Page 2 of Spice & Wolf IV

  Lawrence grinned—just as surely as Holo’s stomach growled.

  Just when it seemed that the gently rolling hills would never end, the landscape shifted—here it appeared that God had taken a more active hand in the molding of the terrain.

  The undulating geography was like bread dough, carelessly folded over upon itself. A river flowed through the valley between the mounds, and here and there were lush stands of woods.

  The wagon on which the pair rode made little creaking sounds as it bumped along the road following the river.

  Lawrence looked over at Holo, wondering if he should have forced her to rest while they were in Enberch.

  Between nightfall and dawn, the chill of winter made deep sleep difficult. One was always waking, then sleeping, and then awake yet again. Though Holo’s true form was lupine, as a maiden she seemed to possess a maiden’s constitution.

  The long journey could not have been anything but difficult for her.

  She leaned against Lawrence, asleep, looking utterly exhausted.

  He considered asking for lodgings at the monastery.

  It was possible that the accommodations would be plain, which Holo might grumble at...As Lawrence considered the matter, he noticed that the river was beginning to widen.

  The river wound around a slope ahead so he could not see where it led. The basin was certainly widening, though, and the flow slowing.

  And then a certain unmistakable sound reached his ears.

  Lawrence immediately understood what lay ahead.

  Holo’s keen wolf ears picked up the noise as well. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked out from under her hood.

  Tereo was close.

  Just where the river’s flow slowed to a stop, forming a small pond ahead, a snug little waterwheel and millhouse were situated.

  “If there’s a waterwheel here, we must be close.”

  In places where water was limited, people would store it up, and then use the elevation change to power the waterwheel.

  Owing to the lack of water, the method worked for only so long—and with the harvest complete, the time when a line of villagers had waited to grind their grain at the millhouse was past.

  At the moment, the blackened, river weed-tinged millhouse merely sat there, forlorn.

  Just as Lawrence drew near enough to the mill that he could begin to make out the grain of the wood from which it was con­structed, a shadow leaped out from inside.

  Surprised, Lawrence pulled back on the reins. His cart horse let out a disgruntled whinny, shaking its head from side to side.

  It was a young man who had rushed out. His sleeves were rolled up despite the cold weather, and his arms were white with Hour.

  “Whoa—whoa there! Say, are you a traveler?” inquired the youth, coming around in front of the cart before Lawrence could either voice his irritation or continue along his way.

  “...I suppose if you put it that way, aye, a traveler I am. And you?”

  Though he was a boy, the youth could not have been more dif­ferent from Amati, the lad against whom Lawrence had sparred in the marketplace a week earlier. The boy in front of him was slender but had a sturdiness born of physical labor. He was about Lawrence’s height with the black hair and eyes that were com­mon in the northlands. He looked strong enough that Lawrence imagined him wielding an oxbow. His black hair was haphaz­ardly dusted with flour.

  Asking this flour-dusted boy, who had just emerged from a millhouse, who he was would be like standing before a baker’s stall filled with bread and asking what was for sale.

  “Ha, well, as you can see, I’m a miller. So, where’d you come from? You don’t look like you’re from Enberch.”

  Lawrence found the boy’s carefree smile rather childish.

  He inwardly guessed the boy to be six or seven years his junior, and he was suddenly wary of Holo catching yet another hapless pup’s eye—creating yet another mess for Lawrence to clean up.

  “As you might guess, I’ve a question for you,” said Lawrence. “How much longer will it take to make the town of Tereo?”

  “The town...of Tereo?” repeated the youth, stunned for a moment. He then grinned and continued. “If Tereo’s a town, then Enberch is the royal capital! I don’t know what brings you out there, but Tereo’s a tiny smear of a village. Just look at this pitiful millhouse!”

  Lawrence was vaguely surprised by the lad’s words until he remembered that like Holo, Diana (who had given him the information about the town) was hundreds of years old. In her time, Tereo may well have been the largest, busiest town in the region. Decline was hardly rare.

