Something More 5

V

He awoke and discovered to his astonishment that the pain gnawing at his thigh had vanished. It also seemed that the throbbing swelling which was stretching the skin had stopped troubling him. He tried to reach it, touch it, but could not move. Before he realised that he was being held fast solely by the weight of the skins covering him, a cold, hideous dread ran down to his belly and dug into his guts like a hawk’s talons. He clenched and relaxed his fingers, rhythmically, repeating in his head, no, no, I’m not… Paralysed.

‘You have woken.’

A statement, not a question. A quiet, but distinct, soft voice. A woman. Probably young. He turned his head and groaned, trying to raise himself up.

‘Don’t move. At least not so vigorously. Are you in pain?’

‘Nnnn…’ the coating sticking his lips together broke. ‘Nnno. The wound isn’t… My back…’ ‘Bedsores.’ An unemotional, cool statement, which did not suit the soft alto voice. ‘I shall remedy it. Here, drink this. Slowly, in small sips.’ The scent and taste of juniper dominated the liquid. An old method, he thought. Juniper or mint; both insignificant additives, only there to disguise the real ingredients. In spite of that he recognised sewant mushrooms, and possibly burdock. Yes, certainly burdock, burdock neutralises toxins, it purifies blood contaminated by gangrene or infection.

‘Drink. Drink it all up. Not so fast or you’ll choke.’

The medallion around his neck began to vibrate very gently. So there was also magic in the draught. He widened his pupils with difficulty. Now that she had raised his head he could examine her more precisely. She was dainty. She was wearing men’s clothing. Her face was small and pale in the darkness.

‘Where are we?’

‘In a tar makers’ clearing.’

Indeed, resin could be smelled in the air. He heard voices coming from the campfire. Someone had just thrown on some brushwood, and flames shot upwards with a crackle. He looked again, making the most of the light. Her hair was tied back with a snakeskin band. Her hair… A suffocating pain in his throat and sternum. Hands tightly clenched into fists.

Her hair was red, flame-red, and when lit by the glow of the bonfire seemed as red as vermilion.

‘Are you in pain?’ she asked, interpreting the emotion, but wrongly. ‘Now… Just a moment…’ He sensed a sudden impact of warmth emanating from her hands, spreading over his back, flowing downwards to his buttocks.

‘We will turn you over,’ she said. ‘Don’t try by yourself. You are very debilitated. Hey, can someone help me?’ Steps from the bonfire, shadows, shapes. Somebody leaned over. It was Yurga.

‘How are you feeling, sir? Any better?’

‘Help me turn him over on his belly,’ said the woman. ‘Gently, slowly. That’s right… Good. Thank you.’ He did not have to look at her anymore. Lying on his belly, he did not have to risk looking her in the eyes. He calmed down and overcame the shaking of his hands. She could sense it. He heard the clasps of her bag clinking, flacons and small porcelain jars knocking against each other. He heard her breath, felt the warmth of her thigh. She was kneeling just beside him.

‘Was my wound,’ he asked, unable to endure the silence, ‘troublesome?’ ‘It was, a little,’ and there was coldness in her voice. ‘It can happen with bites. The nastiest kinds of wound. But you must be familiar with it, Witcher.’ She knows. She’s digging around in my thoughts. Is she reading them? Probably not. And I know why. She’s afraid.

‘Yes, you must be familiar with it,’ she repeated, clinking the glass vessels again. ‘I saw a few scars on you… But I coped with them. I am, as you see, a sorceress. And a healer at the same time. It’s my specialisation.’ That adds up, he thought. He did not say a word.

‘To return to the wound,’ she continued calmly, ‘you ought to know that you were saved by your pulse; fourfold slower than a normal man’s. Otherwise you wouldn’t have survived, I can say with complete honesty. I saw what had been tied around your leg. It was meant to be a dressing, but it was a poor attempt.’ He was silent.

‘Later,’ she continued, pulling his shirt up as far as his neck, ‘infection set in, which is usual for bite wounds. It has been arrested. Of course, you took the witcher’s elixir? That helped a lot. Though I don’t understand why you took hallucinogens at the same time. I was listening to your ravings, Geralt of Rivia.’ She is reading my mind, he thought. Or perhaps Yurga told her my name? Perhaps I was talking in my sleep under the influence of the Black Gull? Damned if I know… But knowing my name gives her nothing. Nothing. She doesn’t know who I am. She has no idea who I am.

He felt her gently massage a cold, soothing ointment with the sharp smell of camphor into his back. Her hands were small and very soft.

‘Forgive me for doing it the old way,’ she said. ‘I could have removed the bedsores using magic, but I strained myself a little treating the wound on your leg and feel none too good. I’ve bandaged the wound on your leg, as much as I am able, so now you’re in no danger. But don’t get up for the next few days. Even magically sutured blood vessels tend to burst, and you’d have hideous effusions. A scar will remain, of course. One more for your collection.’ ‘Thanks…’ He pressed his cheek against the skins in order to distort his voice, disguise its unnatural sound. ‘May I ask… Whom should I thank?’ She won’t say, he thought. Or she’ll lie.

