Blasphemy against the dead was not so different from hearing about the oppression of innocent people – it demanded righteous anger.
Holo had said as much when they had started looking for the wolf bones: No matter how strong they had been, her kind couldn’t bite back in death. Yet somehow, Sister Katerina had happily accepted being called a witch. Perhaps she had just been eccentric.
But Lawrence did not think so, and neither, evidently, did Holo.
She had been kind, and she had accepted it.
“So – that is my reason for wanting to help the girl.”
Back in the village of Pasloe, Holo had been forgotten, rendered as mute as a corpse. In the end, she was unable to endure this indignity. She had kicked the dust from her feet and left. But Katerina’s name could still be restored.
As Lawrence thought about it, he noted a certain circular logic. Looking at Holo, he saw that the wisewolf had already realized this.
“Though if we go around saying this or that about someone who’s died, we’re no better than the villagers. And that dried-out corpse doesn’t care what people call it. So my lending a hand is not much different than whoever it is that comes and cleans the cottage.”
“It’s useful for the living, though.” After all, one could no more peer into the minds of the living than one could the dead, and there was certainly no way to act solely in the interests of another.
If you dug deeply enough, you would always arrive at the conclusion that you had acted in your own interests. The only problem was acting in such a way that you could live with yourself afterward.
“’Tis hard indeed to continue moving forward as you live. I do feel for the villagers and their landlord. And of course…” Holo said as she tucked her tail back underneath her robe and then hid her ears in her hood. “… You can’t help but cheer for the girl who goes to such efforts for the sake of the one she loves, eh?”
Her words came with that same nasty smile, but they were not wrong. And if this was an indication of a desire to be properly mourned after death, then one had to laugh that they had decided to help Fran.
Lawrence and Holo smiled at each other from across the hearth.
Lawrence bet that if he said he had put too much firewood in the hearth, Holo would laugh and laugh.
Midday came, and soon Fran and Col returned.
Lawrence assumed they had come back for food, but that seemed not to be the case. No sooner did Fran enter the cottage than she pressed Lawrence with a question.
“Will you go to the village and have them draw me a map?”
“… A map?”
“Yes.”
Despite the cold, Lawrence could see the sweat on her brow, which made it clear just how hurried they had been. Col had sat down immediately upon returning to the cottage and gulped water noisily from a water skin.
Holo brushed the snow off him like he was an unruly little boy, but he was too tired even to thank her.
Given the state Fran and Col were in, there were not very many possibilities as to the cause.
“Did you find a clue to the legend of the angel?”
No sooner had he asked the question than Lawrence found himself very surprised indeed. He imagined that applied to Holo as well, though she was still tending to Col.
The reason was Fran. As soon as she heard Lawrence’s question, she smiled in genuine, unself-conscious delight. It was as though she could not hold it back any longer. The perversely stubborn silversmith. The silversmith of constant and unpleasant rumor. For this innocent, lovely smile to be waiting beneath all that, it had to be her true self.
For a woman to have traveled alone for so long and to have been so successful on the way, she must have suffered greatly. Even someone like Eve had to wear a scarf while doing business to hide the fact that she was a woman. Fran wore the rumors of her nastiness and intractability like a suit of armor.
Col seemed to have caught his breath, so Holo took the water skin to Fran. It would have been unimaginable not long before, but Fran smiled a grateful smile, which Holo returned.
Fran drank, paused to breathe, then drank more.
They must have run hard. Toward the legend of the angel.
“When you say ‘map,’ what sort of map do you mean?”
Fran, having caught her breath, started slightly at Lawrence’s question. “Hmm?” She looked at him blankly before comprehension finally seemed to dawn on her. She must have planned to tell him what kind of map she needed. “I’m sorry. I need… I need a map that shows how the rivers flow out from the lake.”
“The river?” Lawrence asked. It was a strange map to ask for.
“Yes. Walking around the lake, something occurred to me. When it snows and the temperature drops suddenly, all the rivers and streams will freeze. Which means the destination of their flow is lost. Even that waterfall would freeze solid if there were enough snow and cold. But then eventually – well, no barrier will last forever. So I need a map that shows the flow of every stream, no matter how small.”
The formerly taciturn Fran, who always seemed as though she were thinking two or three steps ahead of the conversation, was now energetic and voluble. Her expression was serious, but from her rambling words and rapid arm and leg movements, it was obvious she was in a hurry.
“The water would be full of ice and snow, and it would break through and overflow all at once. And it would look like–”
“It would look like the wings of an angel, I should think,” said Fran, looking steadily at Lawrence.
She was full of conviction but so happy that she could not believe it herself – that was what she looked like.
The water and snow had been blocked up, unable to flow, and had then broken free one moonlit night. It would’ve been beautiful, Lawrence thought, and it was an entirely appropriate thing to have been mistaken for an angel’s wings. Even knowing the truth, he could imagine calling the scene a miracle nonetheless.
Lawrence excused himself by reminding himself that he would normally never say such an irresponsible thing, and then he spoke to Fran. “I think that’s probably it,” he said.
