“But the current’s still carrying us.” Fysh spat into the water and watched the spittle flow past. He’d lost his straw hat; the gale must have blown it off.

“The current is weak, but it’s carrying us,” he repeated. “We’re in an inlet between some islands. Hold the course, Pudlorak. It must finally take us to the deep water.”

“I reckon the waterway is to the north,” said the captain, stooping over the compass. “So we ought to take the starboard branch. Not the port, but the starboard…”

“Where do you see branches?” asked Fysh. “There’s one river. Hold the course, I say.”

“A moment ago there were two,” Pudlorak insisted. “But maybe I had water in me eyes. Or it was that fog. Very well, let the current carry us. It’s just that—”

“What now?”

“The compass. It’s pointing completely… No, no, it’s all right. I couldn’t see it clearly. Water was dripping onto the glass from my cap. We’re sailing.”

“So, let’s sail.”

The fog was growing denser and thinner by turns, and the wind had completely died down. It had grown very warm.

“The water,” Pudlorak said. “Can you smell it? It has a different kind of smell. Where are we?”

The fog lifted and they saw dense undergrowth on the banks, which were strewn with rotten tree trunks. Instead of the pines, firs and yews covering the islands, there were now bushy river birches and tall cypresses, bulbous at the base. The trunks of the cypresses were entwined around with climbing trumpet vines, whose garish red flowers were the only vibrant feature among the brownish green swampy flora. The water was carpeted in duckweed and was full of water weed, which the Prophet parted with its prow and dragged behind it like a train. The water was cloudy and indeed gave off a hideous, somehow rank odour. Large bubbles rose up from the bottom. Pudlorak was at the helm by himself again.

“There may be shallows,” he said, suddenly becoming anxious. “Hey, there! Leadsman fore!”

They sailed on, borne by the weak current, never leaving the marshy landscape. Or rotten stench. The deckhand at the prow yelled monotonously, calling out the depth.

“Take a look at this, Master Witcher,” said Pudlorak, stooping over the compass and tapping the glass.

“At what?”

“I thought the glass was steamed up… But if the needle hasn’t gone doolally, we’re sailing eastwards. Meaning we’re going back. Where we came from.”

“But that’s impossible. We’re being carried by the current. The river—”

He broke off.

A huge tree, its roots partly exposed, hung over the water. A woman in a long, clinging dress was standing on one of the bare boughs. She was motionless, looking at them.

“The wheel,” said the Witcher softly. “The wheel, captain. Towards that bank. Away from the tree.”