Spring Log

by Isuna Hasekura

  “The taste of the ale from thirty years ago?”

  When he told him the story, Cyrus became clearly flustered.

  “That’s when I first came here…,” he said, then closed his mouth and directed his gaze to the spot beside Lawrence.

  Standing there was a visitor that came before he did.

  “I was about your age then, boy.”

  The speaker was an elderly man who had a perfectly round head and a long, white beard that gave the impression of steam rising from the baths. He was not tall, but in old age, one could see the reminders that he had been quite stout in his younger days. His name was Jeck, and he was the now-retired, former master of the bathhouse that served the best food in all of Nyohhira.

  “But ale, right? That’s difficult stuff. With local wheat, if the malt roast is about the same, you won’t get a difference. If he says he’s mastered the food of the court, I don’t think he’d get that wrong.”

  Without mentioning his true intentions, Ceres shared his information with Cyrus and the others.

  “Does it depend on the year of the wheat?”

  Cyrus asked this, and Jeck shook his head. The pair, separated in age almost as much as a father and son, were brought together by their love for making alcohol and seemed to be rather close as master and pupil.

  “I don’t know if the harvest is really bad, but if you add wheat grinding to the wort before it becomes alcohol, something will come of it. That’s for someone with much greater skill than us.”

  Jeck was also mindful of Ceres; it seemed the old bathhouse owner’s pride had been a bit hurt when Ceres looked unhappy about his food and drink. But when Lawrence told him that Ceres was a court chef, Jeck was shocked for another reason. For anyone who stood in the world of cooking, this man was an existence normally far beyond reach.

  “He said ‘special flavor.’”

  “Hmm…It might be the taste of the time…”

  “Isn’t that a brewer’s superstition?” Cyrus asked.

  “Hmm? Ah, you mean how the taste changes depending on the air of the place. That is true, but—”

  “Huh?!”

  Lawrence and Cyrus both raised their voices at the same time, and Jeck snorted.

  “But it’s not about the mood of the place, which you hear often. As the weather changes, the earth does, too, and the taste of the drink can actually change, even when made from the same ingredients. I’m sure, even the spirits of drink in the heavens alter like we do when the earth changes. And that’s why our guest here came back. You can get the ingredients as long as you have gold, and something will come of it. Isn’t that right?”

  His question was directed at Lawrence. As a former merchant, his face was known throughout this northern land in a way. Jeck smiled like a mischievous child, and Lawrence could only feel obligated.

  “That’s, well, yes…It will take some time, but I can get them.”

  “He has the skill, he has the ingredients, and he’s come all the way here. If he doesn’t get the flavor after brewing with all that, then what tints it is the air of time…In a word, his memories.”

  However, would a chef who decorated the plates of royalty forget such a taste, even if it was thirty years ago?

  Neither Lawrence nor Cyrus said anything, but shared this question between them with a glance. Jeck gave an exaggerated sigh.

  “You two are still kids.”

  He spoke frankly.

  “The food you eat when you’re having fun is good because of that. It’s even better when you’re with pleasant friends. But if you sit and eat with your wife when you’re in the middle of a fight, it won’t taste like anything! That’s how it is.”

  “…”

  The two looked down, as though apologizing for their inattentiveness, and Jeck nodded dramatically. Lawrence liked him—he reminded him of Holo.

  “However, letting our guest go home with a frown is not Nyohhira’s style.” Jeck grumbled, running his hand over his head.

  “When Cyrus told me earlier about our guest, he told me what you said, Lawrence. I agree with you. I was angry—‘what a stubborn customer! It’s his fault!’…and such. I didn’t realize steam was clouding my soul. How regrettable that is.”

  Jeck spoke as he took Lawrence’s hand.

  “You’ve reminded me what’s important at this old age. Thank you, Lawrence.”

  Hearing those words was too much for Lawrence, and he was at a loss. But Jeck was not teasing him nor making a joke, it seemed. Lawrence looked back at the old man in awe, like a child.

  He gripped Jeck’s hand in return with natural strength.

  “Heh-heh. When you first came and built your bathhouse here, I thought, look at this timid man with no spine.”

  Jeck smiled and spoke freely, and though Cyrus did not laugh outright in front of Lawrence, he played it off with a cough.

  “Sometimes, a person never fits into the place they live. But you were meant to come here, Mr. Lawrence.”

  Jeck clasped his shoulder, and he felt as though something was peeling off from his stiffened face.

  Lawrence’s expression, now soft, showed a smile of pure happiness.

  “But when I first drank the water here, I was sick all the time.”

  “Ha-ha-ha. That’s the sulfur in the water. I had my first bath in these waters, so it’s nothing to me, but Cyrus here kept his mouth closed at first, too.”

  “Even the water I used for bread was from the river or pure mountain water.”

  When he said that, Lawrence recalled the cool taste of the water that Holo gave him after he came home drunk. Water made from snow melted in the heat of the baths had that taste. That was the aroma of Nyohhira.

  That is why Cyrus continued, not thinking about it.

  “You can taste the hot springs in everything.”

  What?

