Lawrence found himself surprised by those who lived like this—people for whom status or wealth was a mere fantasy.
“No, not at all. However, I appear to have asked him something terrible, as he seemed deeply frightened…,” Lawrence said, trying to elicit useful information.
The bearded man smiled ruefully. “Misfortune always comes from the outside, after all.”
He seemed to know the way of the world. Perhaps he handled the village’s dealings with the outside world. So if Lawrence showed his thanks, perhaps it would be returned in kind.
“My name is Kraft Lawrence. I’m a traveling merchant,” he said, extending his right hand.
The man looked Lawrence straight in the face, then down to his own hand, then to the hand Lawrence offered. After a time, he finally took the hand. “Heureux Mueller,” he said. “So, there aren’t many possibilities for why the elder would be so afraid. One, his time has come. Two, a tax collector has come. Three, someone asking after bad rumors has come.”
Mountain villages relied on hunting in between stints of farming work. Mueller’s folded arms were twice as thick as Lawrence’s and splattered with blood up to their elbows, which made them seem even more intimidating. Though Lawrence felt no malice from him or the men on either side of him, these were men who radiated heat from head to toe, blades in hand, as though to offer proof they had just been doing hard labor.
But if he backed down here, it would be implying a debt on their part to him. “Actually, we’ve come to hear the legend of the angel.”
“The angel?” The man knit his brow and glanced at Lawrence’s traveling companions behind him. Then he continued, as though suddenly remembering something, “Oh! So that’s it, eh?”
“Might we be able to hear more?” Lawrence asked, his eyes upturned with a trace of humility.
Mueller laughed the hearty laugh of the hunter, though it had a trace of the farmer’s gentle smile in it. “Ha-ha-ha! You needn’t bow and scrape so. I’ll bet you’ve heard all sorts of bad things about this village in town. They all think anyone who doesn’t live in a town are ignorant and superstitious. And I suppose there are some ignorant villages around, but not us. I’ll tell you as much as you want to hear of the angel legend.”
If people could believe each other’s words, then there would be no liars or thieves anywhere in the world and no reason for doubt.
Even supposing the man was such a good liar that Lawrence could not see through him, Holo would not be deceived.
“Now then, kind traveler…Mr. Lawrence, was it? Have you and your companions eaten?”
Had he been traveling by himself, he would not have refused a meal even if he had already been full. But Lawrence gave Fran a questioning look, and the well-traveled Fran seemed to agree.
“No, we haven’t,” said Lawrence.
“Then we’ll treat you to some of the deer we’ve just slaughtered,” said Mueller. He looked around, perhaps searching for the person who would take on that duty.
“Vino, we’ll handle the tanning. Let us borrow your hearth, will you?”
“Ah, God’s will be done,” said the man called Vino jokingly. Tanning was hard work, so to instead lend one’s hearth out and entertain guests, knowing he would have his own share of meat and wine, was cause for a pleased word or two.
But Mueller’s face turned stern. “This isn’t leisure time, understand?” He was of goodly years in addition to his size, so when he turned intimidating, it was rather impressive.
Vino’s affability led him to duck his head. “I know, I know. ‘No wine,’ right?”
Lawrence chuckled a sincere laugh at the friendly antics of the villagers. But then he noticed Fran watching the proceedings with a look that could only be described as nostalgic. She had apparently grown up in the home of a wealthy money changer in the south, so it was a bit strange for her to be nostalgic for this kind of conversation.
Lawrence wondered if she was thinking about the things that had happened on her travels thus far, when Vino turned to him and spoke. “Now then, this way. Follow me!”
Vino led Lawrence and company into a typical village cottage. Beside the cottage was a little field without so much as a fence, and beside that were stakes to which goats and chickens were tied. A large awning hung out over the garden, under which a woman with a baby tied to her back sat on the ground, kerchief around her head as she worked grain on a grindstone in front of her.
