Spice and Wolf - Volume 13 - Chapter 4.3

THREE

The next day, our breakfast was a very lively one.

The brave little knights that had survived the plague gathered in our room and listened fervently to my master’s stories. It was not certain whether or not one of the women my master had spoken to in the church the previous day had spread the word she was perfectly suited to caring for children, but in any case, when the innkeeper had come to bring breakfast, the children were right behind her.

But perhaps because she felt she owed a debt for staying at the inn, my master invited them into her room with nary a pause, sharing her small breakfast with them and telling tales, both myths and stories from her travels.

I was a bit exasperated with my master’s strong sense of duty, but I endured the little knights’ rather rude treatment of me without any complaint. I was rather impressed with my own forbearance, honestly, and eventually I noticed that my master’s stories had diverted their attention from me.

The youngest wound up on my master’s lap and eventually fell asleep. On either side of her presently were slightly larger children, who clung to her clothing and looked up at her, totally absorbed in her story.

My master’s face was uncharacteristically mild, and even when she had to quiet a fussing child or soothe the tears of one who’d misunderstood her stories, she did so happily. She seemed nearly overwhelmed a few times but has also matured quite a bit herself. Knowing as I did that my master had been driven around by her shepherd’s staff more than she’d wielded it herself, I couldn’t help but find this rather affecting.

And of course, it seemed more natural for my human master to be surrounded by human children. Although there was not much difference between the ability to communicate with them and with me.

“…And they lived happily ever after!” As she finished the story, there was a collective sigh of relief from the children. They’d all been rather absorbed in it, apparently.

Still, it wouldn’t take much for them to become even more savage than I. If you gave them something to eat, they would stuff themselves fit to burst—which was even more true when it came to stories, since no matter how many they heard, their appetite never lessened. My master was beginning to seem a bit troubled by their endless demands for more, more!

I was a knight, and my most basic job was to protect my master. Just as I thought she was about to seek my help, there was a sudden hiccup. My master, still harassed by children pulling on her clothes and her hair, froze.

I backed up. Something was coming. A dark cloud seem to rise up and darken the room. Then there was a terrible, thunderous sound.

“…Waaaaaaaaaah!”

The astonishing noise dizzied me. My master flailed haplessly in the face of the screaming child.

Lambs are easy—they can walk the moment they’re born. But human children are different.

Though my master frantically tried to calm the child, its intense screams drowned everything else out.

What had happened? Even I was starting to worry.

“Ha-ha, here, miss, let me help!”

These same children had moments earlier been grabbing shamelessly at my master’s hair and clothing, as selfishly as any barnyard animal. They giggled as they spoke, then took the infant from my master’s lap. The children were not much larger than the infant. And yet somehow, they had no trouble holding it and quieting it.

They seemed quite adept at the skill, and when I looked at my master, I saw that she, too, was round-eyed with surprise.

The infant was finally calmed, happily poking at the chest of the child who held it. The remaining children followed after him, looking for all the world like a flock of chickens. The only thing that indeed did distinguish them from chickens was how they turned and waved to my master on their way out of the room.

It had been so noisy just moments earlier, but now it was suddenly silent, and all that remained was a strange feeling of fatigue. My master stared blankly at the left-open door for a while.

Eventually she returned to the present, and the next thing she did was put her hand to her chest. If I had been human, I would have laughed.

Something seemed to occur to her, and she looked down at her chest, then over to me. The smile that played about her lips was a wicked one.

She stood from her chair and walked over to me, then crouched down. “You were laughing at me, weren’t you?”

Absurd! Preposterous!

I looked away, but she showed me no mercy. She pushed me over onto my back, and as I lay there, she began to rub my belly.

I was a proud sheepdog, but where I could impose my will upon sheep, I could not so easily control my own instincts. In the moments that followed I was thoroughly reminded just who was the master here.

“Still, what shall we do next?” said my master suddenly, as with a borrowed needle and thread she attended to the mending of her clothes. “It was nice of those ladies to give me such a kind welcome, I suppose.”

She cut the thread with her teeth and held the mended patch up high to confirm that the hole was properly closed and that the stitching was neat. As my master moved, the loosely packed straw mattress shifted. I went along with it, as I was lying upon it.

I yawned; the back of my neck was stroked.

“We can’t very well stay here imposing, but…it would be nice if some sort of work came up, until the town calms down a bit.”

Had she not been perfectly suited to caring for children? I thought, and evidently the same thing occurred to her.

“I can’t make any money just looking after children, though…”

It was probably a fair point since she couldn’t be a wet nurse. Cows and goats were useful for their milk. She couldn’t very well produce wool, nor (obviously) meat—so her future was dim.

Without me, she would have been in a precarious position indeed.

“Enek?” My master looked at me with a smile, needle in hand, her head cocked slightly. I realized that this was what it was like to feel totally paralyzed. I couldn’t help but curl up my tail. She nudged my head. “I thought I’d be able to find work as a seamstress here, but…”

She held up the mended coat one more time, then clasped it to her chest and fell backward onto the bed. Seeing this, I slowly raised my head, only to rest it on her stomach. She seemed a bit surprised by this, but then gently placed her left hand atop my head.

Previously, whenever she had been unable to sleep from hunger, she would have me lay my head on her stomach to compress it slightly. Humans were surprisingly simple creatures, and such a trick evidently made the hunger easier to bear.

So long as bellies are full, the world was well—that’s what she would say with a smile when things were difficult.

