Vol 1 Chapter 7 – ※Childhood – The Summer at Age Nine

This is the ninth summer since I arrived in this world, though it feels like only the fourth.

Summer is a time of respite for farmers. In the southern region of the Mie Empire, the cool, pleasant climate—with moderate rainfall—and the near absence of the tantrums of the capricious gods of abnormal weather (thanks largely to the blessing of the fertility god) make life easy. Even if such events occur, the water intake channels from the river ensure that the only real worry is an unusually cold summer.

Meanwhile, there is plenty of time to tackle tasks like warding off pest birds and insects that threaten the thriving crops, or maintaining the farm roads.

The men gather firewood in preparation for winter, and if local work is available, some even set out to earn a living. The women, in the intervals of their daily chores, begin making preserved foods—and under the delightfully dry, warm heat of summer (unlike temperate Japan, where humidity is higher)—one could see pieces of meat hanging on drying racks, as if swimming in the air.

Private tutoring sessions also increase during this season, and the children seem busy. Faced with assignments like composing poetry and practicing their writing, they adorably fuss over what to do.

Summer is a season I eagerly anticipate.

With long days and few outdoor chores, I can devote endless hours to side jobs, and our self-defense corps trains almost exclusively during this time. The sweat from playing energetically with the children is refreshing, and the fruit cooled with well water afterward is simply unbeatable.

Ah, and I must not forget the magical ice confections sold by the caravans. They were expensive—so I could never eat my fill—but I always eagerly awaited the chance to have them at least once every summer.

I recall the summer vacation of my childhood spent in the countryside of Kyushu. There were only two TV channels, and with no nearby shops selling batteries, portable game consoles (recent kids might not know, but back then they ran on AA or AAA batteries) were practically non-existent in that rural area. Invited by local children, I truly enjoyed that way of life.

But above all, what I relish in summer is that on our day of rest, the manor’s bathhouse is opened.

Quite unexpectedly, the people of the Empire are famously fond of baths. Every manor has its own bathhouse, and in cities of several thousand residents, it’s virtually unheard of for there not to be a public bath—such is our fondness for bathing.

Frankly speaking, my image of the Middle Ages boiled down to two extremes: either a warm, cultured era replete with fantasy baths and plumbing, or a dark age in which people, terrified of the plague as they learned in school, wouldn’t even wash their faces. Having been raised in clean Japan, I’m truly grateful that we belong to the former.

Incidentally, the popularity of baths appears to stem from one of the small nations instrumental in our country’s founding—in other words, one of the current prince-elector families—being ardent bath enthusiasts. They argued passionately that boiled water prevents disease transmission and that simply soaking in the same bath wouldn’t spread illness (strictly speaking, it would be dangerous if, say, blood were to dissolve). By immersing themselves, they demonstrated the safety of bathing while forcefully emphasizing the importance of cleanliness—a practice that endures to this day.

I can’t help but wonder if that person might even be from my own hometown. Their intense bath obsession made me think, when Margit gave me a history lecture, “Surely you’re from the same hometown, you,” even though I was well aware of my own embarrassment.

Somehow, the bathhouse—steeped in a history that evokes a sense of kinship—was built near a small stream that flowed along the edge of the village.

“Alright, next it’s kids’ time. Let’s all get in together nicely.”

While everyone was quietly getting ready for the bath and waiting, a group of adult men began to emerge from the bathhouse in a row, steam billowing around them. By “adults,” I mean that once you pass the age of ten, you essentially join their ranks.

Me? I…

“Shall we go, Erich?”

Even though the hand that held mine should have been gentle, for some reason it wouldn’t let go. When I looked down, I saw Margit—holding her change of clothes—smiling up at me.

Yes, for some reason I’m still among the children. At nine, you’re just barely considered a child; if you were a little older, say around twelve, you’d be mixed together with the opposite gender.

Well, it’s probably just more economical to handle the little ones all together. Even in Japan, when children are young and gender distinctions are less emphasized, they change clothes together in the same classroom during the lower grades of elementary school. There’s nothing logically wrong with that.

If I have one complaint, it’s that my mentality has already slipped into my mid-forties. And yet, I still manage to come up with youthful ideas and enjoy playful fun—perhaps because my body is still dragging me along.

Even as I lost myself in such escapism, the one tugging me along wouldn’t relent. That kid, even though he clearly knew I was feeling embarrassed, showed absolutely no mercy.

The bathhouse had no luxurious space like a dressing room; we had to disrobe and enter under the open sky. There was a space to leave our clothes for the winter, but once you opened the door, you were directly in the bathing area.

The moment I entered absentmindedly, the room was filled with the residual warmth from the previous bathers.

In other words, there was a mass of steam. The bathhouses used by the lower classes of the Mie Empire were, in fact, steam baths.