Fran was nearly crying from happiness.
“I hope we get to see it.”
It seemed to Lawrence that everyone who had ever single-mindedly pursued a goal had something in common: this smile.
“Yes!” replied Fran quickly and clearly.
Fran and Col headed out to the lake again. It seemed she could not bear to spare even the short amount of time it would take to fetch the map.
Col seemed to have been infected with Fran’s excitement and followed her out, carrying their things with a seriousness he had never exhibited before.
Holo watched them go, a faintly sad smile playing about her lips. Perhaps she felt as though her favorite little brother were being stolen away.
“Well, then, I suppose we should be off ourselves,” said Lawrence, putting his foot in the horse’s stirrup.
Holo kept watching Fran and Col, but at these words she turned and came over, taking hold of Lawrence’s arm.
He took a breath at the same time she did and lifted her up onto the horse’s back. Lawrence followed her up, sitting right in front of her. Taking hold of the reins, he had the horse walk forward.
“She was like a child.” Lawrence had to smile at the memory of Fran. Even if he went back to Kerube and told Hugues of it, he doubted the man would believe him.
“’Tis even more childish to believe that an adult should greet a happy event with a calm face.” Holo’s arms were wrapped around Lawrence and her cheek pressed against his back so that when she talked, the movement of her ear and chin moved ticklishly against him.
“It’s true that people become more childish as they get older,” said Lawrence, wondering if he should have her sit in front of him.
“Mm. So you’re wondering just how old I’ll become, eh?” She had to be in a good mood to make such jokes. Lawrence laughed and Holo snickered as well, but once the
wave of mirth had receded, Holo continued, more seriously. “This seems very important to her.”
There by the hearth, Fran had spoken bashfully of someone she had called a friend. There had to be a reason she had come here without them.
Of course, it could very well be that this friend was an artisan in some town somewhere and unable to leave easily. But in this day and age, Lawrence could only imagine darker reasons.
By the way Fran had spoken, it sounded like there was a time when they had traveled together but had to separate during the journey.
The reason might have been injury, sickness, or worse.
Holo switched the cheek that was pressed against Lawrence’s back from one side to the other. “And to see such a smile from her after she’d worn so thick a mask. I wonder what she would’ve done had we not been the ones to escort her? That little fool.”
Lawrence sighed softly at Holo’s words. “Indeed. They probably would’ve been scared off by her single-minded determination to chase the angel legend, turned tail, and left her on her own. Such things happen quite often.”
Those who feared danger would gain nothing. And yet, pressing on in the face of danger would eventually lead to disaster. If they were to play the part of the bringers of good fortune, they might as well bring it. Holo laughed; she understood this perfectly well.
“Well, she’s got pluck enough to use Holo the Wisewolf of Yoitsu as her messenger. I’d say she’s got good fortune to spare.”
That was true enough. But it got Lawrence to thinking – just how lucky had he been to have Holo join him in his travels? The moment he thought about it, Holo seemed to see right through him, her cheek still pressed to his back. She chuckled an unpleasant, throaty chuckle. No doubt it had been part of her plan to sit behind him, leaving him nowhere to retreat.
“I’m fortunate indeed to have been blessed with such a wonderful traveling companion as yourself. There, are you happy?”
Holo raised her voice in a laugh. “And just who are you thanking?”
He had come along with her this far, so he had to see it through to the end. “Holo the Wisewolf of Yoitsu,” he said, gripping the reins.
“Mm. Well, see to it that you stay good and thankful.”
He heard the sound of her tail swishing.
Profit could warm his coin purse, but never his back. This sort of thing was nice once in a while.
Lawrence urged the horse on, feeling Holo’s warmth behind him.
When they returned to the village, it seemed like a perfectly ordinary day.
Some villagers were tending crops, some led livestock, some mended clothing, and some beat cooking pots clean.
Lawrence noticed Holo narrow her eyes wistfully. This was a scene that they could see anywhere – that they could continue to see no matter where they traveled.
“Their lack of integrity angers me, but I can understand why they would wish to protect this,” said Holo quietly and meaningfully.
“Indeed. And if Miss Fran is to be believed, there are even some villagers who didn’t want to claim Sister Katerina was a witch. Perhaps they meant to gain some redemption by keeping her cottage clean.”
It was exceedingly difficult to lead a straightforward, uncomplicated life. Holo remained silent – she understood that no single person was at fault, but was also unwilling to condone the situation.
“Well, if we do our job, the evil witch may well turn back into a pious nun. Then Fran will be able to dedicate herself to searching out the angel legend, she’ll draw us our map of the northlands, and everyone will be happy. Right?”
The landlord would probably continue his maneuvering, using the nun’s silent corpse as a new reason for the villagers to stay out of the forest. Holo was obviously unsatisfied with that, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Being a clever wolf, Holo could see there was nothing to be gained from anger and let her puffed-up cheeks deflate.
“So first things first – the map. It would be nice if we could track down Mr. Vino.”
The villagers in the fields were all bent over doing their work, and it was impossible to tell who was who. Lawrence decided to head into the village center first.
