spice & wolf v3

  “That, or fresh blood.”

  “Fresh . . . blood?”

  “Only a bit, though.”

  Her casual tone made Lawrence feel that she couldn’t be lying; his breath caught, and he glanced at her mouth. Just a moment ago, he’d seen the fangs behind those lips bite into the meat he’d dropped.

  “What, are you afraid?” said Holo at Lawrence’s trepidation as she smiled ruefully. Lawrence would’ve said “Of course not,” but Holo was clearly anticipating his reaction.

  But soon the smile disappeared from her face, and she looked away from him. “If you are, then I’m even more disinclined to.” “Why, then?” Lawrence asked, putting more strength into his voice, feeling that he was being made sport of.

  “Because you will surely quake with fear. All, be they human or animal, look on my form and give way with awe, and treat me as special. I have tired of this treatment.”

  “Are you saying I would be afraid of your true form?”

  “If you would pretend to be strong, you might first hide your trembling hand!” Holo said, exasperated.

  Lawrence looked down at his hands, but by the time he realized his mistake it was too late.

  “Heh. You’re an honest sort,” said an amused Holo, but before Lawrence could offer an excuse, her expression darkened again and she continued, quick as an arrow. “However, just because you are honest does not mean I should show you my form. Was what you said before the truth?”

  “Before?” “That if I am truly a wolf, you would not give me over to the Church.”

  “Mm . . .”

  Lawrence had heard that there were some demons capable of illusions, so this was not a decision he could make lightly. Holo seemed to anticipate this and spoke again.

  “Well, I have a good eye for both men and beasts. You are a man who keeps his word, I can tell.”

  Lawrence was still unable to find his tongue at the mischievous Holo’s words. He certainly could go back on his word. He was understanding more and more that she was toying with him, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  “I’ll show you a bit, then. A full transformation is difficult. You’ll forgive me if I only do my arm,” said Holo, reaching down into the corner of the wagon bed.

  For a moment Lawrence thought that it was some sort of special pose she had to assume, but he soon realized what she was doing. She was picking a grain of wheat from the sheaf in the corner of the wagon.

  “What are you doing with that?” asked Lawrence without thinking.

  Before he could even finish the question, Holo popped the grain of wheat in her mouth and, closing her eyes, swallowed it like a pill.

  The shell of the unhusked kernel was not edible. Lawrence frowned at the thought of the bitter taste in his mouth, but that thought soon vanished at the sight that came next.

  “Uh, uughh . . .” Holo groaned, clutching her left arm and falling onto the pile of furs.

  Lawrence was about to say something — this could not be an act — when a strange sound reached his ears.

  Sh-sh-sh-sh. It was like the sound of mice running through the forest. It continued for a few moments, then ended with a muffled thud, like something treading on soft ground.

  Lawrence was so surprised he could do nothing.

  The next moment, Holo’s formerly slim arm had transformed into the forepaw of some huge beast and was totally unsuited to the rest of her body

  “Mm . . . whew. It really doesn’t look very good.”

  The limb appeared to be so large that she would have trouble supporting it. She rested the giant leg on the pile of furs and shifted herself to accommodate it.

  “Well? Do you believe me now?” She looked up at Lawrence.

  “Uh . . . er . ..” Lawrence was unable to reply, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head as he looked and looked again at the sight before him.

  The leg was magnificent and coated in dark brown fur. Given the size of the leg, the full animal would be huge, roughly as big as a horse. The paw ended in huge, scythe-like claws.

  And all that grew from the girl’s slender shoulder. It would be strange to think it wasn’t an illusion.

  Unable to believe it, Lawrence finally took a skin of water and doused his face with it.

  “Aren’t you the doubtful one. If you still think it’s an illusion, go ahead and touch it,” teased Holo, smiling, curling the giant paw in a come-hither motion.

  Lawrence found himself irritated, yet still he hesitated. Besides the sheer size of the limb, it also gave off a certain ineffable sense of danger.

