The Tower of the Swallow Page 2

  ‘Let it be recorded also,’ he continued, ‘that she has never given birth. Also on the body there are no old signs left after accidents or injuries, no scars or traces of those who are put to hard work or a risky life. I emphasize the I speak of old signs. There are no shortage of recent signs throughout the body. The girl has been beaten. A real beating and not at the hands of her father. Probably kicked her too.’

  ‘I also found on the body a rather strange sign... Humm, this is written for the sake of science... In the groin, near the pubic mound, she had a tattoo of a red rose.’

  Vysogota contemplated the sharp tip of the pen, after which he dipped it into the ink. This time however, he did not forget the purpose for which he had done this – he began to cover the paper with regular lines of sloped writing. He continued writing until the pen dried up.

  ‘Half conscious,’ he continued, ‘she shouted and talked. Her accent and manner of expression, if we discount the constant expressions interspersed with the obscene slang of criminals, cause considerable confusion, and was difficult to locate, but I venture to say that she came from the north instead of the south. Some of the words...’

  Again the pen squeaked. Briefly, far less than was needed to write down everything he had said a moment ago. After which he continued his monologue, exactly where he was interrupted.

  ‘Some words, name and nicknames that she spoke in her fever, would be better not to write. It is worth being investigated. All the indications are that a very, very unusual person has made their way to the hut of old Vysogota...’

  He was silent for a while, listening.

  ‘I hope,’ he muttered, ‘that old Vysogota’s hut does not become the end of her road.’

  Vysogota bent over the parchment and even leaned on the pen, but he wrote nothing, not a single rune. He threw the pen on the table. He gasped for a moment, muttering angrily and snorted. He looked at the bed and listened to the sound which came from there.

  ‘I have to admit,’ he said in a tired voice, ‘that my fears are in place. All my efforts may be inadequate and ineffective. My patient is doing very poorly and has a high fever. The wound is infected. We have experience three of the four cardinal symptoms of acute inflammation. Redness, heat and a tumor are easy to notice at this time to the eye and touch. When the post-operative shock has passed, there will be no doubt be the four symptom – Pain. Let it be written that it has been almost half a century since I devoted myself to the practice of medicine, I see how the years weigh on my memory and the agility of my fingers. I cannot do much, there is even less I can do. I do not have enough remedies or medications. All my hope lies in the defense mechanisms of a young body...’

  ‘Twelve hours after the procedure. As expected, there has appeared the fourth main symptom of inflammation – pain. The patient screams with pain, fever and her tremors have increased. I have nothing, no drugs I can give her. I have a small amount of elixir of Stramonium, but she is too weak to survive its action. I also have some monkshood, but it would kill her instantly.’

  ‘Fifteen hours after the procedure. It is dawn. The patient is unconscious. The fever is still rising and the tremors are increasing. Beyond this, there appears to be a sharp contraction of the muscles of the face. If it is tetanus, the girl is lost. But let us hope it is only a facial nerve... Or the trigeminal never... Or both. She will be disfigured... But alive...’

  Vysogota looked at the parchment, he had not written a rune or a word.

  ‘Provided,’ he said dully, ‘she survives the infection.’

  ‘Twenty hours after the procedure. The fever is still rising. The patient’s status is critical. Redness, heat, tumor and pain, it seems to me, have not yet reached their peak. But she has no chance of even living to reach those boundaries. So I write... I, Vysogota of Corvo do not believe in the existence of the gods. But if by chance there are, please take into your protection, this girl. And forgive me for what I did... If what I did turned out to be in error.’

  Vysogota dropped his pen, rubbed his eyes, which were swollen and itchy and rested his hands on his temples.

  ‘I have given her a mixture of monkshood and Stramonium,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The next few hours will decide everything.’

  He was not asleep, only dozing when he was awaked by a cry. More a cry of anger than pain. Outside, the dawn’s dim light shone through cracks in the shutters. The sand in the hourglass had stopped falling long ago. Vysogota, as usual, forgot to turn it around. The wick of the candle was extinguished, only the ruby glow of the fireplace poorly lit the corner of the room. The old man stood up and pushed aside the curtain separating the bed from the rest of the room to give some reassurance to the patient.