“Mmmmm-hmmm…”

A strange sound reached my ears; my master was humming. It was a work song sung by the clothiers of Ruvinheigen. The men would sing it deliberately comically, while the women’s voices were lovely. With worktables protruding into the street or from behind opened window shutters, they would sing as they worked. With my master’s meager income, she could hardly afford to let others do her mending, and after so many times passing through the crafters’ district, she had memorized the song’s melody. She didn’t know the lyrics and also didn’t seem to quite know how it ended.

But sometimes—like now—she would softly, faintly hum the song as she daydreamed. Perhaps she only hummed it while lying back and looking up at the sky, because she didn’t want the tears to spill out of her eyes.

I might not look it, but I have a bit of a poet’s soul, so such things occur to me.

When she raised her head and looked at me, my master was not crying. But I could tell what she was seeing with those eyes. It was the happy, busy street of the crafters.

They all seemed to know each other, and though they were boisterous, they were likewise friendly; and so, whenever my master saw their simple, honest lives, she looked like a child enviously gazing at another child’s toy. I did not much like to see her that way.

And yet, our days had been constantly difficult then. I had no right to blame her for occasionally showing weakness. The thing I wanted her to stop most of all was her absentminded pulling of my fur and skin. Eventually she became so absorbed in the song that she was tapping out the time by patting my head.

Around the time I had become a musical instrument, I heard somebody on the other side of the door.

I sat up suddenly, and my master glared at me for disrupting her performance. My irritation at this vanished when I saw her face turn confused at the knock at the door that came next.

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you asleep?” It was the innkeeper woman who’d brought the children with her in the morning.

“Oh n-no, I—thank you for lending me a needle!” Hurriedly smoothing her bed-rumpled hair, my master hastily offered the needle back to the innkeeper. My guess was that the woman was smiling not at my master’s mussed hair, but rather her tuneless humming. But as a knight it was my duty not to point that out.

“A messenger came a moment ago. Apparently the bishop wishes to speak with you.”

My master’s hands froze where they were smoothing her hair, and she looked at me. “The bishop?”

“He seems to have finished his morning duties. You weren’t able to speak to him yesterday, were you?”

My master nodded, and she hurriedly put on the coat she’d just finished mending.

“Oh, if you do see you bishop, please ask him to pray for my inn. We’ve been busy, and I haven’t been able to ask him myself.”

She was every bit as brazen as she looked. But there were advantages to being approachable.

We quickly finished making ready, and then put the inn behind us. We only just arrived here yesterday, but already my master had learned the streets well enough to walk them confidently.

“I wonder what he wants to talk to me about. Oh, but first I must thank him! An ‘angel,’ eh?”

My master giggled and put her finger to her chin as she talked to herself, which was a common habit among those who lived solitary lives, although her smile was shamefully obvious. She was clearly pleased to have been called an angel the previous day.

But the fact that she was absorbed in forward-thinking daydreams was no doubt due to the town’s influence. The town had seemed so lonely yesterday, simply because we had been comparing it to Ruvinheigen, the dust of whose streets we’d only just kicked off our feet. But with a little more time, it was clear from the townspeople and their lives that this town had a liveliness to it yet.

There were people gathering rags and scraps, and coopers and carpenters attending to their repairs. In front of the tinkers’ and cobblers’ shops, too, people waited for mending to be done. While there was not yet the freedom to make new things, it was obvious that the town had recovered enough to begin repairs. My master’s gaze lingered not on the town’s wounds, but on its blossoms of hearty activity. Happily we walked and more quickly than usual.

She clasped her hands behind her as she walked, which I had only seen her doing before in dark alleyways, copying the way the town girls in Ruvinheigen held themselves. It spoke of the way she was enjoying herself on her own terms, unconcerned with the gazes of others.

It seemed a good thing to me. So when I noticed him, I sighed to myself, then rumbled a growl.

“Ah—” My master could spot a wolf hiding in wooded shadows from a hill at a good remove: She quickly noticed what I was growling at.

At the end of her gaze, leaning against a door and speaking with a stout woman under a building’s eaves, was a young man. It was the young moneylender—Johan, he’d said his name was.

“What should we do?” my master asked, turning to me. Then—

“Hey, you there!” he called.

We had no quibble with Johan, but we knew perfectly well his profession was despised in the town. And in fact, simply being acknowledged by Johan earned my master a suspicious look from the woman.

But Johan seemed to notice this look and whispered something in the woman’s ear, whereupon her expression changed to surprise, and she looked back at us, putting her hands together and offering us a prayer.

Johan then gave us a proud look, as though showing off his handiwork.

I looked up at my master and saw that she wore an exhausted, pained smile.

“What a fortunate encounter! This must be God’s will,” said Johan, jingling the small coins in his hand as he walked toward us. He then tucked the coins away beneath his jacket and took out a small Church amulet that he wore around his neck, lightly kissing it.

It was such an absurd affectation that my master did not know how to reply, but it was clear enough to me that this was Johan’s idea of a joke. This man was the sort of person who would happily sell the Church if it would turn him a profit.

“H-hello again.”

“Good day to you! And to your little knight, too.”

I gave him a nasty look.

Johan recoiled slightly but soon recovered. “Come, let us walk,” he said, casually taking up the position at my master’s other side. “So, Miss Norah—”

At Johan’s sudden use of her name, my master’s shoulders froze. When had she introduced herself to him?

Johan raised both hands and made a jesting face. “My apologies,” he said gently. “After all those children went running home with smiles on their faces, news about you spread quickly.”