Vino called out lightly to her, and as he approached, he gave the baby a kiss, leading Lawrence to wonder if he and the woman were husband and wife. The woman wiped the sweat from her brow and stood, clapping her hands free from dust as she approached Lawrence and looked the little group over in mild surprise. She then nodded as though she had accepted a great responsibility.
“I’ll go fetch some firewood, so please go and wait inside.”
Vino nodded, and Lawrence and his companions entered their home.
The floor was packed earth, and over the hearth hung a hook from the ceiling. There was a small, snug opening in the ceiling to let smoke escape, and Lawrence thought he could see traces of birds’ nests built boldly into the roof. In one corner of the room, straw raincoats and cages hung. It was every inch the winter cottage. There was a tenuous little fire smoldering in the hearth, which somehow made it look even colder.
Fran was content to play the guest and sat unhesitatingly down by the hearth. When Holo and Col started poking at the strings of onions hanging from the beams, Vino returned from the field behind the cottage with an armful of firewood.
“So you grind flour by hand in this village?”
“Hmm? Ah, oh yes. You can just leave your things there. We’ll just add these to the fire…there. I’ll go get some meat,” said Vino as he skillfully lay the firewood in the hearth. He gave it a couple of strong blows and then nodded in satisfaction before hurrying back out of the cottage.
“Why do you ask?” Holo asked.
“Hmm?”
Holo was gazing out through a crack in a wooden window set in one corner of the earth wall and had not even looked back when she had asked her question. Perhaps she meant the flour grinding.
“Oh, I was just thinking that it’s rare to see people grinding flour by hand when there’s a river nearby,” said Lawrence.
The millstone Vino’s wife had been using was essentially two flat stones placed one atop the other, and between them enough flour could be ground to suffice for a single family’s daily needs. But of course the bigger the stone, the greater the amount of flour that could be ground at once.
Since grinding enough to bake bread every day was crucial, most villages would build a water mill, if there was a river nearby, that all the villagers could use. But not for free—in most places, the local landowner would construct the mill and tax villagers or merchants for its use. The landlord could not collect taxes from villagers who ground their grain by hand, and it struck Lawrence as odd.
Holo nodded, though it was unclear whether she accepted Lawrence’s explanation or not—probably because she simply lacked interest.
Lawrence sat across the hearth from Fran, and Holo and Col followed him. He indicated that Holo should sit next to Fran. She was Fran’s chaperone, after all, so she could not very well do otherwise. Holo looked irritated but complied.
Fran, meanwhile, had been quiet the entire time, but Lawrence got the feeling she had paid attention during his explanation of the millstones. He would have to ask Holo about that later.
As the thought occurred to Lawrence, Vino returned, carrying a basket filled with venison.
Into a burbling, boiling pot hanging from the hook, which in turn hung from the ceiling, were tossed thin, meager carrots, burdock, and other vegetables. Beside the pot the pile of venison was made ready, and despite having eaten so much bread, Holo fidgeted beneath her robe at the sight of it.
Lawrence felt bad for being treated so and had offered something of theirs—not bread or jerky from their large st
ores, but rather a modest amount of salt. At this, Vino and his wife’s eyes had gone round, and Lawrence was reminded of how drastically conditions could change from one place to another. Here there was plenty of venison but obtaining salt was difficult.
If he was to tell Holo that this principle was the key to business, he would get nothing more than a disdainful sniff for his trouble, no doubt.
“Should be ready soon,” declared Vino as his wife stirred the pot of vegetables and added the meat.
Without the meat, it probably would not have been to Holo’s liking, but the stew had a familiar earthy smell. The meat was soon boiled and portioned out to Col, Lawrence, and Holo in order of proximity.
When it came time to serve the still-silent Fran, she spoke up slowly. “I-I cannot eat meat—”
“Oh!” said Vino’s wife, who was doing the ladling.
In a village like this one, with no church, it was possible that the knowledge that clergy members abstained from meat was rather sparse.