  They all spoke at once. Even Cyrus was surprised at his own words. The bathhouse masters, from the oldest to the newest, all looked at one another. “Impossible,” was written on all of their faces.

  Lawrence went back through his memories. He immediately recalled his conversations with Cyrus and Ceres.

  Good liquor came from good water. But the best water that Ceres had collected from the mountain was, according to him, just good. Following that, if they only thought based on what Cyrus said, then the reason Ceres could never reach his answer was clear.

  This was Nyohhira. The guests were treated with the utmost care. Grumpy but well-paying guests were given even more special attention. Lawrence offered to call in musicians and dancers just for Ceres, who paid in gold pieces. Even the bread they gave him in his lunch was of the best quality. They did all they could in their bathhouse. That was why there was something he never tasted while he was here.

  It was what Cyrus said—liquor made from the least troublesome way to obtain water, the one they gave to drunks who could not tell the difference in flavors.

  A simple ale made from snow that melted in the heat of the baths.

  “…They do say that it is darkest underneath the candle stand.”

  Jeck groaned. Though there was no solid conclusion that was the answer, they felt close to touching something.

  “I’m sure we can maintain Nyohhira’s reputation with this,” Cyrus said.

  Lawrence watched the two of them, and they suddenly looked back.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?! We have an unhappy guest at Lawrence’s place!”

  As though he was being scolded by his trade master, Lawrence jumped and hurriedly turned on his heel, soon placing his hand on the doorway. But then he realized this was not just his own accomplishment. When he thought this, he turned around to find Jeck and Cyrus smiling quietly.

  “We’ll be holding a commiseration party for those who could not make a guest smile. Go.”

  Jeck waved him off with a big smile of his own.

  “We’ll hear about it later.”

  Cyrus echoed his senior, picking up the barrel that
sat at his feet and placing it on the counter. They did not look at Lawrence anymore, but he interpreted it as a sign of closeness. They saw travelers off for a long time because once they were gone, they would not meet again, perhaps for a long, long time. So why would they do that for him?

  Lawrence, his chest bursting with happiness, left Cyrus’s bathhouse and quickly returned to his own. Holo and Hanna, who were watching the next part of the brewing process with great interest, saw him return with curious faces.

  Lawrence explained the circumstances, and Hanna, half in disbelief, brought water from snow that had been melted in the heat of the baths.

  Ceres took a sip and closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh.

  And when he opened his eyes, he smiled, as though the sun had finally shown its face through the clouds.

  They ended up using two kinds of water in the brewing process, but the rest of the ingredients were the same. Indeed, even the brewer was the same, so the difference in taste simply depended on the water.

  After a few days, the difference in the results was clear.

  “I didn’t know it would be so different.”

  Lawrence contemplated the taste of the frothy ale. He would not know the difference if it was just given to him, but side by side, he could tell. Ceres knew the difference, as he was always comparing with his memory from thirty years ago, though that was to be expected.

  “With this, my final mission is complete.”

  After finishing the two brews, Ceres wrote this on a paper. He was getting quite old, and though they were orders from his master, this court chef was likely already no longer in charge of the kitchen if he was able to be away from the manor for so long.

  “Truly, I thank you.”

  Ceres, the weight lifted from his shoulders, was a kind and gentle old man. Since he had found what he was looking for, there was no point in staying longer. He began to collect his luggage. Lawrence tried to offer change for the gold piece that Ceres gave him with a silver piece, but he refused.

  He said it was a sign of thanks, and his expression became stubborn again.

  And with the same look on his face, he wrote:

  “It is payment for when I come here again, when I am retired and bored.”

  Ceres faced him with a smile, and there was nothing more he could say. Even if it was just his word, Lawrence wrote in large letters, “We will be waiting for you!”

  Ceres nodded happily.

  When they saw their guest off, carrying the liquor he made on his back, he walked with a more vigorous step than when he came, which had been only a few days prior. Like liquor, it seemed waiting a bit helped bring back the memory better.

  “’Tis your age,” Holo said flatly, pouring the rest of the ale that Ceres made into a cup.

  “Hey, leave a little for me.”

  Holo pretended not to hear, deliberately drinking it down and savoring the taste.

  “Honestly…” He sighed, and with a big white frothy mustache under her nose on her silly face, Holo looked happy.

  As he wondered why, she rested her head on his shoulder and said, “I must remember this taste.”

  A taste to recall this land, this moment.

  “Only in moderation.”

  There was a hint of bitterness in Lawrence’s words. He would not live the same length of time as Holo. After he died, he did not want her to suffer from it.

  But that, too, was the same as ale. A drink’s quality did not come from its sweetness.

  “You fool.”

  Holo wore a troubled smile and took Lawrence’s hand. When he died, instead of olive oil, he would rather this ale be used to anoint him. As he thought this, he took a drink from the cup Holo shared with him.

  It was a drink from the bathhouse that conjured smiles and happiness. Indeed, perhaps it was a bit too sweet.

  MUDDY MESSENGER WOLF AND WOLF

  He could hear the distant sounds of woodcutting, mixed with clattering cart wheels, a mule’s whinny, and voices busily calling out to one another. If he closed his eyes, it almost felt like he was in a town that was being built.

