“Good water?”
“In the south, they apparently use snow as medicine. So I wonder if it’s for that.”
Cyrus gazed off into the distance, but his body continued to cut wood without faltering.
“I see. A spring of miracles that gives long life and cures sickness is a common myth.”
“Do you know anything about good water that could awaken even the dead?”
“Yes. You drank some today, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Do you use it for your liquor?”
“I do. Water from the river is enough for most customers, and the melted snow that tastes like sulfur is fine for the drunks. But for guests who have refined tastes, there’s a certain kind of water I use for their liquor. Or for the high-class guests that pay in gold.”
“Could you tell me?”
There was a reason Lawrence brought first-class lamb ribs. He thought that since making alcohol was Cyrus’s hobby, he might know where this water would be.
But if the secret to his signature liquor’s taste was in the water, it was likely he had no inclination to tell others.
“I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
Cyrus said the exact words that Lawrence was thinking and smiled.
“It’s not a secret. If you go north on a path the hunters call the Gray Wolf Road, you’ll run into a deep valley. If you go in until your body barely fits, you’ll find a spring that doesn’t freeze no matter how cold it is. The water there is exquisite.”
“Oh…Th-thank you.”
He had told him so easily that Lawrence suddenly felt deflated. When he thanked him, Cyrus shrugged his rough shoulders.
“Everyone in the village knows about it.”
For a moment, Lawrence felt as though a line had been drawn between them.
But he trusted the man in front of him, and it could be interpreted as though Cyrus was telling him, It’s about time you knew, too, Lawrence.
“I will pay you back for this.”
“You already have.”
Cyrus smiled and returned to his firewood. Lawrence wanted to thank him again, out of habit as a businessperson, but he resisted. If they were friends, then it would be rude instead.
“On your way out, tell Kalm which liquor you like and take it. You went home drunk, so I bet your cute wife was pretty mad at you.”
“…That’s rather accurate.”
“Everyone’s the same.”
Cyrus smiled, and Lawrence sighed in defeat.
“See you later.”
“Bye.”
Cyrus did not watch him go. Lawrence turned on his heel, returned to the front, and collected the liquor.
He looked back when Cyrus’s place had grown distant, and lingering there in the growing darkness was a beautiful bathhouse.
Lawrence gave Holo the liquor he received from Cyrus, and once she finally regained her good mood, he asked about the water again. He also asked Hanna, who often ventured out on the mountain to gather vegetables, and she also indicated the place Cyrus mentioned was the best.
Holo nipped at him, hinting that there was no need to get liquor from Cyrus if that was the case. But if she was in a better mood, then that was good enough reason for Lawrence.
The old man, with whom Lawrence could finally communicate through liturgical script, introduced himself as Ceres. Though, it was likely not his real name, because he had been entrusted with a secret mission from his master, but it mattered not.
Since there were no other guests besides Ceres, and it was rather quiet in the bathhouse, Lawrence invited him to eat dinner with them, and he gladly accepted. His usually grumpy expression seemed to be his natural one. He complimented the food precisely and only slightly, and he seemed to narrow his eyes in enjoyment when he saw Lawrence cautioning Holo about showing her large appetite to a guest. It was embarrassing, being watched as though they were his bantering grandchildren, but if Ceres was having fun, then Lawrence should, as a bathhouse master, give over and let him smile.
The next day, Lawrence offered to help with collecting the water, but Ceres slowly shook his head. All he asked for was an earthen jug to draw the water with. He said it was his job. The pride he held in carrying out his work seemed to be like that of a knight.
Lawrence told him where the Gray Wolf Road and the marker for its entrance were and saw him off with Hanna before daybreak. Holo was fast asleep in bed, unwilling to go out in the cold.
As he departed, Ceres seemed glum as always; looking at him from behind, it seemed that his steps had a new lightness to them, though.
Lawrence sighed in content, relieved that all was finally settled.
Then, after a quick nap and working hard on his daily duties, morning became afternoon.
Ceres returned, his expression dejected.
“You didn’t get the water?”
According to Cyrus, it would not freeze no matter how cold it became, but it was impossible to tell what would happen in the mountains. Thinking this, Lawrence had posed his question, but Ceres slowly shook his head. He was likely expressing his disappointment rather than a lack of understanding.
“Well, first, let’s dry out your wet clothes.”
As Lawrence fed firewood to the hearth and stove, Ceres stood nearby, staring into the ceramic jug he cradled. It was a brooding, sad look.
“Here.”
Lawrence gestured to the fire, and Ceres reluctantly complied. He respectfully received the jug and handed it to Holo, who was watching quietly. Then Lawrence helped with drying Ceres’s wet clothes.
When that was mostly finished, he handed Ceres some mulled wine. In the dining hall next door, he whispered to Holo.
“This isn’t it?”
Holo sniffed the inside of the jug and tilted her head in puzzlement.
“’Tis it.”
With a wolf’s sense of smell, she could discern the smell of that superior water.
But if that were so, why did Ceres seem as crestfallen as he did? Lawrence thought about it, and it suddenly bothered him. Why was this water not what he wanted? Conversely, what qualities did the water need to satisfy his search?
