Once they had run through their stories, Fran took the lead and they set off again. Holo’s tail swished happily beneath her robe.
“Speaking of which, I neglected to ask you, but that wasn’t you in that tale, was it?” asked Lawrence suddenly, as Fran seemed in a hurry and had opened up a bit of distance between her and the wagon.
Holo replied without much interest as she ate a small piece of jerky. “Alas, I’ve no bird friends aside from that one lass from some time ago, and I’ve no feathers myself.”
“And no ideas, either?”
Holo shook her head wordlessly and sighed. “Had the legendary figure in question been me, they would’ve forced that fool to draw them a map…” She turned away as though apologizing for trouble she had caused.
If Lawrence suspected this as being an act, he would surely make her angry, and yet it had to be an act. Col seemed to be frantically trying to think of the words with which to console her, but meeting his eyes, Lawrence only smiled.
“If all goes well when we begin to ask around, how shall we fill our remaining time?” he asked.
Holo looked up suddenly and smiled. Partially because she was holding Col’s hand in a very sibling-like fashion, she suddenly seemed much like the young maiden she appeared to be.
No doubt she was not entirely in earnest, but at least some part of her was.
Soon a single, far-off thread of smoke appeared, probably from a distant hearth or stove, and soon after that they arrived at the town. Holo took one look at it. “Perhaps I ate a bit too much wheat bread,” she said sardonically.
It seemed unlikely that much wheat bread was baked in Taussig, nestled as it was at the foot of the mountains. Half buried in the foothills, it had an apologetic little excuse of a fence to keep out wild animals, hung with wards for driving off evil spirits – evidence of the Church.
Had they not already heard the rumors of a witch, the placement of those wards would have been strange, because indifferent to the darkness and danger that lurked in the mountains, they instead faced out toward the plains. It made Lawrence imagine inexperienced travelers who feared only the wolves before them, heedless of the bandits behind them.
He imagined Taussig to be a gloomy, sparsely peopled village, but it was not so. The sound of happy children’s voices could be heard from the houses, and sheep and goats grazed lazily in the village’s wide lanes. It seemed a perfectly normal village.
It was said that the source of most quarrels was mutual ignorance, and perhaps that was not so untrue.
Lawrence climbed off the wagon, looking to the still-mounted Fran. “If you would, please,” she said quietly.
With his left hand he took the reins of Fran’s horse, and with his right the reins of the wagon horse, and proceeded slowly into the village. Eventually an old man sitting on a roughly hewn wooden bench at one corner of the village’s entrance took notice of them.
“Now, then,” said Lawrence softly, putting on his best merchant’s smile.
“My, my… have we travelers here?” It looked as though the old man was out watching the livestock as they grazed. His hand gripped a shepherd’s staff.
“Greetings to you. I am a traveling merchant. My name is Kraft Lawrence.”
“Oh, a merchant, are you?” Wrinkles appeared around the old man’s eyes, as though he was wondering what business a merchant could possibly have in this town.
In the village, first the children and then the rest of the villagers began to take notice of their unusual visitors. Some watched from their eaves, others from cracks in their wooden windows.
“We’ve come from Ruvinheigen, a place far to the south.”
“Ruvin…”
“Ruvinheigen.”
The old man nodded and fixed his gaze on Lawrence and his party for a time. When the old man was not moving, he looked like a doll made from tree bark.
“It’s known as the city of the Church.”
Suddenly the man’s gaze moved from Lawrence to Fran, up on her horse – and then, moments later, to Holo and Col, who had climbed down from the wagon bed.
Then with a sudden sigh he looked back at Lawrence with a troubled gaze. “What business would people of the Church have with this village?”
Lawrence answered, with a huge smile that would have made a child burst into tears, “Actually, we’ve heard tell of a legend regarding a holy angel that came to earth here. As faithful servants of God, we were hoping we could hear more of the tale…” The old man did not immediately react, so Lawrence jokingly continued, “Is the angel here in the village now?”
“No! Don’t be absurd!”
The old man’s voice was so suddenly strident that Lawrence was momentarily taken aback. The loud voice startled the livestock as well; the hogs squealed and the goats stamped their hooves. The chickens, though flightless, flapped their wings to escape, and the old man looked Lawrence in the eye.
“It had nothing to do with this village. It’s true that it came through here but merely asked directions. It truly, truly had no business here!”
The man was desperately insistent. Lawrence hastily tried to clear his head and think things over. It came through here? And had nothing to do with the village?
“I understand. I understand!” It was all Lawrence could do to raise his hands in mollification. He certainly was not going to pose another question.
The old man’s shoulders moved with his heavy breathing, and he leaned forward, eyes wide, as though he had yet more to say. His lips trembled, either from overexcitement or simple anger.
But what had put him in such a state?
As Lawrence mulled it over, several men came out of the village.
Lawrence heard the rustle of clothing behind him; Col was making himself ready. Holo did likewise – because the men were all carrying large hatchets or knives.
Fran, meanwhile, did not so much as move, instead remaining hooded atop her horse.