  The patient was getting off the floor on which she had fallen on a moment before and was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to scratch her face under the bandage. Vysogota coughed.

  ‘I’ll ask you not to get up. You are weak. If you want something, call me. I’m always near.’

  ‘Well, I do not want you to be near,’ she said softly, but very clear. ‘I want to piss.’

  When he returned to collect the chamber pot, she lay on the bed, on her back, massaging the bandage covering her cheek and was pressed to her forehead and neck with tape. When he returned after a while, he found her in the same position.

  ‘Four days?’ she asked, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Five. It has been almost a day since we last spoke. You’ve slept the entire day. That is good. You need to sleep.’

  ‘I feel better.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. Let’s remove the bandage. Grab my hand, I will help you sit.’

  The wound had healed well; it was dry and was no longer painful when he peeled the bandage off. She gently touched her cheek and winced. Vysogota knew that it was not from pain. On each occasion anew she ensured the extent of her injury, aware of the seriousness of the wound. To ensure – with horror – that what she felt touch previously, was not a fever induced nightmare.

  ‘Do you have a mirror?’

  ‘No,’ he lied.

  She looked at him, perhaps for the first time fully conscious.

  ‘Does that mean it is terrible?’ she asked, passing her fingers gently over the stitches.

  ‘It is... It is a long, deep wound,’ he stammered, annoyed with himself for explaining and justifying himself to a brat. ‘Your face is still very swollen. In a few days, I will remove the stitches, until then I will put willow bark extract on it. You no longer need to have your whole head bound up. The wound heals very well.’

  She did not answer. She moved her mouth and jaw, twisting her face, trying to see what her injuries would allow her to do and what not to do.

  ‘I’ve made chicken soup. Eat.’

  ‘I’ll eat. But this time by myself. I do not want to have to be fed like a cripple.’

  She ate for a long time. The wooden spoon was lifted to her mouth gently and with such effort, as if it weighted at least two pounds. But she did it without Vysogota’s help, who watched with interest. Vysogota was curious – and the curiosity was burning. He knew that with the girl’s return to health would begin the exchange of words that might shed some light on how she mysteriously appeared on the moors. He knew it and could not wait until then. He had spent too much time living alone in the wilderness.

  She finished eating and lay down on the cushions. For a while she looked at the ceiling as if dead then turned her head. Her extraordinary green eyes, Vysogota thought again, gives her face a look of childlike innocence, which at the moment shows through her horribly maimed cheek. Vysogota knew this kind of beauty – the large eyes of an eternal child, was an appearance that produced in instinctive sympathy. A girl eternal, even when she is twenty, even after her thirtieth birthday had fallen into oblivion. Yes, Vysogota knew this kind of beauty. His second wife was the same. His daughter also.

  ‘I have to leave here,’ the girl said suddenly. ‘And fast. I’m being pursued. You know that.’
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  ‘I know,’ he nodded. ‘These were the first words you said that despite appearances were not delusions. More precisely, one of the first. First you asked about your horse and your sword. In that order. When I assured you that your horse and sword were taken care of, you came to suspect that I was not an ally of Bonhart and that I was there to heal you, not to subject you to torture and give you false hope. When, not without difficulty, you realized your mistake, you introduced yourself as Flaks and thanked me for rescuing you.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she stared at the cushions, as if to avoid eye contact. ‘It is good that I remembered to thank you. I remember it like in a fog. I did not know what was true and what was a dream. It bothered me that I had not thanked you. But, my name is not Falka.’

  ‘I also know this, but more by chance. You said it during your fever.’

  ‘I am a fugitive,’ she said without turning her head. ‘A fugitive. It is dangerous to give me shelter. It is dangerous to know my real name. I have to get on my horse and leave before I am discovered...’