The people working in their homes took note of them but didn’t seem particularly interested, recognizing them from the previous day’s events. Perhaps Mueller or Vino had explained their circumstances.
Just as they were about to head for Vino’s house, they came across him in the village square, crafting arrows with some other men. They each had a white arrowhead in their hands and were carving and polishing them with stones. They were probably made from bones taken from the deer they had felled the previous day.
“Mr. Vino,” Lawrence called out.
Vino looked up and smiled when he realized who it was. He waved, set down the arrowhead he was working on, and trotted over to Lawrence. “Hey, there. You seem to have made it back safely.”
“Yes, thank you. Making arrows, eh?” asked Lawrence.
Vino glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “Aye. It’ll be spring soon, with humans and animals alike starting to stir. We’ll shoulder our arrows and travel around to nearby landlords and towns to sell them. How did you fare?”
Most arrows made in towns were of iron. They were strong but expensive, and because they were made under the control of the craftsmen’s guilds, they could be difficult to obtain with short notice for those without connections or with bad reputations in those towns. Without much else to do during the winter, the villagers seemed to be making ready to fill that demand with their handiwork.
Bone arrowheads were effective enough, especially when smeared with poison, and many archers even preferred them.
“Ah, yes, well, we have a favor to ask.”
“Oh ho. What is it?”
“Actually, we need a map drawn for us.”
Vino tilted his head at Lawrence’s words. “Ah, er, a… map, you say? We don’t much use them. What sort of map?”
“One of the area around the lake, including all the streams and rivers that flow out from it.”
It seemed to take Vino a moment to understand what Lawrence was saying, and he was silent. When he finally did speak, it was in a voice that sounded hesitant and worried about being overheard. “You’re not thinking of building a water mill, are you?” The simple villager’s tone was nervously joking.
“We have no need of a water mill,” said Lawrence without much enthusiasm. “It seems the way the water flows is important to the angel legend, and Sister Fran requires a map in order to properly guide us.”
The explanation smelled fishy even to Lawrence, but Vino nodded, evidently believing it. “Ah, I see. Well, if that’s all, it should be fine. The village has been told to cooperate with you, and it gives me an excuse for a break, so.”
Regardless of how it was in larger towns, in small villages everyone pitched in on the same work. What was important was not who had done what, but whether all the work had been done or not.
Some found this burdensome and left for the towns, but many others found the camaraderie pleasant and reassuring. Different ways of looking at the same thing could give very different impressions.
“If you please, then,” Lawrence replied.
“Well, shall we go see Mr. Mueller? His place is the only one with paper and ink.”
“Yes, let’s.”
Vino nodded, giving his fellow arrow carvers a shout before beginning to walk.
It was not unlike scenes Lawrence had seen at many trading companies, and from time to time, he had thought that it would be nice to have comrades. This pang came to him less now, though – because he had them.
Perhaps Holo was thinking the same thing, because when their eyes met, they shared a secret smile as they followed behind Vino.
“Hey, Mr. Mueller!” called Vino.
Mueller happened to be leaving his house at just that moment. At his side, he had a stack of dried skins, and in one hand he held a large, fine kni
fe. He was probably about to cut them up and make them into boots or the like. Despite Mueller’s large body and hands, Lawrence got the feeling he was very skilled in their use.
“Ah, with our visitors. What is it?”
“I’m glad we caught you. We need to borrow paper and ink.”
“Paper and ink?” Mueller was dubious, both because they were items not often used in the village and also because they were quite precious.
“They say they want a map. Of the lake area.”
“A map?” Mueller looked back and forth between Vino and Lawrence and seemed to think something over. “Fine,” he said eventually, then handed the skins and knife to Vino. “I’ll draw it.”
Holo looked down, the better to hide her smile beneath her hood. The moment he had heard Mueller’s answer, Vino’s face had fallen like a child whose toy has been taken away.
“You managed to sneak your way into getting meat yesterday without helping with the deer, didn’t you?” said Mueller with a smug, older brotherish smile.
He was right, so Vino had no choice but nod in sad agreement.
“Off you go, then. These are for Lanan, Suk, and Sylhet. Ask Jana about the big one.”
“Fine, fine!” grumbled Vino. Mueller grinned as he watched Vino go.
This was a good village, Lawrence thought. It was a shame to have such good cheer spoiled by rumors of a witch.
“I’ll draw it inside. A map of the lake, you said?”
“More precisely, the area surrounding the lake, including all the rivers and streams that flow out of it.”
Inside the house were hunting implements, knives and clasps for cleaning and tanning skins, workbenches, and sewn into the gaps between all these were necessities like a hearth and straw bed. It had a singular aura, totally unlike a town workshop or trading company. It was a sturdy place, fitting for a man who oversaw an entire village.
“Ah. That’s a strange map to need.” Unsurprisingly, his reaction was unlike Vino’s. And his mind was quicker. “I’ll bet Vino asked you if you were planning to build a water mill, eh?”
“He did indeed,” Lawrence confessed, which Mueller grinned at.
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