Vino’s wife looked hastily at Holo, who was nearly on the verge of tears at the prospect of not being able to eat meat.
Surprisingly it was Vino who spoke up next. “Ah, yes, I’ve heard that moderation pleases God, but…I believe you may at least eat some vegetables.”
Holo nodded, and Vino continued speaking.
“This deer ate nothing but leaves from the day it was born, so it’s no different than those plants it ate.” Vino took the ladle from his wife and served Holo five generous slices of venison. He offered to do the same for Fran, but beneath her hood she smiled and refused. Lawrence wondered if Vino would insist, but in the end, Fran’s bowl was filled with only broth and vegetables.
This was not because he was surprised by the depth of her piety, but rather because he had noticed the color of her skin. Vino’s shock was obvious. Given that even people in a busy town would have the same reaction, it was hardly strange that these villagers were surprised.
And being responsible for welcoming these guests, it would bring him shame if he treated them impolitely. “Now, then, please eat,” Vino said, recovering his composure.
Col ate the contents of the bowl he was given without his usual haste, instead seeming to savor each bite. Perhaps it reminded him of the food in his own village. That was the sort of stew they were given, after all.
“It’s delicious.”
It was such a standard phrase, but Vino and his wife smiled, pleased.
“The deer was butchered just this morning. You’re quite lucky.”
“It’s true, meat this good is hard to come by in towns.”
The key to being liked by villagers was to eat and drink well. Holo immediately asked for seconds, and Vino’s eyes went round as he laughed heartily.
“So, you’re here for the legend of the angel? You’d come all the way out here just for that?” Vino adjusted the logs in the hearth, causing sparks to go flying up toward the roof. The risk of fire made such actions unthinkable in a town, but here if the house burned, they could simply build another one, and there was little danger that the fire would spread to nearby buildings.
“Yes. Though we heard the broad strokes of it back in town.” Lawrence set his bowl down before wiping his mouth and gesturing to Fran. “Circumstances led to my becoming a guide for Miss Fran here, and she simply must learn more about the legend.”
“I see…But why would a nun wish to know such a thing?”
“While Miss Fran is a nun who’s pledged service to her holy order, she’s also an exceptional silversmith. The bishop has charged her to make a silver statue in the image of the angel.”
“I see…” Vino gave a hesitant smile as he regarded Fran. Fran averted her eyes as though used to this sort of treatment. In doing so, she did seem quite the godly nun.
By contrast, Holo opened her mouth wide, the better to accommodate a large piece of meat. Though she froze at a look from Lawrence, her devout smile was displayed only after she had filled her mouth with venison.
“Holo here is serving Miss Fran by the order of the bishop, and as the boy Col was born in the north, he’s acting as our guide. And my unworthy self is acting as our little group’s eyes and ears.” Lawrence cleared his throat and continued. “So, we’re hoping to hear more. And…” He leaned forward as though about to ask a favor. “If possible, we’d like to be taken to the place where the legend is said to have transpired.”
Vino stuck his knife into a slice of meat and ate it raw. Perhaps such eating habits were not rare in cold climes, for Col was unsurprised. Strangely it was Holo who seemed the most taken aback.
“Aye, I don’t mind doing that, but…”
Places of story and legend were often important to villagers. Lawrence had anticipated it being a point of contention even if he convinced them, but things were proceeding surprisingly smooth.
As he agreed, Vino’s face was, if anything, worried rather than unwilling. He continued, “I wonder if it will be all right, though. I saw your provisions when you arrived—do you plan on staying the night in the witch’s forest?”
“The witch’s…forest?”
“That’s the source of all the strange rumors about our village here. You’ve heard about the witch, haven’t you?”
Perhaps remembering Mueller’s warnings, Vino was only drinking small sips of the tart wine he had poured his guests, and he filled the cup in his hand with an irritated expression.
