Wolf & Parchment, Volume 2

by Isuna Hasekura

  “Well, I guess that’s your job.”

  Myuri shrugged and pressed a gloved hand to her nose.

  “But it’s cold. I feel like I’m going to get sick. Let’s at least hide behind a rock.”

  Though she was used to the snowy mountains of Nyohhira, this was a place where the sea wind blew. They walked up the pier, supporting each other, and landed on the reef. It was too small to be called an island, and in addition to the shedlike building, it would have felt crowded with four or five adults huddled around a fire.

  The waves almost reached their feet, perhaps because it was high tide, and they were splashed with water whenever the wind blew. If something happened, it seemed impossible to swim to a port with people, and no one would notice yells or a raised flag.

  Were someone to truly be living here day to day, there was no way they would be of ordinary sensibilities.

  It was like the legendary recluse living in a hermitage in the desert from the scripture.

  “Myuri, please wait for me in that hollow.”

  Col lowered his voice but not because he was going over some secret plan. Monasteries were silent as a rule.

  “Why? I want to see the inside, too.”

  Myuri objected, of course, and spoke frankly.

  “Women cannot enter monasteries. This is a matter of respect for the faith.”

  She began to say something, but she seemed to tell by his expression whether he would give in if she argued some more. She pursed her lips, disappointed, and looked away in a huff.

  “It will be over quickly.”

  He patted her shoulders lightly before taking a deep breath. He watched her sit down before making his way to the monastery, but when he glanced back, she was dramatically hugging her knees and making herself smaller. He sighed, returned to her again, and wrapped his own scarf around her neck. The wool scarf covered her red nose, and she looked up at him as though to say, “Oh well, I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

  And once again, he neared the stone building. There was not a scrap of luxury about it, and it felt more like a storage shed in the backyard of a company building that could be found in a large town. It looked like it could fit, at the most, two rooms, and one just barely big enough to fit an adult lying down. It was a place completely unrelated to the comforts of living, in various senses of the word, and it was strange how someone could truly reside here.

  However, candlelight poured from a window—a square simply cut out from the walls, not even any oiled paper to cover the holes.

  There was no door, and hanging in front of the entrance was the skin of a shark or something of the sort.

  He pushed aside the hard, cold, rough skin and found a place of prayer.

  There was a shelf on the opposite wall of the entrance with lit candlestands on either side of it. In the middle sat a figure of the Black-Mother. This was a substitute for an altar.

  There was nothing else in the dreary room, but something odd suddenly caught his eye. Beneath the altar was the sea.

  Perhaps due to the outside light, the color of the water had changed from blue to green. There were no waves since the walls cut it off, but it was still clearly connected to the sea outside in some fashion. It was possible that the monk bathed there as he prayed, but Col shivered when he imagined it. If he dipped his body in there, there was a chance the icy seas would drag him right out.

  “Do you need something?”

  Col jumped at the sudden voice.

  Flustered, he turned around, and from the other room, a man as thin as a twig with a beard that had never been cut was standing, studying him. If he had seen him in town, Col would have certainly assumed he was a beggar.

  But his hands looked like they had been painted pitch-black, signifying that this person was the monk on this island.

  “P-pardon my intrusion.”

  Col straightened his posture, placed his hand on his chest, and bowed his head.

  “I am called Tote Col. I aspire to be a man of the faith.”

  When he saw the man’s arms as he bowed his head, he winced. The skin had become like leather from the salt and dirt, and it looked more like a wood carving than human arms. When he raised his head, the eyes peeking out from behind those eyelids looked fake to Col, who could not detect any emotion residing in them, almost like a deer in the mountains.

  “For my studies, I wished to hear more about the story of the Black-Mother.”

  His legs were shaking not only due to the cold. The monk wore tattered rags, and his legs were dreadfully bare. Col felt embarrassed for how warmly he dressed. He cowered before this man.

  Then the monk opened his mouth.

  “Pious servant of God. I am nothing but a fleck of dust that offers prayer. God orders us to give what we have, but I have nothing. I cannot even produce hot water.”

  The monk, nearly every feature but his eyes mostly hidden between his hair and his beard, looked troubled, even compassionate as he considered Col.

  “State my name to the harbor. Those of kind hearts will welcome you warmly.”

  The monk called himself Autumn.

  He could not find it in himself to question the righteousness of faith to this Autumn.

  What made him think that was inside of Autumn.

  “There is nothing but prayer to be found here, traveler from the south.”

  He lingered sadly, and perhaps because they were growing numb from the cold, he quietly closed and opened his pitch-black hands once. Behind him, Col could see a figure of the Holy Mother he was working on as well as his few tools.

  Yosef had said that this man made all the Black-Mother figures by himself. He could not imagine how much perseverance was needed to create such detail in this cold, drafty stone structure. Even when Col occasionally warmed his hands while he transcribed, it was indescribable hardship to work during the winter.

  He imagined Autumn carving the figures of the Holy Mother and thought—

  He was simply carving away his very soul.

