. The Witcher felt her gaze on him. He avoided her eyes.

They crossed the River Adalatte on the ferry, having to pull the ropes themselves, since the ferryman happened to be in a pathetic drunken state of deathly white, rigid-trembling, gazing-into-the-abyss pallor, unable to let go of the pillar in his porch, which he was clinging to with both hands, and answering every question they asked him with a single word, which sounded like ‘voorg’.

The Witcher had taken a liking to the country on the far side of the Adalatte; the riverside villages were mainly surrounded by palisades, which portended a certain likelihood of finding work.

Little Eye walked over to him while they were watering the horses in the early afternoon, taking advantage of the fact that Dandelion had wandered off. The Witcher was not quick enough. She surprised him.

‘Geralt,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t… I can’t bear this. I don’t have the strength.’

He tried to avoid the necessity of looking her in the eye, but she would not let him. She stood in front of him, toying with the sky blue pearl set in a small, silver flower hanging around her neck. She stood like that and he wished again that it was the fish-eyed creature with its sword hidden beneath the water in front of him.

‘Geralt… We have to do something about this, don’t we?’

She waited for his answer. For some words. For a little sacrifice. But the Witcher had nothing he could sacrifice and he knew it. He did not want to lie. And he truly did not have it in him, because he could not find the courage to cause her pain.

The situation was saved by the sudden appearance of Dandelion, dependable Dandelion. Dandelion with his dependable tact.

‘Of course!’ he yelled and heaved into the water the stick he had been using to part the rushes and the huge, riverside nettles. ‘And of course you have to do something about it, it’s high time! I have no wish to watch what is going on between you any longer! What do you expect from him, Poppet? The impossible? And you, Geralt, what are you hoping for? That Little Eye will read your thoughts like… like the other one? And she will settle for that, and you will conveniently stay quiet, not having to explain, declare or deny anything? And not have to reveal yourself? How much time, how many facts do you both need, to understand? And when you’ll want to recall it in a few years, in your memories? I mean we have to part tomorrow, dammit!

‘I’ve had enough, by the Gods, I’m up to here with you, up to here! Very well, listen: I’m going to break myself off a hazel rod and go fishing, and you will have some time to yourselves, you’ll be able to tell each other everything. Tell each other everything, try to understand each other. It is not as difficult as you think. And after that, by the Gods, do it. Do it with him, Poppet. Do it with her, Geralt, and be good to her. And then, you’ll either bloody get over it, or…’ Dandelion turned around rapidly and walked away, breaking reeds and cursing. He made a rod from a hazel branch and horsehair and fished until dusk fell.

After he had walked off, Geralt and Essi stood for a long time, leaning against a misshapen willow tree bent over the water. They stood, holding hands. Then the Witcher spoke, spoke softly for a long time, and Little Eye’s little eye was full of tears.

And then, by the Gods, they did it, she and he.

And everything was all right.