If there was a time to feign ignorance, this was it. “As far as that goes, we’d only heard that there were rumors…”
“Mm, is that so? Maybe the stories they tell in town are finally calming down. Anyway, it’s not a complicated tale. If you want to go to the witch’s forest, I can lead you right there. It’s not far.”
Lawrence met Fran’s eyes and saw her slight nod. “If it’s no trouble, then the sooner the better.”
“Ha-ha-ha, trouble? Thanks to you lot coming, I’ve gotten to eat venison and drink wine and call it work! I suppose merchants and nuns don’t do it often, but butchering a deer is hard work!”
The meat, skin, bones, and organs had to be separated and dealt with, each in their own way. Meat was preserved, skin was tanned before it rotted, and organs were boiled or made into sausage. Bones could become cooking implements, arrowheads, or trinkets while tendons could be made into tough, sturdy strings and ties.
But all of these parts would go bad if not tended to immediately, so it was difficult, hurried work.
Vino took a drink of wine. “Now, then. I suppose I’ll need to tell you the legend of the angel before we go. It’ll be no good if I wind up telling you the tale in the middle of the witch’s forest,” he said with a grin.
For all that the villagers avoided the witch’s forest, they did not seem to do so in a particularly exaggerated fashion. They seemed to simply acknowledge it as an unlucky place.
“So how much do you all know?”
“That by a forest lake near this village, a beast howled as a door to heaven opened; then an angel flew up into it…roughly.”
Vino was ladling more stew into his bowl as Lawrence spoke and wordlessly asked Holo and Col if they wanted another serving. Fran had quietly sipped the broth, leaving even the vegetables in her bowl untouched.
“That’s about the size of it. The ‘forest’ in this case runs along a river that flows from the lake. This happened back when the village elder was a boy, during a cold, cold winter.”
Vino filled Holo’s and Col’s bowls back up and gave a sort of downcast smile, as though embarrassed to be relating a story like this.
“On one windy day, it was so cold that people’s ears seemed about to freeze solid and be blown away. The village hunters had been trapped in the forest for three or four days, thanks to a sudden blizzard. Fortunately there was a small charcoal-making cottage beside the waterfall that flowed from the lake. The night the snow finally stopped falling, the skies cleared until there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and the moon shined so brightly the
y say it was like the sun. The wind still blew fiercely, howling terribly through the forest, but the hunters had been up in the cottage for days, and they all wanted to breathe some of the outside air. They gathered their strength and went out, and just then—”
Everyone was listening intently. A log crackled faintly in the fire.
“—They heard a low, long howl. Ooooo…ooooo…it went, and they were all terribly afraid. There were spirits in the forests and mountains, they remembered, and so they decided to go back into the charcoal cottage. But the moment they tried to do so, the howl stopped. And then they looked toward the lake.”
Vino’s eyes glanced up at the ceiling, as though to evoke the hunters’ gazes at the waterfall.
“And then in that moment they saw a silver, shining angel of pure white, a pair of wings on its back. From the bottom of the waterfall, it beat those wings, flying up through golden doors that had opened in the heavens.”
His gaze finally fell, and he put his wine cup to his lips and seemed quite clearly embarrassed. No doubt he enjoyed this particular tale.
“Or so the story goes. It’s been passed down as the legend of the angel ever since.”
“I see…” Lawrence felt as though he could still see the angel flying up to the heavens on that moonlit night. Myths and superstitions were always extraordinary things. But because they still had a strange ring of reality to them, they were nonetheless passed down over the generations.
“But nobody’s seen an angel since. I hear the story once reached town and our village was quite lively for a while, but lately all it’s good for is making children happy.” Vino’s eyes narrowed in a self-deprecating smile.
“So, Mr. Vino, do you…”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think it’s just a legend, too?” It was an unfair question to ask, but Lawrence asked it anyway.
“Well…Who knows, eh?” Unsurprisingly, Vino looked down at his hands, smiling bashfully. It seemed as though he wanted to believe, but was unable to quite bring himself to do so.