It was a small town.

I sniffed at a scrap of fabric in the street, then looked up.

“Did you do that sort of work in other towns, Miss Norah?” he asked with a personable smile. His appearance was smart and his demeanor gentle—young women were surely constantly after him in more normal times.

But my master did not live such a fickle life.

She could sense something unpleasant lurking behind Johan’s words and drew her chin in, repulsed.

“It was a jest. I didn’t intend to tease you. But this town is my territory, you see. I wanted to see what sort of person you were.”

Johan took my master’s hand and gazed at it appraisingly for a moment before slowly releasing it.

My fangs were demanding to know when they’d be allowed to plunge themselves into his leg, but suddenly my master put her hand on my head. Wait, it meant.

“You’re a shepherd, aren’t you?”

I heard the rustling of cloth, which may as well have been the sound of my master closing her heart. I looked up and saw that she was as expressionless as a statue in a field as she looked back at Johan. That solid, trustworthy, reliable face of hers.

Johan seemed to catch wind of the incompatibility of that face with other humans. He smirked an unpleasant smirk, then smoothly turned his gaze elsewhere. He folded his hands together behind his head, then deliberately strode off.

“I thought you might be, but I just wasn’t certain.”

My master did not reply.

Johan continued, unconcerned. “The sheep around here are raised by farmers. So long as you don’t tell anyone yourself, your secret will be safe.”

My master’s gaze was unwavering, despite his nonchalant tone. His next words, though, stunned us both.

“Anyhow, that’s a relief.”

“…Wha…?” said my master, her brow furrowing.

The moneylender’s eyes were closed, as though he were enjoying the warmth of the sun. “The bishop sent for you, yes?” he said, as though it was nothing.

“…Yes.”

“You’ll see when you get there. He didn’t call for me, so I wanted to see what sort of fellow he did summon.” It still wasn’t clear what his point was, but he did not seem to be teasing. Far from it—Johan gave my master another look out of the corner of his eye, and when he continued speaking, it was in a more serious tone. “You don’t seem to lack experience, so I’m relieved you’re a capable enough girl, so far as that goes. Although,” he finished, looking her up and down one last time, “you might be a bit too wispy. You ought to eat a little more.”

My master hugged her chest, then realized she’d given away her biggest insecurity. She blushed red and looked down, and watching this, Johan laughed.

Restrained by my master’s hand, I was unable to do anything—but no more. I faced the fool who’d incurred my wrath and, baring my fangs, bit his leg.

When we passed through the door of the church, the woman who’d greeted us yesterday had a wary look on her face—because my master seemed utterly downcast and moreover had a thin sheen of sweat on her.

But perhaps she decided we’d merely come in haste, because she said nothing and led my master farther in.

When I’d bitten Johan, he’d fallen to the ground and screamed in such a voice you’d think the world was ending. I know perfectly well when it’s acceptable to cause injury and when it isn’t, so I made sure not to break the skin. Instead, I’d made a ferocious growl and given the hem of his clothing a nice tear at the end. Johan had made a great fuss over the state of his leg for a while, but eventually understood that he hadn’t been injured and then made a face as though he’d been nipped by a fox. It was a beautiful thing to see.

Thus, I was feeling rather proud of myself, but my master did not seem to feel the same way. She was more crestfallen than I had ever seen her before, as she compared the chest of the woman leading us to her own.

But even that sad expression lasted only until we arrived at the sanctuary.

It was impossible for the church to hide its poor condition, particularly given the cloth that was draped in place of the doors, which had rusted off their hinges.

The woman leading us pulled the cloth aside, and gestured for my master to enter. My fur bristled at the gazes that fell upon us.

“I have brought her,” said the woman who led us there.

There was no particular commonality in the age or appearance of the people assembled there. There were fat old men, young women, and people bent over with age. The only thing I felt from all of them was a sense of responsibility, which in the human world was authority’s constant companion. It seemed my master had not been called over for a pleasant chat.

My master’s hand trembled. She looked for me like I was air and she was underwater and grabbed my coat. I wondered if she was thinking about the shepherd’s staff leaning against the wall in our inn room.

I regarded the assembled faces that were all staring so appraisingly at my master. Next to Giuseppe, who we’d come to visit the previous day, there was another familiar person.

Her eyes were suspicious and bitter with her grudge against the world, and the color of her twisted, sneering lips was not good. Her eyes were on the figure in the bed, her hand resting on his hands, which were folded over his midsection atop a book of scripture.

Those eyes of hers rolled up like fish swimming lazily in a pond, and Ars looked at my master. Then her lips moved with great reluctance, and she spoke in slow, measured tones. “Are you God’s servant, Norah Arendt?”

What sort of question was this? But compared to the next question, it was nothing.

“In the name of Giuseppe Ozenstein, I appoint thee as the deacon of the church of Kuskov,” said Ars, as my master and I stood there uncomprehendingly.

When none of the assembled townspeople laughed, I realized it was no joke. It was only as Ars continued speaking that my master snapped out of her daze.

“This is not a joke,” Ars informed us coldly. My master stood there, frozen.

What had happened?

With all these different people there, each one wearing such a grave expression, even if my master hadn’t been so shortsighted, she wouldn’t have thought of that possibility.

Lying there on the bed so quietly, Giuseppe looked very frail indeed.

But when I looked up at my master, someone else seemed to understand what she was thinking.

“The bishop is merely sleeping. Of course, we don’t know what will become of him yet, so…Ars, if you please,” said a man, and with that the gazes of the assembled people moved to him, and they all quietly filed out of the church.