  ‘A while ago,’ he said mildly, ‘you had trouble sitting on the chamber pot. I cannot imagine how you could sit a horse. But I assure you it is safe here. No one will find you here with me.’

  ‘They are searching for me. They follow my tracks, searching the surroundings…’

  ‘Calm down. Day after day it has been raining and the rain has washed away all tracks. And the area is deserted. You’re in the home of a hermit who has isolated himself from the world. So it is too hard for the world to find him. However, if you wish, I can find a way to bring you news of your relatives and friends.’

  ‘You do not even know how I am…’

  ‘You are a wounded girl,’ he interrupted, ‘fleeing from someone who does not hesitate to hurt girls. Do you want me to send a message to someone?’

  ‘There is no one,’ she said after a moment, Vysogota caught the change in her voice. ‘My friends are dead. They were all killed.’

  He asked no questions.

  ‘I am death,’ she continued in a strange voice. ‘Everyone who comes into contact with me, dies.’

  ‘Not everyone,’ he denied firmly. ‘Not Bonhart. The one whose name you screamed out in your dreams, that you now want to escape. Your meeting has done more harm to you than to him. Was it he… who wounded your face?’

  ‘No,’ she pressed her lips together to stifle something that could be a moan or a curse. ‘Kalous was the one who wounded my face. Stefan Skellen. And Bonhart… Bonhart wounded me much deeper. More deeply. Did I talk about it in the fever?’

  ‘Relax. You’re weak, you should avoid sudden movements.’

  ‘My name is Ciri. ‘

  ‘I will prepare a compress of monkshood, Ciri.’

  ‘Wait… Could you give me a mirror?’

  ‘I told you…’

  ‘Please!’

  He obeyed, he came to the conclusion that it was necessary and it could not wait any longer. He even brought over a candle. So she could see better what had been done to her face.

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said in a broken voice. ‘Yes it is as I imagined it. Almost like I imagined it.’

  He departed and pulled the curtain of blankets closed behind him.

  She tried to weep quietly, so he could not hear. She tried with all her might.

  The next day Vysogota pulled out half the stitches. Ciri rubbed her cheek, hissing like a snake, complaining of severe pain in her ear and hypersensitivity in her neck under her jaw. Still, she got up, dressed and went outside. Vysogota did not protest, but accompanied her. He did not need to help or hold her up. The girl was healthy and was much stronger than she seemed.

  Outside, however, she stumbled. She leaned against the door frame.

  ‘It is…’ she exhaled sharply, ‘it is cold! It’s nearly freezing. It is winter already? How long have I been in bed? Weeks?’

  ‘Exactly six days. Today is the fifth day of October. But it seems this October will be unusually cold.’

  ‘The fifth of October?’ she frowned, and then hissed with pain. ‘How can it be? Two weeks?’

  ‘What? What is two weeks?’

  ‘It does not matter.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Maybe I’m wrong… Or maybe not. Tell me what stinks here so much?’

  ‘Skins. Muskrat, beaver, mink, otter and other tanning skins. Even a hermit has to make a living.’

  ‘Where is my horse?’

  ‘In the pen. ‘

  The black mare greeted them with a loud snort and Vysogota’s goat echoed with a bleat, which echoed his great displeasure of having to share his accommodation with another tenant. Ciri embraced the horse’s neck and patted him, stroking his mane.

  ‘Where is my saddle and saddle bags?’

  ‘Here.’

  He did not protest, make any comment or express any opinion. He was silent, leaning on his cane. He did not move when she gasped while trying to raise her saddle, did not flinch when she staggered under the weight and fell awkwardly on the floor covered with straw and released a loud moan. He did not approached her or help her up. He watched carefully.

  ‘Well,’ Ciri said through clenched teeth, while pushing the mare who was trying to stick his nose through the neck of her shirt. ‘It’s clear. But I have to leave here, dammit! I have to go!’

  ‘Where?’ he asked dryly.

  She massaged her face with her hands while sitting on the straw beside the saddle.

  ‘As far away as possible.’