  The hustle and bustle signaled that winter was finally ending.

  The weather was good, and there was no wind in the calm sky. The people in this remote mountain village called Nyohhira were working hard to wash off the dirt of winter.

  “Gold lumione? Twenty…nineteen, actually. Silver debau, seventy-three. One, two piles of bronze dip…roughly six hundred, is that correct? Have you weighed them?”

  There was a continuous flow of people in and out of the town meeting hall, and the smell of rusted metal hung over the place. Everyone had a bag in hand and dropped them onto the long table in the room’s center. After loosening the drawstrings and emptying the contents, out came a whole variety of different coins.

  “All right then, Mr. Alaise, we’ll take it from here.”

  “Thanks, Lawrence.”

  The bathhouse master, who had more hair in his beard than above his hairline, thanked Lawrence as he rubbed his head.

  Sitting at the seat of honor, Lawrence nodded with a smile as his hands blackened with work. Or more accurately, he was so busy that the smile was plastered to his face and he could not take it off. That was because one after the other, the masters from the different bathhouses arrived with the coins that guests had paid them over the winter.

  He sorted the coins—typically there were five to seven kinds, and at most between ten to twenty or more—then had to count each, and then weigh them if the situation called for it. That was because a guest with too much time on his or her hands might have carefully whittled away at the coins to pilfer the silver and bronze shavings. The money changer would buy the same amount of coins for less if the weight did not add up properly. Lawrence had been at it since morning.

  The hot spring village, Nyohhira, was located on the frontiers of frontiers in the middle of nowhere. The various currencies that passed between various peoples often ended their long journeys here. So twice a year, the inhabitants brought the coins they collected from guest payments to a bigger town that needed them. There they bought the materials they needed for the new season, hired craftsmen to repair the bathhouses, and left the rest of the money with the money changer. They would not gain anything from hoarding coins in boxes that had gone moldy from the steam, and they did not know what sort of thieves they would attract if news spread about treasure holed up in the mountains.

  The bathhouse masters did this work every year in rotation, and this year it was the master of Spice and Wolf—Lawrence’s turn. It had been ten-odd years since they opened in Nyohhira and he had spent many years on the other side of the table asking for assistance, but he never thought this job would be so hectic.

  “Mr. Lawrence, the goods from Alvo are here!”

  Though counting coins already took considerable concentration, that was not his only job.

  “Tell Mr. Dabon, and put it in the shed!”

  Nyohhira was a small village deep in the mountains, but there were people that lived even deeper in the wilderness, scattered about in even smaller communities. It was around this time of year that they came to call on Nyohhira, when they could finally take the thawed mountain paths. These people brought the hemp and twine they had made during the winter or carried a heap of furs on their backs and traded them with the things they could only get in a village, like alcohol, food, and metal goods. The people of Nyohhira took more than half of these products for themselves, and the rest they took down to the towns with the money to sell.

  It was around this time that Nyohhira transformed from a village of healing waters to a remote marketplace.

  “Mr. Lawrence! The owner of Adino said he wants to change his order.”

  “Mr. Lawrence! Where should I store the hemp?”

  “Mr. Lawrence!”

  “Mr. Lawrence!”

  When he finally came to a good stopping point, he was left without the energy to even stand. His ears rang, and he felt as t
hough he could still hear his name being called. Once he had been a merchant, and he should have been used to such busy exchanges. He had done business in a market so clamorous there was barely any room to stand, where he could hardly hear his own yelling voice. All that now belonged to a distant past. He certainly felt a faint nostalgia for the tumult of those times. But now, he was much too happy simply working for the village he lived in.

  This engagement would continue for several days. He had to work hard so that the other bathhouse owners would not laugh at him. So every day he went straight home and went to bed early.

  When he stood up to do just that, he could hear masters loitering outside the meeting hall entrance and their chattering voices.

  “Oh, this is new.”

  “Mr. Lawrence? Yeah, he’s inside.”

  “But really, you always look so young. I thought you were your daughter!”

  He could hear the conversation from the partly open door, and before long, in came a familiar silhouette.

  As he stood from his chair, he wore a small smile.

  “Hello.”

  He felt all his fatigue slip away when he heard that voice. The one that peeked in through the doorway was a small girl, wearing a heavy overcoat that reached down to her ankles and a hood over her head. She held a small wine cask to her chest, and if someone who was not familiar with her saw, they would think she was a maidservant. There still was a hint of youth in the face under the hood.

  But once this young girl stood in front of Lawrence, she grinned audaciously.

  “You look like a sheared sheep.”

  Her usual barb pricked his ears. The girl standing before him was not what she appeared to be. Though she looked like a teenager on the outside, she was hiding animal ears underneath her hood, and she even had a tail growing from her back. Her true form was a centuries-old giant wolf that could devour a person whole, who lived in wheat, and—

  Lawrence’s vaunted wife, Holo.

  “You didn’t have to come get me.”

  Typically, it was their daughter Myuri, who looked exactly like Holo, who came for him. But Myuri had left on a journey, and they wondered which parent she took after.