The only ones left behind were Ars and my master, as well as old Giuseppe.

Giuseppe’s face was like paper, and his expression was not good, his cheeks sunken. He’d summoned all he could of his energy to speak just moments earlier, and it had apparently exhausted him. My master, seemingly unthinking, drew alongside Giuseppe, at which point Ars cleared her throat.

“I have the bishop’s message for you,” she said, clearly not willing to brook any argument.

It was unclear what the message would be, save that it must have had something to do with Giuseppe. Ars frowned at him, then heaved a sigh. “Anyway, sit,” she said, indicating a chair in the corner of the room.

My master did as she was told, sitting down on the chair, meek as a kitten. I curled up at her feet.

The chief of the clothiers’ guild stood, her arms folded, and spoke plainly. “You may as well understand that there is no way for you to become a seamstress here in this town.”

At the sudden pronouncement, my master barely had time to show surprise. “E-er…,” she began, confused and troubled, but Ars cut her off peevishly. I wondered why she was so angry, but then I realized it.

It must have pained her.

“To begin with, we have no materials to make clothes with. We have no customers to order the clothes. And when the town recovers, those who fled to neighboring places will return. What do you suppose they will do when they find outsiders sitting in their chairs?”

She spoke rapidly, as though if she didn’t hurry, she would stumble over her own tongue. No one would wish to speak this way to another who aspires to their livelihood.

My master seemed to understand this, and without anger or sadness, she simply felt the disappointment that Ars’s undeniable words brought. “I…I see…,” she said. Then suddenly she looked up. “I understand.”

In times like these, a smile was the most natural expression of all for my master. It was perhaps not the healthiest thing, to be so skilled at the smile of defeat, but for that very same reason it affected the guilty-seeming Ars all the more deeply.

She flinched away, as though looking in a magic mirror that reflected only her own unsightliness. Ars looked at the floor and gritted her teeth.

The impression she’d given yesterday was too strong but also truly badly timed.

So far as she seemed now, Ars was nothing more than a girl even more tongue-tied than my master was.

“…So, given all that, we must talk.”

“Huh?”

“The bishop asked this of me just moments ago. He needs a favor from you.” Was she seen as quiet and serious, the stubborn seamstress of the town? Perhaps. Ars kept looking down, but then she glanced up at my master harshly. “He’s named you as deacon. By his authority as bishop.”

Hearing it a second time ought to have made it easier to grasp, but I still could not understand it. My master seemed to be in the same predicament. But she was past even panic and merely looked back at Ars with questioning eyes.

“The town is in a bad place,” said Ars, spitting the words out and averting her gaze, turning her head aside. Then her eyes alone refocused on my master. “The town of Rezul is trying to take us over.”

“…Take you over?”

“You…when you came to my workshop, you saw, didn’t you? There aren’t any proper materials left in this town. Everything of value was sold at a deep discount to reckless merchants. No one who we can sell anything to is coming here anymore, the price of wheat has risen, likewise meat, and we’re all of us utterly without money. Rezul is trying to take advantage of that.”

A wounded animal—even a bear—would not escape being hunted by other beasts. Though they might fight desperately, they would always end up as food.

It seemed that law did not apply only in the forests and fields.

“Our town is in a desperate position, but if we had materials, there are craftsmen here who can work and merchants who will sell. But without the materials, nothing can be done. So the town of Rezul came and offered us a loan.”

It was not at all uncommon for the ship that seemed to be offering rescue to instead be heading to hell. One only had to consider how hated Johan was to see that much.

“But…why make me a deacon?” asked my master, her eyes upturned.

“Well, obviously we can’t accept their offer. Ever. If we accept it, our town will be swallowed up. We would have to pay back all the money and with plenty of interest, too.”

The visitor that had come to Ars’s workshop when my master had been there was none other than Johan. Most of the town was probably deep in debt already. The only people growing fat were those like Johan, who were devouring the wounded. That was the way of things.

But that did not answer my master’s question.

Ars realized that herself and scratched her nose uncomfortably. She took a deep breath and continued.

“We want you to bargain with Rezul. As our deacon.”

The girl had still not made her point. She had no gift for speech certainly. Of course, my master’s capacity for such things was not much bigger than her chest, so perhaps this dribble of information was for the best.

“To bargain…”

“Yes. If a proper merchant went, we’d probably lose. If they let slip that one town was refusing to sell to another town, there would surely be a fight. Maybe even a war. But if the church goes and tells them we won’t trade with unbelievers like them, that’s quite different. Nobody wants to risk a war with the church. We might be able to avoid a crisis.”

I finally understood and glanced at Giuseppe on the bed. I saw why he would’ve put my master up as deacon, and furthermore, why Ars was the one explaining.

“And so, if you’re the deacon, then…well, look at the bishop. Someone has to act in his stead. Of course, we asked why we couldn’t just use someone from the Kuskov, but he knows better than we do how things are in other towns,” said Ars with a sigh.

She seemed exhausted, and I was certain I didn’t misread her—she was exhausted. I thought back to moments earlier, when so many people had left the room. No doubt all of them, like Ars, held important positions in the town.

And also like Ars, many of them should not have had those positions. Some of them were elderly and should have long since retired; others, like Ars, were far too young.

In other words, there were no more substitutes left for the town.

“And of course, Rezul knows we’ll probably try to use the Church as a shield, which makes people from the town even less useful. ‘You’re not from the Church!’ they’d say. Ugh, those Rezul bastards are awful. Have you heard the rumors? Barbarous pagans, the lot of them. They wear arrowheads around their necks!”