  Lawrence nodded and posed his question again. “So how far, then?”

  “It’s just ahead. Of course, it’s not like there’s a grand wall sur­rounding the place—you could even say you’re already in Tereo.”

  “I see. Well, thank you,” Lawrence said shortly, guessing that left to his own devices, the lad would probably continue his rant.

  Lawrence flicked the reins and began to ease the wagon around t he boy, who became flustered and quickly moved to block the wag­on’s path. “H-hey now, don’t be in such a hurry, eh, kind traveler?” With the youth’s arms blocking the none-too-wide path, there was no way for Lawrence to get by.

  It would have been easy enough to force his way past, but if the lad was injured, it would hardly leave a good first impression on the people of Tereo.

  Lawrence sighed. “What business have you, then?”

  “Ah, er—well...Ah! Your companion—she’s quite the beauty!” Holo, her head covered by the hood she wore, suppressed a chuckle, though her tail wagged her amusement.

  Lawrence might feel the occasional frisson of superiority thanks to his charming companion, but lately his worries over the trouble she seemed to attract outweighed those brief flashes of pleasure.

  “She is a nun on pilgrimage. Will that do? Only a tax collector can block the path of a merchant, sir.”

  “A-a nun?” The youth’s surprise at the unexpected word was obvious.

  Given the grand church at the center of Enberch, it seemed unlikely that the tiny village of Tereo would be entirely pagan. Even in the northern regions of Ploania, a pagan village would need considerable defenses to resist a nearby Church stronghold like Enberch.

  Surely there was a church in Tereo—so why would the youth be surprised?

  As Lawrence thought on it, the youth noticed his contempla­tive state. It seemed he was more concerned about Lawrence than Holo.

  “Understood, traveler. I won’t obstruct you any further. But lis­ten to my words—you’d best not bring a nun into Tereo.”

  “Oh?”

  It did not seem to Lawrence that the lad was joking.

  Just to be sure, he nudged Holo beneath the blankets to get her appraisal. She nodded quickly under her hood, confirming his assessment.

  “Why might that be? We’ve come with business at the Church in Tereo. Surely if there’s a church, there’s no reason for a nun not to enter the village. Or is there no—”

  “N-no, there is surely a church. But the reason...there’s a bit of a fight, you see. With an unpleasant lot from the Church in Enberch.” The youth’s expression was sharp, like a newly trained mercenary.

  The unexpected force of the youth’s gaze took Lawrence momentarily by surprise, but then he remembered the lad was just a miller.

  “So, that is how it is. How should I say it...? If a nun were to arrive now, things could become complicated. That is why I’d rather you didn’t go.” Putting away his hostility, the youth was now suddenly the picture of good-natured concern—but still, there was something strange about him.

  Given that he did not seem to bear Lawrence and Holo any particular ill will, Lawrence decided not to question him further.

  “I see. Well, we’ll be cautious. Surely we won’t be thrown out as soon as we arrive.”

  “Well...no, I don’t suppose you will.”

  “My thanks to you. I’ll ke
ep your advice in mind. Suppose she’s not dressed as a nun—no one would mind, then, would they?” The youth seemed to relax. “That would be a boon, yes.” His wariness of Lawrence seemed to have turned to entreaty. “But what business have you with the church?”

  “We need directions.”

  “Directions?” The youth scratched his face, dubious. “So...so you haven’t come to do business, then. You’re a merchant, right?”

  “Aye, and you’re a miller, are you not?”

  The boy grinned as though his nose has been flicked, then slumped, defeated. “And here I was hoping I might be of some use to you in business.”

  “I’ll call on you if need be. Now, may I pass?”

  The youth seemed to have something yet to say, but unable to put the words together, he nodded briefly and gave way.

  The look he gave Lawrence was a deeply imploring one.