‘My name is Visenna.’

I know, he thought.

‘I’m glad,’ he said slowly, with his cheek still against the skins. ‘I’m glad our paths have crossed, Visenna.’ ‘Why, it’s chance,’ she said coolly, pulling his shirt down over his back and covering him with the sheepskins. ‘I received word from the customs officers that I was needed. If I’m needed, I come. It’s a curious habit I have. Listen, I’ll leave the ointment with the merchant; ask him to rub it on every morning and evening. He claims you saved his life, he can repay you like that.’ ‘And me? How can I repay you, Visenna?’

‘Let’s not talk about that. I don’t take payment from witchers. Call it solidarity, if you will. Professional solidarity. And affection. As part of that affection some friendly advice or, if you wish, a healer’s instructions: stop taking hallucinogens, Geralt. They have no healing power. None at all.’ ‘Thank you, Visenna. For your help and advice. Thank you… for everything.’ He dug his hand out from under the skins and found her knee. She shuddered, put her hand into his and squeezed it lightly. He cautiously released her fingers, and slid his down over her forearm.

Of course. The soft skin of a young woman. She shuddered even more strongly, but did not withdraw her arm. He brought his fingers back to her hand and joined his with hers.

The medallion on his neck vibrated and twitched.

‘Thank you, Visenna,’ he repeated, trying to control his voice. ‘I’m glad our paths crossed.’ ‘Chance…’ she said, but this time there was no coolness in her voice.

‘Or perhaps destiny?’ he asked, astonished, for the excitement and nervousness had suddenly evaporated from him completely. ‘Do you believe in destiny, Visenna?’ ‘Yes,’ she replied after a while. ‘I do.’

‘That people linked by destiny will always find each other?’ he continued.

‘Yes, I believe that too… What are you doing? Don’t turn over…’ ‘I want to look into your face… Visenna. I want to look into your eyes. And you… You must look into mine.’ She made a movement as though about to spring up from her knees. But she remained beside him. He turned over slowly, lips twisting with pain. There was more light, someone had put some more wood on the fire.

She was not moving now. She simply moved her head to the side, offering her profile, but this time he clearly saw her mouth quivering. She tightened her fingers on his hand, powerfully.

He looked.

There was no similarity at all. She had an utterly different profile. A small nose. A narrow chin. She was silent. Then she suddenly leaned over him and looked him straight in the eye. From close up. Without a word.

‘How do you like my enhanced eyes?’ he asked calmly. ‘Unusual, aren’t they? Do you know, Visenna, what is done to witchers’ eyes to improve them? Do you know it doesn’t always work?’ ‘Stop it,’ she said softly. ‘Stop it, Geralt.’

‘Geralt…’ he suddenly felt something tearing in him. ‘Vesemir gave me that name. Geralt of Rivia! I even learned to imitate a Rivian accent. Probably from an inner need to possess a homeland. Even if it was an invented one. Vesemir… gave me my name. Vesemir also revealed yours. Not very willingly.’ ‘Be quiet, Geralt. Be quiet.’

‘You tell me today you believe in destiny. And back then… Did you believe back then? Oh, yes, you must have. You must have believed that destiny would bring us together. The fact you did nothing to quicken this encounter ought to be attributed to that.’ She was silent.

‘I always wanted… I have pondered over what I would say to you, when we finally met. I’ve thought about the question I would ask you. I thought it would give me some sort of perverse pleasure…’ What sparkled on her cheek was a tear. Undoubtedly. He felt his throat constrict until it hurt. He felt fatigue. Drowsiness. Weakness.

‘In the light of day…’ he groaned. ‘Tomorrow, in the sunshine, I’ll look into your eyes, Visenna… And I’ll ask you my question. Or perhaps I won’t ask you, because it’s too late. Destiny? Oh, yes, Yen was right. It’s not sufficient to be destined for each other. Something more is needed… But tomorrow I’ll look into your eyes… In the light of the sun…’ ‘No,’ she said gently, quietly, velvety, in a voice which gnawed at, racked the layers of memory, memory which no longer existed. Which should never have existed, but had.

‘Yes!’ he protested. ‘Yes. I want to—’

‘No. Now you will fall asleep. And when you awake, you’ll stop wanting. Why should we look at each other in the sunlight? What will it change? Nothing can now be reversed, nothing changed. What’s the purpose of asking me questions, Geralt? Does knowing that I won’t be able to answer give you some kind of perverse pleasure? What will mutual hurt give us? No, we won’t look at each other in the daylight. Go to sleep, Geralt. And just between us, Vesemir did not give you that name. Although it doesn’t change or reverse anything either, I’d like you to know that. Farewell and look after yourself. And don’t try to look for me…’ ‘Visenna—’

‘No, Geralt. Now you’ll fall asleep. And I… I was a dream. Farewell.’ ‘No! Visenna!’

‘Sleep.’ There was a soft order in her velvety voice, breaking his will, tearing it like cloth. Warmth, suddenly emanating from her hands.

‘Sleep.’

He slept.