  Vysogota nodded, as if the answer satisfied him, clarified everything and left no doubt. Ciri rose with effort. She did not even attempt to pick up the saddle and harness. She check to see if the mare had hay and oats in the pen then began to rub his back and sides with straw. Vysogota waited in silence and lived to see. The girl stumbled onto the pole supporting the roof and turned white as a sheet. Without a word he gave her his cane.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. I’m just...’

  ‘Just dizzy, because you are sick and weak as a newborn. Let’s go back. You have to lie down.’

  About sunset, having previously slept for a few hours, Ciri came outside again. Vysogota, who had just returned from the river, met her at the hedge of hazel bushes.

  ‘Do not go far from the hut,’ he warned. ‘Firstly, you’re too weak...’

  ‘I feel better.’

  ‘Secondly, it is dangerous. All around are bottomless swamps and endless forests of reeds. You do not know the trails; you could get lost and drown in the marsh.’

  ‘But,’ she said pointing at the bag he carried on his shoulder, ‘you know the trails and of course you travel them whenever you want. It seems to me that the swamps are not so dangerous. You tan hides for a living that is clear. Kelpie, my mare had oats and I do not see a field around here in sight. We eat chicken and barley porridge. And bread, real bread, not cakes. I do not think that you trapped it. So that means there is a village around here.’

  ‘A faultless deduction,’ he admitted quietly. ‘That means I have received rations from the nearest settlement. The nearest, but it does not mean that it is close. It lies on the edge of the marsh. The marsh borders a river. I exchange my furs for food which they bring me in a boat. Bread, flour, salt, cheese and sometimes chicken or rabbit. Occasionally news.’

  There were no questions, so he continued.

  ‘Horsemen have arrived in the village. Twice. The first time they threatened the peasants with fire and sword, if anyone helped you or hid you. The second time, they promised a reward for finding your corpse. Your pursuers think that you’ve succumbed to your injuries and are lying out here dead somewhere in the forest of fallen trees or brushwood.’

  ‘And they will not rest until they find my dead body,’ she muttered darkly. ‘I know this well. They must have proof that I am dead. Without this proof they will not give up. They will search everywhere. And eventually they will come here…’

  ‘They are very interested in you,’ he said. ‘Even I would say t
hey are interested in an extraordinary way…’

  She pursed her lips.

  ‘Do not be afraid. I will go before they find me. I will not expose you to danger… Do not be afraid.’

  ‘Why do you assume that I’m afraid?’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘What reason is there to be scared? Nobody comes here and nobody will be able to find you here. But if you poke your snout out of the reeds, you will come face to face with your pursuers.’

  ‘In other words,’ she threw back her head in a gesture of defiance. ‘I have to stay here. Is that what you meant?’

  ‘You’re not a prisoner. You can leave whenever you like. Rather, whenever you are able. But you can also stay here and wait. The time will come when your pursuers will get discouraged. They always get discouraged, sooner or later. Always. You can believe me. I know this.’

  Her green eyes sparkled when she looked at him.

  ‘At the end of the day,’ the hermit said quickly, while shrugging his shoulders and avoiding her gaze, ‘do what you want. I repeat, I will not keep you here.’

  ‘For now I will not go,’ she snorted. ‘I feel weak… And the sun is setting… And I do not know the trails. So let’s get back to the hut. I’m freezing.’

  ‘You said I’ve been here for six days. Is that true?’

  ‘Why would I lie?’

  ‘Don’t fret. I’m trying to calculate the days… I escaped… I was hurt… The day of the equinox. The twenty third of September. If you want to count according to the elves, the last day of Lammas.’

  ‘It is not possible.’

  ‘Why would I lie?’ She cried and moaned while touching her face. Vysogota looked on calmly.

  ‘I do not know,’ he replied calmly. ‘But I used to be a doctor, Ciri. It has been a long time, but I can still distinguish a wound inflicted in a few hours to a wound that has been untreated for four days. I found you on September twenty seventh, thus you were wounded on the twenty sixth. The third day of Velen, if you prefer to count as the elves do. Three days after the equinox.’