As Ars spat out her words, I was suddenly struck by a shock that felt almost like a physical blow to my head.

In that moment, how many memories were finally tied together with a single thread?

The raging plague meant that the once-busy road was now deserted—the pagan bandits attacking the travelers, the bishop’s brave party.

And above all, the strangely grand welcome we’d received upon arriving in the village.

The town had been desperate to avoid the trap Rezul was setting and had exhausted every option. And then despite Giuseppe’s favorable reply, he’d arrived gravely wounded.

And then they had hit upon this plan, even if my master was poorly suited to it.

Ars’s eyes went wide, and she looked at Giuseppe with a little gasp. Given her reaction, Giuseppe must never have explained who attacked him. A moment’s thought made it clear why.

If the townspeople knew that the pagans had attacked Giuseppe for their own profit, no matter how exhausted they were, they would’ve taken weapons in hand and risen up, like a cornered rat turning to face a mouse.

And if it came to battle, this town would surely lose.

“And so we needed a traveler, and one who seems like they could be working for the Church—and so we chose you.”

Ruvinheigen was known as the Church City, but if people knew what sorts of things really happened there, they’d think it worse than any other place—and my master had escaped only to find that no matter the town similar things were always happening.

The sad reality was sinking in, but suddenly she realized something and looked up.

If I could’ve, I would have raised my paw to cover my face, the way a human could.

“E-er!”

“Hmm?”

“I understand now. But…um…so…why did you tell me to…er…give up on being a seamstress?”

My master, for her part, still had some lingering attachment to the idea of becoming a seamstress.

It was unlike her to press the issue like this, but just as I wanted to hide my face, the question seemed to pain Ars as well. That she could go on at such a rapidly rambling length without ever getting to the point was because she wasn’t actually such an ill-mannered girl.

She was merely awkward and was actually rather kind.

“…Because you’ll have to go act as our town’s deacon and negotiate with them.”

“Right.”

“And after that…if you were to start working as a seamstress as though nothing had happened…”

Don’t you see? Ars’s upturned eyes begged.

In matters like these, my master could be as dense as a sheep. After a moment of baffled staring, the lines finally connected in her mind. “Ah!” she cried out.

“You see? It would be strange. So that’s why.”

That’s why Giuseppe had Ars deliver this message.

My master had wanted to become a seamstress so badly, she’d ignored the danger and come to this town. No doubt Giuseppe himself had felt badly for her. But sometimes to save the flock, a single lamb had to be left to die, and the situation in this town had called for a similar decision.

So at the very least, he decided to have the clothiers’ guild chief be the one to deliver the news.

A heavy silence fell between the two girls.

Neither of them was at fault. It was just ill-fated, and that was all.

“L-look…”

It was Ars who first broke the silence. “About yesterday…I’m sorry.”

My master was caught off guard by the sudden words. She waved her hands meaninglessly, then finally managed a reply. “Oh n-no, um…I was only thinking of myself, so…” She spoke apologetically with her face downcast, and it seemed to pain Ars to see her so.

“Johan got so angry at me, too; I couldn’t believe it…I really felt like I was to blame.”

“Huh?”

“I mean…it’s hard to explain, but you risked your life to come here, didn’t you? You wanted to be a seamstress. That was your goal. You risked your life and came to this town for that, and that’s when I finally realized—what I’d done. During the plague, when everyone was dying, I just cried and cried and didn’t…”

Her words were halting, but that only made it clearer that they were coming from her heart. Seeing her like this, Ars truly was a normal, kindhearted girl. The doubt in her eyes came from the worry that cursed her heart.

“So that’s how I realized…we can’t go on like this.” Ars took a deep breath, looked up, and straightened her back. Then she looked my master right in the face, with all the dignity due anyone with the title of guild chief. “So I’ll ask you again. I’m well aware that I smashed your dream. You won’t have to be our deacon forever. But just for now, will you help save this town?”

Ars put her right hand to her chest and pressed her heels smartly together. And then she bowed her head.

In Ruvinheigen, town merchants would make a similar gesture to curry favor with the Church. It was a strange feeling to understand that this was the situation that truly called for such a gesture, which was meant as a sign of deep respect.

And what of my master?

A bit worried, I looked over at her beside me, then immediately realized I was wrong to have doubted her.

Even as the dream she’d thought was so close went winging forever out of her reach, her back was straight and her expression kind and smiling.

“This, too, must be the will of God.”

“S-so, you’ll—!”

“Yes. I’ll do whatever I can.”

In this world, it often seems kindness is rewarded with loss. But for my part, I have no interest in serving a master who would think only of herself.

Ars had tears at the corners of her eyes as she shook my master’s hand, either from deep emotion or simple relief. My master, meanwhile, continued to smile.

She seemed truly saintly in that moment, as though coming to the aid of another was the greatest happiness to which she might aspire.

Though I was a mere dog, I still found my master’s actions moving. My master, meanwhile, embraced the sobbing Ars, then gave me a slightly awkward smile.

“I did it again,” her expression said.

But I merely wagged my tail, because I loved my master when she was like this.

Talk is cheap. Action is difficult.

It’s an obvious principle, particularly when the action in question is becoming a deacon.

Perhaps that was what occupied my master’s mind.

Once the hour grew late, we finally returned to the inn, and illuminated by the candlelight, she looked like a dried-out herring.