  It was clear, though, that he was not asking for an information fee. Lawrence loosened his grip on the reins and extended his hand to the youth. He looked directly into the boy’s eyes, speaking clearly and evenly “My name is Kraft Lawrence. What are you called?”

  In an instant, the lad’s face blossomed into a smile. “Evan! I-I’m Gyoam Evan.”

  “Evan, then. Understood. I’ll remember that.”

  “Please—please do!” the young miller shouted in a voice loud enough to cause an easily startled horse to panic, gripping Law­rence’s hand tightly. “Come by upon your return, if you would,” he added as he stepped back from the wagon and into the door­way of the little millhouse.

  He stood there in front of the black wooden millhouse, his face whitened with flour, looking distinctly lonely as he watched Law­rence and Holo drive away.

  Then—just as Lawrence had expected—Holo turned to look over her shoulder, waving a hand tentatively to the youth. He started as if surprised, then returned her wave grandly with both hands, a huge smile on his face.

  He seemed less like a lad waving to a beautiful maiden and more like a boy happy to have found a friend.

  The path ahead curved to the right, putting Evan’s mill out of sight. Holo turned back around to face forward.

  “Hmph. The boy seemed to look at you more than he did me,” she announced, displeased.

  Lawrence smiled for a moment, then heaved a sigh and replied, “Well, he’s a miller. His is not an easy life.”

  Holo regarded Lawrence dubiously, her head cocked.

  There must have been a reason behind the lad’s desire to shake hands with Lawrence the merchant rather than Holo the maiden.

  But was it a pleasant reason? Surely, the answer was no.

  “It’s no different from being a shepherd. Both are necessary jobs, but the people who toil in them are held in contempt in towns and villages.”

  Naturally depending on the region, this was not always the case. But Lawrence was quite sure that the people of Tereo did not hold the millhouse here in much regard.

  “For example,” continued Lawrence, “think of the wheat that’s in the pouch about your neck.”

  Holo did indeed wear a small pouch around her neck—though it was hidden beneath layers of clothing at the moment—which contained the wheat in which her essence dwelled.

  “If you were to hull and grind that much wheat, how much Hour do you think it would yield?”

  Holo looked down at her chest.

  She could control the harvest’s quality and quantity, but even she seemed not to be entirely sure how much flour would come from the handful of grain.

  “Suppose you have this much grain,” said Lawrence, putting the reins down for a moment and tracing the outline of a small mound in his hand. “If you hull and grind it, you’d probably get about this much flour,” he continued, making a much smaller circle with his index finger and thumb.

  Once ground in a mill, wheat’s volume became surprisingly small.

  So what must a farmer think, toiling day in and day out to raise his crop, praying always to the god of the harvest, only to see his months of labor ground into a depressingly small amount of wheat?

  Holo uttered a small sound of assent after Lawrence put the question to her.

  “They say that millers at the waterwheel have six fingers and that the sixth grows from the palm—for the purpose of stealing flour. Also, most waterwheels are owned by the local landlord, who levies a tax on all who grind their grain there. But the land­lord can’t watch over the millhouse all day, so who do you sup­pose collects taxes in his place?”

  “I suppose it would be the miller.”

  Lawrence nodded and continued. “Aye, and no one is happy about paying taxes. But it is necessary. So who do you suppose bears the brunt of their resentment?”

  She might not have been human, but Holo’s understanding of the human world was deep.

  She knew the answer immediately.

  “Ah, I see the way of it. So the reason that pup was wagging his tail with such vigor at you, rather than me, was—”

  “Even so,” said Lawrence with a sigh and a nod. Ahead of them, the houses of the village of Tereo finally came into view. “He would like nothing better than to leave this village.”

  Millwork was an important job that had to be done.

  But those who did the thankless task were often resented.

  The more thoroughly grain was ground, the better the rise of the bread made from it.

  However, the finer the grind, the smaller the volume of the resulting flour.