  It was the leg of a wolf. I’ve dealt with goods called Dragon Legs, Lawrence told himself, irritated at his cowardice. And just before his hand could touch it. . .

  “Oh —” said Holo, seeming to remember something. Lawrence snapped his hand back.

  “Wha —! What is it?”

  “Mm, oh, nothing. Don’t be so surprised!” said Holo, now sounding annoyed. Adding embarrassment to his fear, Lawrence became angrier and angrier at what he felt was his failure as a man. Getting hold of himself, he reached out once again.

  “So, what happened?”

  “Mm,” said Holo meekly, looking up at Lawrence. “Be gentle, will you?”

  Lawrence couldn’t help stopping his hand short at her suddenly endearing manner.

  He looked at her, and she looked back, grinning.

  “You’re rather charming, aren’t you?” she said.

  Lawrence said nothing as he made sure of what his hand was feeling.

  He was irritated at her half-teasing manner, but there was another reason he failed to reply.

  It was of course because of what he was touching.

  The beast-leg that thrust from Holo’s shoulder had bone as thick and solid as a tree’s limb, wrapped in sinew that would be the envy of any soldier, and covering that, a magnificent coat of brown fur, from the base of the shoulder all the way down to the paw. Each pad of the paw was the size of an uncut loaf of bread. Past the soft pink toes was something denser — the scythes of her claws.

  The leg was solid enough, but those claws were anything but illusory. In addition to the not warm, yet not cold sensation peculiar to animal claws, Lawrence felt a thrill at the sensation that these were not something that he should be touching.

  He swallowed. “Are you really a god . . . ?” he murmured.

  “I’m no god. As you can tell from my forepaw, I am merely bigger than my comrades — bigger and cleverer. I am Holo the Wisewolf!”

  The girl who so confidently called herself “wise” looked at Lawrence proudly.

  She was every bit a mischievous young girl — but the aura that the beast-limb exuded was not something a mere animal could ever manage.

  It had nothing to do with the size of the thing.

  “So, what think you?”

  Lawrence nodded vaguely at her question. “But. . . the real Holo should be in Yarei now. The wolf resides in the one who cuts the last wheat stalk, they say ..

  “Heh-heh-heh. I am Holo the Wisewolf! I know well my own limitations. It is true that I live within the wheat. Without it, I cannot live. And it is also true that during this harvest I was within the last wheat to be harvested, and usually I cannot escape from there. Not while any were watching. However, there is an exception.”

  Lawrence listened to her explanation, impressed with her rapid delivery.

  “If there is nearby a larger sheaf of wheat than the last one to be harvested, I can move unseen to that wheat. That’s why they say it, you know, the villagers. ‘If you cut too greedily, you won’t catch the harvest god, and it will escape.’ ”

  Lawrence glanced at his wagon bed with a sudden realization.

  There was the sheaf of wheat — the wheat he’d received from the mountain village.

  “So that is how it was done. I suppose one could call you my savior. If you hadn’t been there, I would never have escaped.”

  Although Lawrence could not quite bring himself to believe
those words, they were lent persuasion when Holo swallowed a few more wheat grains and returned her arm to normal.

  However, Holo had said “savior” with a certain distaste, so Lawrence decided to get even with her.

  “Perhaps I should take that wheat back to the village, then. They’ll be in a bad way without their harvest god. I’ve been friends with Yarei and others in Pasloe for a long time. I’d hate to see them suffer.”

  He concocted the pretense on the spot, but the more he thought about it, the truer it seemed. If this Holo was the real Holo, then wouldn’t the village begin suffering poor harvests?

  After a few moments his ruminations ended.

  Holo was looking at him as if stricken.

  “You . . . you’re jesting, surely,” she said.

  Her suddenly frail mien rocked the defenseless merchant.

  “Hard to say,” Lawrence said vaguely, trying to conceal his internal conflict and buy some time.

  Even as his head filled with other concerns, his heart grew only more uneasy.