“…Ungh…I’m so tired,” she said, collapsing down onto the bed without paying any mind at all to the fact that I was already curled up on it.

I barely managed to avoid a direct impact, but the more tired my master became, the worse her disposition. No, not worse, exactly—perhaps childish would be a better term.

In either case, she stretched her arms out and gathered me aimlessly up. “Enek, I’m so tired…”

She embraced me without so much as asking, with such force that I worried she might rub my fur right off.

It was frankly uncomfortable, but as my master buried her face in the soft fur around my throat, I caught the sharp scent of ink.

Though she’d claimed to have done odd jobs for the Church in Ruvinheigen, all she really knew were a few prayers. When she confessed as much, Ars and the women taking care of Giuseppe had looked at each other, then nodded.

I could only understand fragments of what happened next.

Town merchants and craftsmen all had various saints they venerated, and daily prayer rites were performed by each guild, with the guild chief acting in the priest’s stead.

Thus, until Giuseppe awoke, they summoned the various guild chiefs, and together they pounded the basics of the prayer services into my master’s head.

My master could read, but her writing was not as strong. I was in no position to boast since I couldn’t read at all, but it seemed that even as flattery her writing could hardly be praised. When she gave it a try, even Aman, who’d come from the Rowen Trade Guild to cheer her on, couldn’t help but grimace.

My master had occasionally practiced writing with her shepherd’s staff in the dirt, but it seemed she was far from adequate—she was quite adept at pictures of dogs and sheep, though.

So it happened that my master had the writing and prayers she would need to act as an impromptu deacon drilled into her, right there in the church’s sanctuary. I stayed by her side for a while, but eventually she began looking to me for help, which ruined her concentration, and I was shooed out. Her face in that moment was the very image of worldly suffering. I was uneasy leaving my master alone, but there was nothing for it. I hardened my heart as I was carried away and returned to the inn.

Which brought us to this moment.

Finally she raised her head up from my chest, flopped over on the bed, and stretched. There came a sound like the cracking of dry twigs underfoot.

I sniffed her hand, and in addition to the wax from the writing tablet, there was another, sweeter scent.

“You’re lucky, Enek, not having to work so hard,” she said as I licked at her hand after a few more sniffs. My master was always nastier when she was tired. “Tomorrow they’re going to teach me the basics of contract negotiation, and they said I have to recite the replies I’ll need to prove I’m really of the Church, if asked…I hope I can do it. I can barely remember what I learned today…”

My tail drooped from the ill treatment I’d suffered at the hands of my master, but seeing her worry so, I couldn’t very well ignore her. If I was her knight, I had to support my master.

“Mmm…hee-hee. You’re right. I’ll be fine.”

She may have been covered in ink and wax, but when I stuck my snout in her hair, the same old scent was still there. I snuffled a little bit on purpose, and she answered me with a childish giggle.

We played as we had played countless times before. And after giving as good as she got, her hand suddenly stopped, like it always did. Her face was clear and calm, as though she’d thrown all her troublesome thoughts right out of the window.

“I suppose my dream’s run off again. I’ll have to do my best to help these people,” said my master, looking steadily at me. Her eyes were kind and strong. Shepherd’s eyes. “And anyway, they’ve apologized so much and thanked me even more. I’ve barely had any time at all to feel sad.”

She laughed ticklishly, then lightly took hold of my right front paw. She didn’t do anything special with it, though, just held it in her hand.

“Mr. Aman even asked me if I would come work for his guild. He said they have connections in all sorts of town and could work something out. He said if I did that, other people would be helping me.”

As she spoke, my master’s eyelids got lower and lower. She spoke as though each one of her words was brushing against her cheek, like drops of summer rain on a hot day.

My master’s will was weak in the face of the needs of others. Especially when they asked favors of her.

So far as I could see, she was in no position to be helping anyone. Given her position as a girl with no money, no status, no education, no power, there was nothing to be done about it; not even the strength she’d gained as a shepherd changed that status very much.

The bargain she’d struck with the merchant and the wolf had been little different. My master had been well aware of the dangers she was risking, but couldn’t help being affected by how much the merchant had needed her.

It was only when her own gain was in the balance that she was able to turn away.

Of course, she had been swayed by the large amount of money involved, which far from saddening me came as something of a relief.

“They even said if everything goes well, I could just continue on as a proper deacon here.”

I looked sharply up at my master, unable to simply let those words pass by.

“I don’t know if I should do that, though…Apparently there’s precedent, but still…,” she said, giving me a pained smile.

As far as I was concerned, she was already being disgustingly obedient to the Church, but it wasn’t as though her feelings on the matter were entirely pure, either.

She made a face like it was all a bit of a joke, then pulled on my paw and brought her mouth close to it. “But I still wish I could become a seamstress. Is that selfish of me?”

I put some force into my front paws. My white-tinged paws pressed against her mouth, giving her a funny-looking expression. I was angry, I was laughing at her, and I was sulking a bit.

My master closed her eyes. Then, capriciously, she opened her mouth wide and tried to bite my cheeky paws.

I pulled them back, but then she leaned forward as though unwilling to let me go so easily. Just when I was ready to try and gain the upper hand, though, there was a hesitant knock at the door.

“Y-yes!” answered my master, rapping me on the head as though I were a mischievous child, then fixing her clothes and climbing out of bed.

From the other side of the door came Ars’s voice. “I’m sorry to bother you so late at night.”

“Not at all,” answered my master, looking Ars over from top to bottom. Something about Ars had changed, despite the late hour.