“Hey, does a spring of miracles really exist?” Lawrence asked suddenly, and Holo looked at him blankly. “You know, like water of youth, or water of healing, something like that,” he explained, and she finally nodded.
“I, too, know of such myths. You have eaten the bread of the wheat from Pasloe, where I slept, aye?”
That was where Holo, in a strong sense of obligation, watched over the growing wheat for hundreds of years. Years before, Lawrence passed by the village occasionally on his trade route.
He looked at her, puzzled, and she smiled mischievously.
“Then you have eaten bread blessed by my miracles, though your foolishness was not cured.”
“…”
Lawrence sighed, and Holo cackled. But he understood easily.
“If so…”
What was Ceres really looking for in the water? Or did he really believe the myths and think he would know immediately if he should drink it? Here he stood in front of what everyone in town lauded as the best water in Nyohhira, and he was perturbed.
Then, Ceres suddenly appeared, his mouth drawn taut.
“Oh, hello…This?”
It seemed he wanted the ceramic jug. Lawrence of course handed it over without a qualm.
Then Ceres put his lips to the container’s mouth and heavily gulped down some of the contents. He closed his eyes, swallowing it.
He opened them after a few moments, and his expression was still that of disappointment.
“Good…”
With strange pronunciation, he spoke.
“Good…”
He said it again and shook his head. Lawrence and Holo looked at each other, and then he looked at Ceres. He gave a big sigh and placed the jug on the long table.
“No.”
They were clear words of denial. Before Lawrence could say anything, Ceres turned on
his heels. Lawrence thought if he could ask what was wrong with it, then they might find a way to a solution.
Or perhaps he had to tell Ceres that what he was looking for in the water was nothing but a myth.
As Lawrence was thinking this, Ceres reached out to the thing that sat next to the hearth.
“…His hat?”
What Holo was talking about was his conical hat, covered in fur and lined with metal. But Ceres flipped it over and pulled on a string inside it, removing the wet fur on the outside.
“It’s a pot,” Lawrence suddenly realized.
With it, Ceres took out a few small packages from his rucksack. There came a grainy sound, and when Lawrence looked at Holo standing next to him, she shrugged.
“Alcohol.”
Ceres spoke up, and Lawrence, suddenly snapping back to reality, hurriedly tried to make his way over to the kitchen. Ceres stopped him.
“No. Alcohol.”
Ceres shook his head and repeated his words again. There were hemp bags in the pot he was holding.
Lawrence recalled what Holo had said yesterday. These were things he carried on his person.
What was inside the bags was wheat. If so, then the pot he brought…
“You’re…a brewer.”
Ceres, not understanding Lawrence’s words, furrowed his brow and once more said, “Alcohol.”
Two pieces of metal with the same shape, one lying inside the other, and they could be turned into two pots. In one pot, he poured out the water he had drawn earlier and placed it over the hearth. In the other pot, he emptied ground wheat from a hemp bag.
“Oh, ’tis local wheat.”
Holo identified it just by looking.
Ceres boiled the water in the first vessel, occasionally stirring it. Steam billowed, but just as it seemed to start bubbling, he removed that pot from the flame. Retrieving a wooden ladle from his rucksack, he mixed the water into the wheat. This continued until all of the water in the pot had been shifted over. In the end, he checked the temperature with his finger, adjusted the pot’s position on the fire pit, and flipped over the now-empty water pot for use as a lid.
It seemed the first step was finished.
Ceres faced Lawrence and indicated he needed a pen and paper.
“I am a chef employed by a certain country’s royal family.”
Ceres first wrote this and paused. Lawrence was not surprised to read “royal family” since he had paid so well and how freely he used liturgical script, which indicated a well-to-do upbringing. A regular brewer would not be the same.
“However, I originally worked for the princess’s family, and I was placed where I presently am as a part of her dowry.”
He wrote and suddenly took the pot in hand and closed his eyes, as if checking for something.
Then, he stuck his fingers directly into the hearth’s coals and adjusted the flame. He did not seem at all bothered by the heat, and it appeared he was not burnt. The hands of a master craftsman are thick, or so the saying went. That seemed to be exactly the case here.
“When the princess learned she would marry, she indulged her selfishness only once. She said she wished to soak in the famous waters of Nyohhira. If she did, she said, she would be able to overcome anything.”
Those events had happened during a time more unstable than now. Lawrence nodded, and Ceres slowly closed his eyes. When he did, it seemed as though he could still hear the turmoil.
“She hid her origins and put up at an inn, while I accompanied her as her servant. She had a wonderful time and spent her days in what might have been her last moments of freedom, as well as preparing herself for the future.”
For those who held high social status, bloodlines were nothing but a tool. Lawrence translated every detail for Holo, who made a sympathetic, glum face.
“However, the princess happened upon a young man there. He, too, was of noble lineage and they recognized one another’s identities immediately, so we could not outright ignore him. While I looked on in amazement, the two became close.”
