The Burial of Spring

by bradamanta

When a failed hunt leaves him on the mercy of two women, of which one has a sense of duty and the other one has a secret, Eskel wants to leave as soon as he can. After all, misfortune follows the path of every witcher and the fate can be tempted far too easily.

5. The nightshade

Two moons have passed and the witcher has not woken up yet. Cudka doubts he will recover at all. The monster left him bloodied, with several bones broken and wounds poisoned. Wszebora did her best to piece the ravaged flesh back together, but the wounds soon started to fester. The stitches swell and leak blood and thick, yellow pus. Last night a violent sickness took hold of the witcher. Up until dawn he shivered and writhed, his flesh damp and sticky with sweat. And when the fever had broken, the witcher only fell deeper into his slumber. His trembling stopped and he stilled. His chest barely raised with each breath.

Cudka watched this and knew that the witcher would perish soon. She would not say it, but it seemed it would be for the best - for them and for the witcher as well.

Wszebora did not agree with that. She stayed by his side all night as he writhed with fever. She used wet rags to make poultices for his heated brow and she poured water and soothing decoctions into his mouth. She covered him with wolf pelts when he shivered. When the morning came and his fever lessened, she watched over him for some more time. Finally she stood up and looked at Cudka. The sleepless night dried her face of color and made her pale with weariness, but her eyes stayed sharp. She asked for all the help her herbs could give, for ointments to treat the witcher's wounds, for mixtures to fight his pain and fever. Cudka would never mend a broken bone or stitch a wound like Wszebora does, but she knows her way around plants. When the cattle falls with sickness, when sickly mists lift from the marshes in the spring, when there is a disease or a festering wound, the folks come to her for help. The salves and ointments she brews always silence the fever and bring the sick back to health. She has never sent anyone away, so she couldn't refuse Wszebora, even if she wanted to with all her heart. There are no words to explain that. Not for Wszebora.

So this morning, so early that the village still slumbers, she goes to the edge of the woods. Her dress gets wet with morning dew as she kneels in tall grasses. She dips her hands in the dense thicket that fills the air with a smell fresh and sweet. The herbs turn to her like the sunflowers do when they search for the light and warmth of the sun. The leaves and the stalks touch her gently, moving and rustling even though the dawn is pink and windless. With her heart heavy in her chest, she cuts the herbs and places them carefully in her wicker basket. The sky turns blue and the meadow wakes with squawking and croaking before she finishes her work. Finally she rises and for a while she gazes towards the village. Worry and dread grow heavy in her soul.

Back in their hut she takes the bundles of herbs that dangle under the ceiling and she opens the chest that contain bottles with her decoctions, vials with dried herbs and powders and clay vessels full of ointments that smell bitter. She kneels and places all this around herself. Her pale, lean fingers search through the ingredients and herbs with practice. Only once in a while she stops and shivers with hesitance over a vial with certain poison - a stramonium or the berries of nightshade. A voice in her mind tells her to grab them. If she brewed poison instead of a medication, no one would know. The witcher is in pain. He does not need to endure this sickness and all the filth and suffering that comes with it. She could make him go in a quick, gentle way. It would be mercy. She grabs a few of the small, shiny berries and rolls them back and forth through her fingers. She only needs to squash them in a mortar. Add the juice to the tea. It would be enough. No one would know.

Her hand wavers and the berries roll onto the floor. She covers her mouth with her hand to muffle the sob that suddenly grows in her throat. For a while she sits there, shaken and helpless. Finally she looks towards the witcher that still scares her, even though he is weak and helpless himself now. She blinks, gulps and reaches out to grab another bundle of herbs. She adds them to the boiling cauldron.

"You will live", she thinks with resignation. "You will live and that shall be the end of me".