  His voice slowly rose from his throat not out of respect.

  It was something that was more similar to fear.

  “May…”

  He managed to rouse his wavering voice and asked.

  “May I ask just one thing?”

  Autumn looked at him with the eyes of a grazing deer, then closed them, signifying he was listening.

  “What is it…that supports your faith?”

  There were those who had tremendous theological knowledge, whose sermons touched the hearts of people, yet drank in the hot springs and ogled naked dancers. There were others who, once they donned the robes, suddenly became self-restrained, austere servants of God. He deemed that irresponsible enough, but God never denied the occasional episode of self-care.

  But Autumn was different.

  He had the eyes of a deer that ate nothing but grass or one that even refused to eat that grass.

  Col wanted to know so badly what had caused him to be that way.

  “What will you do with that information?”

  It sounded like a question from a demon, because this man had no interest in Col himself.

  And yet, he squeezed out the courage to ask.

  “I wish to know what your faith is like.”

  Even Col was aware of how insolent the query sounded coming from a young man in nice, warm clothes. He saw now how he had stood in the shoals and assumed he knew the depths of the ocean. Such faith was actually possible in this world.

  But he felt like he had to ask now. He could not feel any attachment that Autumn might have had on life, and if he did not reach out now, the man might disappear forever into the heights where Col could not reach.

  “What faith is…?” Autumn murmured from behind his beard. His shoulders shook.

  It took Col a while to notice that he was laughing.

  Autumn opened his eyes slowly. Perhaps he was not looking at Col out of astonishment?

  “Faith, to me, is salvation. So it is obvious what it
is that supports me.”

  What slowly came to look at Col were the eyes of a martyr.

  “The awareness of my sins.”

  At that moment, Autumn seemed to change. The more he thought about that, the air around him transformed. From the depths of his being, which had been like a plant just before, gushed out anger, deeper than the seas itself.

  His trembling legs were no longer his imagination, and he found it hard to breathe.

  If this anger was what Autumn directed at his own sin, then it was too late for the word repentance. He loathed himself. He was a lion—running wild, baring its fangs, claws digging deep, drowning.

  As Col simply stood there, overwhelmed by the man’s presence, it was as though Autumn had shut the door to his heart. Winter changed to spring in an instant, and he returned to his previous self, speaking softly.

  “Of course, I will not say that is what makes up faith in its entirety. There may be faith that gives thanks for a happy life under God’s will.”

  As though to show that his words were neither lie nor merely concern for Col, Autumn softened his eyes for a moment.

  But he soon sighed, and his eyes returned to the color of the deep sea.

  “I am a sinner. Thus…”

  He gave a dry cough.

  “…I shall not side with Winfiel, nor the Church.”

  Col did not dare raise his voice in a cry, but he was so startled he almost made a noise.

  As he recoiled, Autumn closed and opened his hands again.

  “This island cannot exist without trade. There are many quick-eared merchants. News of the commotion in Atiph has already reached us. Besides, it has been almost three years since both sides began fighting. It is about time something happened.”

  He spoke like a sage, stepping down from his pedestal just to speak to him.

  “You say you are with the Debau Company, so perhaps a messenger from Winfiel? Maybe not.”

  A chill went down Col’s spine—he knew that much. He had assumed this man was a monk, removed from all worldly affairs. He assumed that this man, of all people, was unconcerned with the mortal world, surrounded by the walls of a house of God, living by prayer all day, every day.

  “Well, I understand if you do not wish to answer. But…”

  It was just as he was about to continue speaking.

  “Stop, stop!”

  Col could hear Myuri’s voice coming from outside.

  “Let go, I said. Let me go!”

  He wondered what was happening and looked at Autumn, but the monk gazed out the entrance, as though he might comment on how strong the wind was.

  Aware of how rude it was, Col turned on his heel to go outside, and he reeled. There was a group of people who looked like their very livelihood was ruffianism, and Myuri, her arm gripped by one of them, had been strung up like captured game.

  Then, behind them, floating on the water, was a sword-shaped boat.

  “Y-you people—!”

  Col was about to speak, but it occurred to him that it was rather himself and Myuri who were the intruders.

  This was a sanctuary of the islands, and not even the islanders could approach casually.

  “Leave her be. These are my guests.”

  Col heard a voice from behind him. Autumn showed himself, and the men immediately let go of Myuri and dropped to their knees. It was the bow of a servant.

  Myuri, now freed, scrambled over to Col and clung to him.

  “What is this?”

  One man answered the monk’s short question.

  “We beg you to come with us.”

  After he spoke, Col could hear a long, deep inhale from Autumn.

  “Very well.”

  At his response, the men rose and created a path for him.

  No matter how he looked at it, they appeared to be pirates, and they served Autumn.

  And so the answer was simple.

  This was the center of faith for the northern islands, and—

  “You said you were called Tote Col.”

  Before he took his first step, Autumn spoke.

  “Why don’t you come see the depths of my sins for yourself?”

