Side Colors III Page 15

  “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 jok
e. 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.”