  Lawrence agonized. If Holo was what she claimed to be, the god of the harvest, his best course of action would be to return her to the village. He had long associated with Pasloe. He did not wish them ill.

  However, when he looked back at Holo, her earlier bravado was entirely gone — now she looked down, as apprehensive as any princess in an old knight tale.

  Lawrence grimaced and put the question to himself: Should I return this girl to the village, even though she clearly does not want to go?

  What if she is the real Holo?

  He mulled the matter over in a cold sweat, the two questions battling in his mind.

  Presently he became aware of someone looking at him. He followed the look to its source and saw Holo gazing at him beseechingly.

  “Please, help me ... wont you?”

  Unable to stand the sight of Holo so meekly bowing her head, Lawrence turned away. All he saw, day in and day out, was the backside of a horse. The life left him completely unable to resist a girl like Holo looking at him with such a face.

  Agonizingly, he came to a decision.

  He turned slowly back toward Holo and asked her a single question.

  “I must ask you one thing.”

  “. .. all right.”

  “If you leave the village, will they still be able to raise wheat?”

  He didn’t expect Holo to answer in a way that would weaken her own position, but he was a merchant. He had dealt with any number of dishonest negotiators in his time. He had confidence that if Holo attempted to lie, he would know.

  Lawrence readied himself to catch the prevarication he was sure would come, but come it didn’t.

  When he looked at her, she wore an expression completely different from what he had seen so far; she looked angry and near tears as she stared into the corner of the wagon bed.

  “Er . .. what’s wrong?” Lawrence had to ask.

  “The village’s abundant harvests will continue without me,” she spat, her voice surprisingly irate.

  “Is that so?” asked Lawrence, overwhelmed by the piercing anger that emanated from Holo.

  Holo nodded, squaring her shoulders. She gripped the furs tightly, her hands white from the effort.

  “Long did I stay in that village; as many years as I have hairs on my tail. Eventually I wished to leave, but for the sake of the village’s wheat I stayed. Long ago, you see, I made a promise with a youth of the village, that I would ensure the village’s harvest. And so I kept my promise.”

  Perhaps because she couldn’t stomach it, she did not so much as look at Lawrence as she spoke.

  Earlier her wit and words had been quick and easy; now she stumbled uncertainly.

  “I... I am the wolf that lives in the wheat. My knowledge of wheat, of things that grow in the ground, is second to none. That is why I made the village’s fields so magnificent, as I promised. But to do that, occasionally the harvest must be poor. Forcing the land to produce requires compensation. But whenever the harvest was poor, the villagers attributed it to my caprices, and it has only gotten worse in recent years. I have been wanting to leave. I can stand it no longer. I long ago fulfilled my promise.”

  Lawrence understood Holo’s anger. Some years ago, Pasloe had come under the care of Count Ehrendott, and since then new farming techniques had been imported from the south, increasing yield.

  Holo thus felt that her presence was no longer necessary. Indeed, the rumor was proliferating that not even the god of the Church existed. It was not impossible that a countryside hamlet’s harvest god had gotten wrapped up in such talk.

  “The village’s good harvests will continue. There will be a poor yield every few years, but that will be their own doing. And they’ll overcome it on their own. The land doesn’t need me, and the people certainly don’t need me either.”

  Getting her words out all in one breath, Holo sighed deeply and fell over on the pile of furs yet again. She curled up, pulling the furs around her and burying her face in them.

  He could not see her face to make certain, but it seemed not impossible that she was crying. Lawrence scratched his head, unsure of what to say.

  He looked helplessly at her slender shoulders and wolf ears.

  Perhaps this was how a real god acted: now full of bluster and bravado, now wielding a sharp wit, now showing a childish temper.

  Lawrence was at a loss at how to treat the girl now. Nevertheless, he couldn’t very well remain silent, so he took a new approach.

  “In any case, setting aside the question of whether or not that’s all true . .