  Doing a good job yet bearing the resentment of those who ben­efited from it—Lawrence had heard the story somewhere else. Holo looked straight ahead, as though sorry she had asked.

  “But it’s a necessary task, and there are those who appreciate it,” said Lawrence. He stroked Holo’s head gently before taking up the reins again. Holo nodded slightly under his touch.

  Though Evan had called it a tiny smear of a village, Tereo was not so bad as he would have Lawrence believe.

  The only real difference between a town and a village was the presence of a wall. There were plenty of “towns” with walls barely more than a rickety wooden fence, so for a supposed village, Tereo was rather grand.

  Like other villages, its buildings were not packed closely together (instead they had been erected in a more scattered fash­ion), but there was some stone-walled architecture in what seemed to be the heart of Tereo. The streets, while not cobbled, were clean and free from holes. The church was large enough to be visible a fair distance away, and it had a proper tower and bell.

  Truly, in order to be called a town, all Tereo lacked was a wall.

  Heeding Evan’s warning, Holo covered her head with Law­rence’s coat, cinching it up with a cord about her neck as though she expected rain. She eschewed her typical towngirl clothing. It seemed a bit too stylish and might attract attention.

  Holo stood out enough as it was.

  Once she had finished changing, Lawrence steered the cart toward the buildings of the village.

  Having no walls meant there was no gatehouse, which in turn ensured that travelers passing through the village could not be taxed.

  There was no one to stop the cart as it rolled into town. A man busy bundling sheaves of wheat stared openly at Lawrence and Holo; Lawrence nodded in greeting.

  The village was dusty, its smaller streets bumpy and pitted, Buildings of both stone and wood were on the large side with low roofs. Many of the houses had gardens—a rare sight in larger towns.

  Here and there along the roadside were piles of straw, the sign of the recently concluded harvest. Bundles of firewood were interspersed among them.

  Pedestrians were few; it seemed as if they were outnumbered by the pigs and chickens that wandered here and there.

  The one way that the village was like other places of its kind was the staring—upon noticing the travelers, every villager stared at Lawrence and Holo.

  In this sense, Tereo was every bit a small village.

  Lawrence felt his outsi
der status keenly in a way he hadn’t felt in many years.

  He had grown up in a poor village himself. He was well aware that such places offered little in the way of amusement and that a traveler was the perfect diversion.

  Lawrence thought on this as he drove. They eventually arrived at a wide square with a great block of stone placed in the center.

  It seemed to be the center of the village, surrounded as it was by various buildings.

  Based on the wrought iron signs that hung from the buildings’ eaves, there appeared to be a tavern, an inn, and a baker’s shop, along with what seemed to be a wool weaver’s workshop. A build­ing with a larger entrance faced the street, and it was surely a com­mon area where the harvested wheat could be threshed and sifted.

  Other buildings seemed to be the homes of the village’s older, more influential families—and of course, there was also the church.

  There were unsurprisingly a good number of people—children playing in the square and adults standing and talking. Lawrence and Holo found themselves yet again the subject of curious stares.

  “That’s quite a stone there. What’s it used for?” asked Holo casually, unconcerned by the villagers’ scrutiny.

  “Probably for ceremonial use in some festival or for dancing or maybe for holding meetings, I suppose.”

  The stone in question had a smooth, flat surface and came up to about Lawrence’s waist. A wooden ladder leaned against it, which suggested the stone hadn’t been placed here as a mere landmark.

  The only way to know for sure would be to ask a villager, but Holo merely nodded vaguely and leaned back against the wagon seat.

  Lawrence guided the wagon around the stone and toward the church.

  Despite the constant bombardment of curious gazes, it was clear that this was no isolated mountain hamlet.

  The wagon stopped in front of the church, at which point the villagers seemed to assume that the pair had come to pray for safe travel, and the level of interest dropped.

  “Seems like they’re almost disappointed,” muttered Lawrence to Holo once he’d stopped the wagon and climbed down. Holo smiled conspiratorially.