“I’m sure you’re tired, but I need a bit of your time. May I come in?”

My master nodded and stepped back, allowing Ars into the room.

Ars entered, carrying something in her arms, then reached back and closed the door behind her, as my master looked on, vaguely confused.

I climbed down from the bed and circled around Ars. What was she planning to do?

Illuminated only by dim candlelight, Ars’s face was entirely free of the suspicion she’d shown during the day. On the contrary, she seemed so energized that it surprised me.

“I’ve just been to Lord Careca’s manor, where I scavenged this.”

“Scavenged…?”

“That’s right. Look,” said Ars as she unrolled a large, pure white sheet of fabric. “We’ll make your vestments with this. It’s fine cloth—normally only the guild master would be able to use it…but that’s me now. Anyway, that’s good cloth.” Ars narrowed her eyes and gave the fabric an appraising look.

It was just a single sheet, but was so fine that seeing it unrolled like this made it strangely easy to imagine how imposing a priest clad in such robes would be.

“Originally it was a tablecloth in Lord Careca’s manor.” My master was a bit surprised by this, and it was true—when I sniffed at it I caught a faint whiff of fish and mustard seed. “We don’t have much time to make your clothes, so we’ve got to get your measurements today.”

Ars neatly folded the cloth with practiced ease; then from within the bag she’d brought, she produced a thin cord with measuring marks running all along it.

It seemed she was going to use it to take my master’s measurements. It was very clever of her.

“If there were more time, I’d do a proper job of it. But time is short, so…of course, when you become a real deacon, I’ll make you proper clothes and not out of Mr. Careca’s tablecloth,” said Ars as she had my master stand and briskly made note of her arms’ and legs’ measurements. Then she smiled a sly smile.

My master was quite ticklish, so that was part of why she was giggling. But she also must have found it amusing to think that a few days earlier, she would never have imagined she’d be wearing priestly vestments made out of a nobleman’s tablecloth.

Such mysterious fates the world had in store for us.

Some moments later, Ars suddenly spoke up. “Why did you want to become a seamstress?”

It was an eminently honest question, and my master answered as honestly as she’d been asked. “It seemed like I would never be able to wear pretty things, so I thought I’d at least like to make them.”

Ars spun my master around as she continued to measure her, but at these words she stopped to face her. Chuckling, she spoke with a certain amount of mischief in her voice. “It’s quite difficult to make pretty things, too, you know. At first you never get to make anything besides raggedy work clothes for old men.”

My master was dutifully surprised by Ars’s resentful-sounding words.

“Far from it; apprentices don’t even get to touch a needle. In our trade guild, a clothier apprenticeship lasts six years. The first year you do nothing but clean the workshop. The next year, you repair tools. Starting in your third year, they let you hold a needle and scissors for the first time, but you still don’t get to use cloth. All you get to use are scraps. In your fourth year, you finally start to make something that resembles clothing, but it’s not until your fifth year that you’re making clothes from scratch. And of course, even if you pass your journeyman’s test in your sixth year, you’ve still a long way to go. My master…the previous master, that is, said he didn’t sew a wedding gown until twelve years after he’d started as an apprentice.”

Finally Ars snugged the cord around my master’s chest, which she was so sensitive about. I quite distinctly saw her loosen the cord a bit before counting the measuring marks, though I wasn’t sure whether that was standard practice—if she was accounting for future growth or if she was simply being kind to my master.

“Twelve years…,” whispered my master, counting on her fingers.

That was much longer than I’d known her. I would surely not still be alive in twelve years.

“Though it didn’t take that long before I was making priests’ clothes. I must be lucky.”

But that luck hadn’t extended to my master, and so she had given up on becoming a seamstress in this town.

Ars looked up from the old, well-used paper she was writing on and smiled a sympathetic smile. “I know this is temporary, but since you’re becoming a deacon, I think God’s blessings will always be with you.”

If she’d been the sort of person to leave out such consolations, she would’ve long since become a shrewd, cunning clothier.

My master nodded. “All right,” she answered with a smile.

“If you’ve time, you should come by the workshop. I’ll teach you a little.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been mending those clothes yourself, right? They’re terrible,” said Ars, pointing to my master’s clothing.

There was no hiding the many patches and seams from all the mending she’d done, but my master hastily tried to cover them up anyway, her face red. Her ability with a needle and thread was one of the few things she took pride in, but such is the way of the world.

“I can teach you the basics, anyhow. Although there are a lot of things I still wanted to learn from my predecessor.”

Ars seemed a fine clothier as she wrote on the paper with her quill pen. It was probably because she hadn’t been eating well, but her slim form spoke of an ascetic virtue, and her unwavering, critical eye on the fabric had a special quality to it.

She was every inch the skilled young seamstress.

“…If you would, then.”

At my master’s words, Ars narrowed her eyes bashfully. “I will,” she answered. “Oh, I can also teach you something else.”

“Something else?”

“Yes,” said Ars as she began to pack up her things.

It was getting quite late. Unable to hold back my sleepiness, I yawned, and it felt like the words that came next had been tossed right into my open mouth.

“I heard from the innkeeper that you were singing the clothiers’ song a bit wrong.”

A strange guffaw escaped from my throat. If I’d been human, I would’ve been holding my sides and laughing, I’m quite certain.

Ars grinned, but my master froze, blushing so red that it was obvious even in the dim tallow candlelight.

“Uh, um, er, that was…!”