  “You think me a liar?” snapped Holo at his preamble. He faltered, but Holo seemed to realize that she herself was being too emotional. She stopped, abashed, and muttered a quick “Sorry,” before burying her head in the furs again.

  “I understand your resentment. But where do you plan to go, having left the village?”

  She did not answer immediately, but Lawrence saw her ears prick at his question, so he waited patiently. She had just delivered a significant confession, and Lawrence expected that she simply couldn’t face anyone for a moment.

  At length, Holo guiltily looked into the corner of the wagon bed, confirming Lawrence’s suspicions.

  “I wish to return north,” she said flatly.

  “North?”

  Holo nodded, turning her gaze up and off into the distance. Lawrence didn’t have to follow it to know where she was looking: true north.

  “My birthplace. The forest of Yoitsu. So many years have passed that I can no longer count them. ... I wish to return home.”

  The word birthplace left Lawrence momentarily shocked, and

  he looked at Holo’s profile. He himself had not visited his hometown once since embarking on the life of a wandering merchant.

  It was a poor and cramped place of which he had few good memories, but after long days in the driver’s seat, sometimes lonelineness overcame him and he couldn’t help thinking fondly of the place.

  If Holo was telling the truth, not only had she left her home hundreds of years ago, but she’d endured neglect and ridicule at the place in which shed settled. . . .

  He could guess at her loneliness.

  “But I’d like to travel a bit. I’ve come all the way to this distant place, after all. And surely much has changed over the months and years, so it would be good to broaden my perspective,” said Holo, looking at Lawrence, her face a picture of calm. “So long as you’ll not take me back to Pasloe or turn me in to the Church, I’d like to travel with you. You’re a wandering merchant, are you not?”

  She regarded Lawrence with a friendly smile that suggested she’d seen right through him and knew he would not betray her. She sounded like an old friend asking a simple favor.

  Lawrence had yet to determine whether or not he believed Holo’s story, but as far as he could tell, she was not a bad sort. And he’d begun to enjoy conversing with this strange girl.

  But he wasn’t so
won over by her charm as to forget his merchant’s instincts. A good merchant had the audacity to face a god and the caution to doubt a close relative.

  Lawrence thought it over, then spoke quietly.

  “I cannot make this decision quickly.”

  He expected complaint but had underestimated Holo. She nodded in comprehension. “It is good to be cautious. But I never misread a person. I don’t believe you’re so cold as to turn someone away.”

  Holo spoke with a mischievous smile playing across her lips. She then turned and hopped back into the pile of furs, albeit without the sulkiness shed shown before. It seemed as though she was saying, “Enough talk for today.”

  As shed derailed of the conversation yet again, Lawrence could only grin in spite of himself as he watched Holo.

  He thought he could see her ears moving, then her head popped out and she looked at him.

  “Surely you’ll not tell me to sleep outside,” she said, obviously aware that he could do no such thing. Lawrence shrugged; Holo giggled and returned to the fur pile.

  Seeing her like this, Lawrence wondered if her actions earlier were something of an act, as if she were trying to play the part of the imprisoned princess.

  Nevertheless, he doubted that her dissatisfaction with the village or her desire to return home were lies.

  And if those weren’t lies, then he must believe that she was the real Holo, because a mere demon-possessed girl would not be able to make it all up. Lawrence sighed as he realized that more thought would not yield any new answers; he decided to go to sleep and leave further ruminations for the morrow.

  The furs that Holo slept in belonged to Lawrence. It was ludicrous to think that their owner would forgo their comfort and sleep on the wagon’s driving bench. Telling her to move over to one side, he, too, snuggled into the fur pile.

  From behind him, he heard the quiet sounds of Holo’s breathing. Although he’d told her he couldn’t make a quick decision, Lawrence had already decided that as long as Holo had not made off with his goods in the morning, he would travel with her.

  He doubted that she was that sort of troublemaker — but if she was, he thought, she would surely make off with his entire load.