As Lawrence conveyed this to Holo, her face darkened even more. With a saddened expression, she drew close to him and clung to his arm. It seemed as though she was praying, I hope this will have a happy ending.
“The princess was a noblewoman that quite gracefully maintained court etiquette, but in Nyohhira, she was simply herself. She held her liquor well so she did nothing but drink and dance, so much that the young man finally admitted defeat.”
Holo was happy, moved by a woman who loved to drink and dance.
“But the fun days soon passed, and the princess was not so weak as to make a mistake and give into a passing temptation. When the time came, she quietly gathered her things, and said good-bye to the man she had danced with, with a single handshake.”
He straightened his back but did not smile, as though imagining a strong princess who put on a brave front. Still clinging to Lawrence’s arm, Holo stared intensely at Ceres’s writing, even though there was no way she could have understood it.
“On the way home, the princess spoke not even once. When she finally did, it was the day of the wedding, when her life in a strange land, in a strange castle, with strange people began. I had not known how anxious she was. She was strong. She did, however, say one thing to me, who had accompanied her from her homeland. ‘Do you remember the taste of the liquor there?’ she asked. I, of course, could not dishonor the princess. I told her, ‘I am a chef that has mastered the food of the court, and on my pride, I do remember.’”
Ceres glanced fleetingly over at the pot again and then slowly continued to write.
“Then she said, ‘It’s all right, then. If I can drink that anytime, it’ll be all right.’”
The old man’s hand stopped, but he did not look up from the paper. The only sound in the room was the crack, crack of the burning coal in the sunken hearth.
The rustling sound of clothes was Holo, leaning forward.
“So…Was there a familiar face where she was sent to marry? No?”
It was common for nobility to not know the face of the person they were promised to in political marriages. Since that was expected, it was easy to imagine stories. Though it was to be a calculated marriage, they both already knew and grew attracted to each other in a place where they did not know their identities. It was a popular fantasy among the village girls.
And of course, Ceres was already well aware. Though he did not entirely understand Holo’s words, he slowly shook his head.
Holo inhaled sharply. Lawrence wrapped his arm around Holo’s small back.
“The king was a wonderful man, twelve years her senior. He took good care of her. They were blessed with children, and I’d never seen such a happy court before.”
Ceres looked at Holo and gave her a little smile.
Holo, knowing she had been fooled, for some reason hit Lawrence’s arm. He could tell that she seemed genuinely relieved. Ceres was excellent at telling stories. He likely told this one to his own grandchildren as well.
But there, he stopped writing.
There was one difference between stories and reality—reality did not stop there.
“The princess did not ask for that liquor once. There was no need. However, the king has taken ill, becoming bedridden for a long while, and she suddenly called upon me. She told me to fetch that liquor.”
It was likely not for her own sake, but for the king that was pained in sickness and did not have much time left.
The kings of old colored their lives with battle and politics. The luxury of leisurely soaking in a hot spring was for nothing higher than the caged daughters of nobility.
He recalled Ceres’s gloomy expression.
A chef’s trade had the sole purpose of making people happy. In Ceres’s professional life, this was likely his last and most important job.
“But you can’t re-create the taste?” Lawrence asked as he wrote the same. Ceres dropped his shoulders and nodded.
“I h
ave tried several different methods of brewing with local wheat already. I remember the taste, the ingredients, everything. But I cannot re-create it. The ale I was treated to here was so pure. I can tell the result of the brew if I know the taste of the water. Otherwise, I thought, as I went from house to house.”
“Otherwise?”
Lawrence’s question appeared on his face, and Ceres looked back at him before looking at Holo, for some reason.
His eyes squinted slowly, as though he was calmly smiling.
“They say the air of the land seeps into the drink at the time of the brewing. A dreary air produces a dreary brew. A cheerful air produces a cheerful brew. That is why I thought this could be the place.”
After writing the last letter, he gave a meaningful smile. Holo cocked her head in confusion, but Lawrence cleared his throat in embarrassment. Earlier, he had seen them napping together by the hearth, and even now, Holo stuck to his side like a little girl.
Lawrence, by any means, had no courage to say that his own bathhouse was the best in Nyohhira, but he could say that it was different. Cyrus, too, had said such a thing to him earlier that day.
Lawrence and Holo, as husband and wife, definitely got along best in the whole village.
Lawrence, too, had heard of such a brewer’s superstition, but he did not believe it. Ceres was likely the same. He was just searching desperately for some sort of clue.
“The water here is good. That is true for every house here. Since it is the same water they use to brew, the drink is also good. But it is an average good. That special flavor I tasted thirty years ago has not shown itself.”
When Ceres finished writing, he produced several small hemp pouches from his rucksack. Inside was every possible variety of herb that could be harvested from the area. Holo, who had a strong nose, gave a small sneeze at the sudden explosion of scent.
“Flavor…”
Or perhaps the air of that time itself had melted into the taste.
Ceres, glum face unchanging, glared at the metal pot.
It sat there silently.
Holo had a good nose and was thus picky with taste, but she could not produce it. Hanna did not know much about making alcohol, either, so in the end, Lawrence went to Cyrus.
Spring Log Page 8