Lawrence indicated with his hand that they should keep calm, but not because he was trying to preserve his pride in front of Fran, nor out of empty reassurance. If all the men had been carrying were weapons, he would have done an about-face on the spot, and the reason he had not was probably the same reason Fran had not.
The three men that approached were bloodstained up to their elbows, and their faces showed irritation at having been interrupted. The hatchets and knives had surely been used for butchering, and after all, when someone has proposed to kill another, their expression is not one of annoyance.
“Travelers, are you?” asked the most sturdily built of the three middle-aged men. The old man looked over his shoulder and tried to speak.
“It’s all right, elder. Calm yourself.”
The elder’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. It seemed the men’s expressions of irritation were directed not at the outsiders, but instead at the village elder, the old man.
“Circa!”
The man turned around and shouted, and a woman emerged from one of the homes.
He indicated the elder with his posture, and the woman seemed to immediately understand and approached.
The man directed the woman he had called Circa over to the old man and patted his back reassuringly. He then looked over at Lawrence.
“Apologies, kind travelers. He didn’t say anything too terrible to you, did he?” he asked, dropping his hatchet on the ground. As he casually rubbed his gore-stained hands off on his trousers, he seemed to immediately know who among the band of travelers would speak for them. This was something townspeople always know, but those raised in small villages frequently struggled with the issue.
Lawrence found himself surprised by those who lived like this – people for whom status or wealth was a mere fantasy.
“No, not at all. However, I appear to have asked him something terrible, as he seemed deeply frightened…” Lawrence said, trying to elicit useful information.
The bearded man smiled ruefully. “Misfortune always comes from the outside, aft
er all.”
He seemed to know the way of the world. Perhaps he handled the village’s dealings with the outside world. So if Lawrence showed his thanks, perhaps it would be returned in kind.
“My name is Kraft Lawrence. I’m a traveling merchant,” he said, extending his right hand.
The man looked Lawrence straight in the face, then down to his own hand, then to the hand Lawrence offered. After a time, he finally took the hand. “Heureux Mueller,” he said. “So, there aren’t many possibilities for why the elder would be so afraid. One, his time has come. Two, a tax collector has come. Three, someone asking after bad rumors has come.”
Mountain villages relied on hunting in between stints of farming work. Mueller’s folded arms were twice as thick as Lawrence’s and splattered with blood up to their elbows, which made them seem even more intimidating. Though Lawrence felt no malice from him or the men on either side of him, these were men who radiated heat from head to toe, blades in hand, as though to offer proof they had just been doing hard labor.
But if he backed down here, it would be implying a debt on their part to him. “Actually, we’ve come to hear the legend of the angel.”
“The angel?” The man knit his brow and glanced at Lawrence’s traveling companions behind him. Then he continued, as though suddenly remembering something, “Oh! So that’s it, eh?”
“Might we be able to hear more?” Lawrence asked, his eyes upturned with a trace of humility.
Mueller laughed the hearty laugh of the hunter, though it had a trace of the farmer’s gentle smile in it. “Ha-ha-ha! You needn’t bow and scrape so. I’ll bet you’ve heard all sorts of bad things about this village in town. They all think anyone who doesn’t live in a town are ignorant and superstitious. And I suppose there are some ignorant villages around, but not us. I’ll tell you as much as you want to hear of the angel legend.”
If people could believe each other’s words, then there would be no liars or thieves anywhere in the world and no reason for doubt.
Even supposing the man was such a good liar that Lawrence could not see through him, Holo would not be deceived.
“Now then, kind traveler… Mr. Lawrence, was it? Have you and your companions eaten?”
Had he been traveling by himself, he would not have refused a meal even if he had already been full. But Lawrence gave Fran a questioning look, and the well-traveled Fran seemed to agree.
“No, we haven’t,” said Lawrence.
“Then we’ll treat you to some of the deer we’ve just slaughtered,” said Mueller. He looked around, perhaps searching for the person who would take on that duty.
“Vino, we’ll handle the tanning. Let us borrow your hearth, will you?”
“Ah, God’s will be done,” said the man called Vino jokingly. Tanning was hard work, so to instead lend one’s hearth out and entertain guests, knowing he would have his own share of meat and wine, was cause for a pleased word or two.
But Mueller’s face turned stern. “This isn’t leisure time, understand?” He was of goodly years in addition to his size, so when he turned intimidating, it was rather impressive.
Vino’s affability led him to duck his head. “I know, I know. ‘No wine,’ right?”
Lawrence chuckled a sincere laugh at the friendly antics of the villagers. But then he noticed Fran watching the proceedings with a look that could only be described as nostalgic. She had apparently grown up in the home of a wealthy money changer in the south, so it was a bit strange for her to be nostalgic for this kind of conversation.
Lawrence wondered if she was thinking about the things that had happened on her travels thus far, when Vino turned to him and spoke. “Now then, this way. Follow me!”
Vino led Lawrence and company into a typical village cottage. Beside the cottage was a little field without so much as a fence, and beside that were stakes to which goats and chickens were tied. A large awning hung out over the garden, under which a woman with a baby tied to her back sat on the ground, kerchief around her head as she worked grain on a grindstone in front of her.