  The thing made him aware of the sins that supported this boulder-like faith.

  “And then leave, for the sake of this island.”

  He did not wait for Col’s response and walked down the path the pirates had made for him.

  Though he was as skinny as a dried branch, he did not budge in the gusts of wind.

  The pirates on standby at the pier began their preparations for Autumn to come aboard. The rest of them stared at the intruders from the south.

  It was different from hostility. This was a gaze reserved for outsiders.

  “Lord Autumn has commanded it.”

  One of them spoke. Refusing now would lead to an even worse outcome, and Col wondered what Autumn was up to, of course. A monk led pirates, and he prayed because of his awareness of his sins. His hands were pitch-black from making the figures of the Holy Mother, but it could also mean his hands were dirtied with sin.

  Col was searching for allies for the Kingdom of Winfiel in their fight against a corrupted Church.

  He needed to know what was happening in this land, where a sinful monk spread his teachings.

  “Oh, God be willing…” he managed to reply, and without showing any emotion, they headed for the boat.

  Beside the pier sat a small vessel with several oars. After some people climbed in, it made its way to a larger ship waiting a bit farther out. The boat captain who had brought them to the island in the first place was watching on from a distance, a worried expression on his face.

  “I wish I was a bird.” Myuri mumbled.

  Of course, if she were, they might be able to escape.

  “But there are certain things we cannot run from.”

  “…?”

  Myuri looked at him with a puzzled expression, and one pirate pointed silently to the empty boat.

  Col took her hand and jumped aboard.

  Then, as she put her hand to her chest, she said, “Just say the word, Brother.”

  And I will become a wolf, is no doubt what she meant.

  He appreciated her spirit but did not imagine that would solve any of their problems now.

  The pirates, who existed to resolve issues that could not be dealt with using talk, had come to call on the monk to iron out a problem that could not be tackled with violence.

  What would he show them?

  The numerous long oars poking out from the ship on the contour of its slim body made it look like a skeleton.

  The ship they boarded was called a galley, one that was known for how slaves and prisoners worked the oars to propel the vessel at high speeds.

  It was quite late afternoon; clouds began to cover the sky, and the sea was dark as night came early in the winter.

  The wind was strong, and white, foamy waves appeared here and there. There was no shouting or singing on deck, and the pirates rowed silently. Autumn sat at the bow of the ship with his head bowed, like a criminal about to be sent to the gallows.

  Col and Myuri had been left in the back of the deck. They were not being watched over, nor were their hands tied. In any case, the crew held no interest in them.

  It could have been said the seafarers were dedicated to their work, but even passionate craftsmen sang songs about their craft.

  “It’s like a ghost ship.” Myuri murmured.

  She must have heard that word from a guest in Nyohhira, but that was exactly what it was. They hushed themselves, making it feel like only the dead rode on this ship. That was all he could see.

  The ship passed straight across the lake in the sea and entered the cluster of islands that surrounded the lake. As they did so, the waves quieted and the wind died down. How they lifted the oars, brought them back down into the water, paddled, then raised them again all in a line began to look like a pagan ritual.

  The ship slipped between the islands. The sh
ip they had come on from Atiph could not compare to its speed. He now understood that when war finally broke out between the Kingdom of Winfiel and the Church, this power would become a crucial element to whomever it sided with. But at the same time, because he knew that they would be counted among military powers, Autumn listened for sounds of the outside from his stone shed.

  However, Autumn had said he would not side with either power.

  Perhaps it was due to faith, or maybe there was another reason.

  Next to Myuri, who touched the pouch of wheat at her chest and whose eyes glinted on guard, Col gripped the Church’s crest at his chest in anxiousness.

  The only sound on the boat was that of the oars hitting the water as they passed several islands. Each was impressively bare of trees. Had the forest burned in the eruption at Caeson, then the entire region would have perished.

  Their gratitude toward the Holy Mother was certainly not an exaggeration.

  But to be conscious of one’s sins? To continue to regret giving one’s entirety to the Holy Mother? What sin was Autumn repenting for to continue carving figures of the Black-Mother?

  Then, there was movement on deck. At some point, two pirates stood on either side of Autumn at the bow—one held a big shield, and the other a large wooden mallet. The pirates stopped rowing and the boat glided across the water by energy alone.

  Before long, the mallet hit the shield, and a loud dong, dong echoed throughout.

  “It’s the signal to attack.” Myuri said, having probably heard stories of pirates before.

  As the sound of the shield continued to echo, everyone else grabbed their weapons. There was a thud and a shock that ran through the ship, perhaps because it had hit the seafloor. The water must have been rather shallow, as the pirates simply jumped off the ship and into the sea.

  They were not instructed to get off or to stay. They were being treated as though they were not there at all, and Col started to feel as though he was having a nightmare.

  Under the dim, leaden skies, he looked at Myuri beside him.

  “I doubt anything fun to watch will happen.”

  The girl, her nose flushed, narrowed her red, forest spirit–like eyes.