“Ha-ha! Well, it’s a bit late for it tonight, but I’ll make sure to teach it to you properly. All the first-year apprentices have to learn it whether they like it or not. They even made me sing it in the town square,” Ars said nostalgically as she gathered her things.

My master was so embarrassed there were tears at the corners of her eyes, but there was a bit of happiness in her expression, too.

“So in exchange,” said Ars, poking me playfully in the side with the tip of her toe, “teach me some shepherds’ songs.”

I turned my gaze to my master as I hurried to my feet. Her face was frozen, and then her eyes went to the wall, where her distinctive shepherd’s staff rested.

She could have claimed she needed it for travel. And yet my master looked back at Ars, trying to unstick her quivering lips.

But it was Ars who spoke first, a faint smile on her face. “I heard from Johan. He comes from a long line of hated moneylenders. He was really worried. Aw, you don’t have to make such a face.”

Ars took two, then three steps toward my master, drawing close to whisper something in her ear. “It would make me think I ought to take a moneylender as a husband.”

“—!”

I must admit that I was impressed with how many facial expressions my master assumed in such a short amount of time. “Well, I’ll be off.” Ars’s eyes narrowed in amusement, and she turned to leave. “Sorry about yesterday, pup.”

My name was Enek.

I gave a bark to make my point and watched her leave.

Once Ars left the room, the only sound left was the burning of the candle. I looked back at my master. She stood there with her hands on her cheeks, her expression complicated and speechless.

She would need more training before she could become a properly stoic deacon.

I curled up at my master’s feet, and she looked down at me, her hands still on her cheeks. “Did she say ‘husband’?”

So that was what had tripped her up, eh? I yawned and supposed it was a healthy reaction for a human girl.

The innkeeper woman brought a tattered old scripture book along with breakfast.

Evidently Giuseppe had awoken the previous night and left a message. He was not feeling well, and, planning to rise in the afternoon, he’d written prayers for my master to practice on a small, cramped scrap of cloth.

If the grand breakfast we’d enjoyed before had been thanks for our rescue of Giuseppe, the fact that today’s breakfast included wheat bread again must have been the whole town’s thanks for my master’s decision to come to its aid.

I received my share, but I endured some teasing from my master in the process. And it was true, I didn’t have to memorize anything, but I still felt some confidence in how much I’d supported her. The work of a knight was so frequently thought of as easy.

“…So be it. God is…”

My master murmured as she practiced. She’d removed one of her sandals and stroked my back with her bare foot.

When she made a mistake she would grab my fur with her toes and pull, only moving on to another spot when she finally remembered the passage, poking me in the ribs with her foot and sighing.

A lake’s water will only become clean if it’s deep enough for the silt to fall to the bottom. If it makes my master happy, I’ll happily take as much silt as I have to, but it would have been nice for my selfless sacrifice beneath the table to earn me some praise from someone.

Or at the very least, if she would have just stopped poking my ears with her toes. Those were the only times I raised my head and put my cold nose to her feet.

“…Illuminated by…His glory. For…for…ugh…!” My master’s voice was strained as she tried to remember, and it reminded me of the way she sounded when she watched the sheep giving birth.

When she finally remembered, I couldn’t be certain whether there was a sound or not, but she stood up suddenly and spoke. “For thus is the will of God!”

She recited the rest easily, and it seemed she had finally managed to memorize the passage.

My master stroked my back roughly with her foot. I was well aware of her ability to concentrate, so any worry on my part would’ve been wasted effort. We couldn’t talk to each other, but I remembered how quickly she’d become such an excellent shepherd. Compared with that, the simple memorization of a written passage was nothing.

“Ugh…I was worried about memorizing the first part, but…yes. It wasn’t that hard to remember, really. Hey, Enek, are you listening?”

My master peered under the table at me, and I begrudgingly crawled out from under it.

She petted my head with a rare, self-satisfied smile. “Do you think you could learn a word or two yourself, Enek?”

I was a knight, and knights had no need for words. I turned away, and my master laughed through her nose like a proud child, rubbing my head as though making some small sport of me.

I wondered if I ought to be angry, but it had been so long since I’d seen her so carefree. Being as generous as I was, I bore the indignity without complaint.

“Oh, that’s right, what time is it now?”

Though the window was open, in this unfamiliar room it was hard to tell the hour from the light coming through it. My master stood from the table, stuck her head out the window, and considered the sky.

It was refreshing to see her like this. Previously, when she looked at the sky in town, she would have been doing so from within a sheep pen strewn with hay and surrounded by rats and chickens, lying among them like someone stricken with a fever.

And then she would look up at the one tiny window high in the barn that was there only to let in a tiny amount of daylight and from that try to guess the hour. Her face would be resigned, despairing, and it would pain me to see it.

How much happier it was, then, to see her like this.

Someone she knew must have been passing by because I saw my master wave her hand out the window.

“We’d better hurry, Enek!”

I gave a bark and stood ready by the door.

My master hastily prepared herself, then mostly out of reflex, she turned her eyes to a certain place.

For a moment, her profile was sad, lonely, and even guilty.

Because of that staff, my master had suffered terrible things. And yet that same staff had seen her through to this place.

Worried, I started to back away from the door—but then I stopped because my master looked back at me with a slightly bashful smile.

We had to move on. And to do that, some things would have to be left behind.

When such times come, we need not feel sad, nor guilty, nor cling to old things.

All we need to do is feel grateful.

My master’s hand stroked my head, and I gave another bark.

She opened the inn’s door, and we took a single step out into the wide, unknown world.

End.