Vino called out lightly to her, and as he approached, he gave the baby a kiss, leading Lawrence to wonder if he and the woman were husband and wife. The woman wiped the sweat from her brow and stood, clapping her hands free from dust as she approached Lawrence and looked the little group over in mild surprise. She then nodded as though she had accepted a great responsibility.
“I’ll go fetch some firewood, so please go and wait inside.”
Vino nodded, and Lawrence and his companions entered their home.
The floor was packed earth, and over the hearth hung a hook from the ceiling. There was a small, snug opening in the ceiling to let smoke escape, and Lawrence thought he could see traces of birds’ nests built boldly into the roof. In one corner of the room, straw raincoats and cages hung. It was every inch the winter cottage. There was a tenuous little fire smoldering in the hearth, which somehow made it look even colder.
Fran was content to play the guest and sat unhesitatingly down by the hearth. When Holo and Col started poking at the strings of onions hanging from the beams, Vino returned from the field behind the cottage with an armful of firewood.
“So you grind flour by hand in this village?”
“Hmm? Ah, oh yes. You can just leave your things there. We’ll just add these to the fire… there. I’ll go get some meat,” said Vino as he skillfully lay the firewood in the hearth. He gave it a couple of strong blows and then nodded in satisfaction before hurrying back out of the cottage.
“Why do you ask?” Holo asked.
“Hmm?”
Holo was gazing out through a crack in a wooden window set in one corner of the earth wall and had not even looked back when she had asked her question. Perhaps she meant the flour grinding.
“Oh, I was just thinking that it’s rare to see people grinding flour by hand when there’s a river nearby,” said Lawrence.
The millstone Vino’s wife had been using was essentially two flat stones placed one atop the other, and between them enough flour could be ground to suffice for a single family’s daily needs. But of course the bigger the stone, the greater the amount of flour that could be ground at once.
Since grinding enough to bake bread every day was crucial, most villages would build a water mill, if there was a river nearby, that all the villagers could use. But not for free – in most places, the local landowner would construct the mill and tax villagers or merchants for its use. The landlord could not collect taxes from villagers who ground their grain by hand, and it struck Lawrence as odd.
Holo nodded, though it was unclear whether she accepted Lawrence’s explanation or not – probably because she simply lacked interest.
Lawrence sat across the hearth from Fran, and Holo and Col followed him. He indicated that Holo should sit next to Fran. She was Fran’s chaperone, after all, so she could not very well do otherwise. Holo looked irritated but complied.
Fran, meanwhile, had been quiet the entire time, but Lawrence got the feeling she had paid attention during his explanation of the millstones. He would have to ask Holo about that later.
As the thought occurred to Lawrence, Vino returned, carrying a basket filled with venison.
Into a burbling, boiling pot hanging from the hook, which in turn hung from the ceiling, were tossed thin, meager carrots, burdock, and other vegetables. Beside the pot the pile of venison was made ready, and despite having eaten so much bread, Holo fidgeted beneath her robe at the sight of it.
Lawrence felt bad for being treated so and had offered something of theirs – not bread or jerky from their large stores, but rather a modest amount of salt. At this, Vino and his wife’s eyes had gone round, and Lawrence was reminded of how drastically conditions could change from one place to another. Here there was plenty of venison but obtaining salt was difficult.
If he was to tell Holo that this principle was the key to business, he would get nothing more than a disdainful sniff for his trouble, no
doubt.
“Should be ready soon,” declared Vino as his wife stirred the pot of vegetables and added the meat.
Without the meat, it probably would not have been to Holo’s liking, but the stew had a familiar earthy smell. The meat was soon boiled and portioned out to Col, Lawrence, and Holo in order of proximity.
When it came time to serve the still-silent Fran, she spoke up slowly. “I-I cannot eat meat–”
“Oh!” said Vino’s wife, who was doing the ladling.
In a village like this one, with no church, it was possible that the knowledge that clergy members abstained from meat was rather sparse.
Vino’s wife looked hastily at Holo, who was nearly on the verge of tears at the prospect of not being able to eat meat.
Surprisingly it was Vino who spoke up next. “Ah, yes, I’ve heard that moderation pleases God, but… I believe you may at least eat some vegetables.”
Holo nodded, and Vino continued speaking.
“This deer ate nothing but leaves from the day it was born, so it’s no different than those plants it ate.” Vino took the ladle from his wife and served Holo five generous slices of venison. He offered to do the same for Fran, but beneath her hood she smiled and refused. Lawrence wondered if Vino would insist, but in the end, Fran’s bowl was filled with only broth and vegetables.
This was not because he was surprised by the depth of her piety, but rather because he had noticed the color of her skin. Vino’s shock was obvious. Given that even people in a busy town would have the same reaction, it was hardly strange that these villagers were surprised.
And being responsible for welcoming these guests, it would bring him shame if he treated them impolitely. “Now, then, please eat,” Vino said, recovering his composure.
Col ate the contents of the bowl he was given without his usual haste, instead seeming to savor each bite. Perhaps it reminded him of the food in his own village. That was the sort of stew they were given, after all.
“It’s delicious.”
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