Something More 9

IX ‘Yurga!’

‘Darling!’

She ran from the gate–her hair escaping her headscarf, blowing around–stumbling and crying out. Yurga threw the halter to his servant, jumped down from the cart, ran to meet his wife, seized her around the waist, lifted her up and spun her, whirled her around.

‘I’m home, my darling! I’ve returned!’

‘Yurga!’

‘I’m back! Hey, throw open the gates! The man of the house has returned!’

She was wet, smelling of soap suds. She had clearly been doing the laundry. He stood her on the ground, but she still did not release him, and remained clinging, trembling, warm.

‘Lead me inside.’

‘By the Gods, you’ve returned… I couldn’t sleep at night… Yurga… I couldn’t sleep at night—’

‘I’ve returned. Oh, I’ve returned! And I’ve returned with riches! Do you see the cart? Hey, hurry, drive it in! Do you see the cart? I’m carrying enough goods to—’

‘Yurga, what are goods to me, or a cart… You’ve returned… Healthy… In one piece—’

‘I’ve returned wealthy, I tell you. You’ll see directly—’

‘Yurga? But who’s that? That man in black? By the Gods, and with a sword—’

The merchant looked around. The Witcher had dismounted and was standing with his back to them, pretending to be adjusting the girth and saddlebags. He did not look at them, did not approach.

‘I’ll tell you later. Oh, but if it weren’t for him… But where are the lads? Hale?’

‘Yes, Yurga, they’re hale. They went to the fields to shoot at crows, but the neighbours will tell them you’re back. They’ll soon rush home, the three of them—’

‘Three? What do you mean, Goldencheeks? Were you—’

‘No… But I must tell you something… You won’t be cross?’

‘Me? With you?’

‘I’ve taken a lassie in, Yurga. I took her from the druids, you know, the ones who rescued children after the war? They gathered homeless and stray children in the forests… Barely alive… Yurga? Are you cross?’

Yurga held a hand to his forehead and looked back. The Witcher was walking slowly behind the cart, leading his horse. He was not looking at them, his head turned away.

‘Yurga?’

‘O, Gods,’ the merchant groaned. ‘O, Gods! Something I wasn’t expecting! At home!’

‘Don’t take on, Yurga… You’ll see, you’ll like her. She’s a clever lassie, pleasing, hardworking… A mite odd. She won’t say where she’s from, she weeps at once if you ask. So I don’t. Yurga, you know I always wished for a daughter… What ails you?’

‘Nothing,’ he said softly. ‘Nothing. Destiny. The whole way he was raving in his sleep, delirious ravings, nothing but destiny and destiny… By the Gods… It’s not for the likes of us to understand. We can’t mark what people like him think. What they dream about. It’s not for us to understand…’

‘Dad!’

‘Nadbor! Sulik! How you’ve grown, a pair of young bulls! Well, come here, to me! Look alive…’

He broke off, seeing a small, very slim, mousy-haired creature walking slowly behind the boys. The little girl looked at him and he saw the huge eyes as green as spring grass, shining like two little stars. He saw the girl suddenly start, run… He heard her shrill, piercing cry.

‘Geralt!’

The Witcher turned away from his horse with a swift, agile movement and ran to meet her. Yurga stared open-mouthed. He had never thought a man could move so quickly.

They came together in the centre of the farmyard. The mousy-haired girl in a grey dress. And the white-haired Witcher with a sword on his back, all dressed in black leather, gleaming with silver. The Witcher bounding softly, the girl trotting, the Witcher on his knees, the girl’s thin hands around his neck, the mousy hair on his shoulders. Goldencheeks shrieked softly. Yurga hugged his rosy-cheeked wife when she cried out softly, pulling her towards him without a word, and gathered up and hugged both boys.

‘Geralt!’ the little girl repeated, clinging to the Witcher’s chest. ‘You found me! I knew you would! I always knew! I knew you’d find me!’

‘Ciri,’ said the Witcher.

Yurga could not see his face hidden among the mousy hair. He saw hands in black gloves squeezing the girl’s back and shoulders.

‘You found me! Oh, Geralt! I was waiting all the time! For so very long… We’ll be together now, won’t we? Now we’ll be together, won’t we? Say it, Geralt! Forever! Say it!’

‘Forever, Ciri.’

‘It’s like they said! Geralt! It’s like they said! Am I your destiny? Say it! Am I your destiny?’

Yurga saw the Witcher’s eyes. And was very astonished. He heard his wife’s soft weeping, felt the trembling of her shoulders. He looked at the Witcher and waited, tensed, for his answer. He knew he would not understand it, but he waited for it. And heard it.

‘You’re more than that, Ciri. Much more.’