And that’s not surprising. In this era, although water could be drawn from the river, the cost of fuel was incomparably higher than today. Unlike modern times—when the combined cost of gas and water barely reaches a hundred yen for a single bath—heating the hundreds of liters needed to fill a giant tub, even with a Roman-style boiler, required an enormous amount of firewood.

By contrast, steam baths were remarkably economical. With a dedicated wood stove placed in the center of the room and a two-tiered structure on top holding stones heated to a red-hot state, simply adding water produced a torrent of steam.

After that, one would beat the sweat-softened body with a brush made from bundled birch branches, or use a towel to dab off water borrowed from the stove. After sweating for about thirty minutes, one would either plunge into the river or douse one’s head with water from a wash area in the corner to feel refreshed. For the ladies who are particular about their hair, soap might be used as well.

“So, Erich, will you wash me today?”

“Mmm… Ah…”

Just like that.

After about half an hour of spreading towels around and warming up until we were nice and toasty, Margit took my hand and led me to the wash area. For some reason, I felt an ambiance reminiscent of those so‐called adult games I played in my previous life.

Even though she should clearly be young, when she let down her twin‐tied hair, she exuded an unexpected allure. I was grateful for her mature restraint and the fact that her body hadn’t fully developed yet—if I reacted inappropriately, it would become a lifetime of teasing material.

“Please be gentle, okay?”

When I sat behind her, Margit turned and, with a smile, handed me some soap.

The soap made from animal fat is a common item in the Line Mie Empire, but according to Margit, it’s homemade at her family’s house. Instead of cow fat or lard, they use fat gathered from hunted beasts mixed with fragrances extracted from medicinal herbs, giving it a refreshingly sweet scent.

I dipped the bar—formed into a stick—in warm water, lathered it up, and gently applied it to her head.

“Mmm…”

It wasn’t merely pleasurable—it was tantalizing, and I began to think that perhaps I should just die. How strange—I really wasn’t supposed to have any loli tendencies.

I washed her hair absent-mindedly, yet with deliberate, gentle care. I caressed her hair, now softened by the steam, along the cuticles, and was amazed that the soap didn’t feel abrasive at all. Even if I borrowed the same soap, it would have felt rough on my own hair—could it be that the unique texture of a spider-person’s hair makes all the difference?

After washing her hair, I carefully massaged her scalp. Removing excess oil from the hair is important, but this step must be done most meticulously; I once learned at my favorite salon that extra sebum clogged at the roots can cause hair loss or damage.

…I wonder, why do I remember such things? Even though the voices and faces of my parents have become so vague, how is it that I can recall the details from our little chat during the wash?

Just the other day, I agonized for nearly fifteen minutes because I couldn’t remember the name of my niece—my previous life’s elder sister’s child.

What on earth is happening to my memory? It seems that, oddly enough, technical skills remain vivid while episodic memories fade away. Ah, that’s right—even the titles of those novels and manga I had been so eagerly anticipating, only to die before seeing the ending, no longer come to mind.

“Erich?”

“Ah, ah, sorry… I’ll rinse it now.”

Lost in thought, I had left Margit behind—and I couldn’t let the soap dry out. I confirmed that the water wasn’t too hot and gradually poured it over her head to rinse away the soap.

“Phew, that felt wonderful.”

“Ah, you’re welcome.”

After I meticulously rinsed away every trace of soap, the light streaming in through the skylight cast a halo around her hair. With her wet, tousled hair sticking to her head and forming a soft smile, she looked terrifyingly beautiful.

Not in the sense of being outrageously stunning—but beautiful in a way that was almost frightening.

That strange contrast between her abnormal lower body and her maidenlike upper body stirred something deep within me—a tingling sensation that started at my tailbone and reached right into the core of my being.

“Then, please wash my back too.”

Wearing a smile that was both delightfully and unsettlingly beautiful, she, with soap in hand, made a suggestion that was as ambiguous as it was enticing.

I was about to carefully wash her back with a towel dampened in lukewarm water when I began to realize that perhaps it wasn’t really necessary. After all, although a spider-person’s upper body appears almost identical to a human’s, its internal skeletal structure is markedly different—with joint mobility far superior, allowing her to easily reach down to her lower limbs. Naturally, she can wash her own back more effortlessly than we can.

In other words, that’s just how it is…

While I was washing around her shoulders and waist, when she gently touched my fingertip, I felt an extremely delicate shiver. I haven’t yet begun developing secondary sexual characteristics—still remaining at a latent level—so I can remain composed; yet even now, as my body starts to pull my mind along, I shudder at how difficult it will be to maintain self-control.

I mean, she’s just too adept at teasing a man’s sensibilities. Any less skilled fellow would have been undone in two seconds flat.

“All done.”

“Thank you. I feel completely refreshed.”

After I finished cleaning away all distractions, she turned and thanked me. As usual, she wasn’t hiding anything. In fact, none of the children playing in the bathhouse were covering up—and I, at least, was keeping my waist modestly concealed with a towel—so it didn’t feel out of place.

“Then, shall we switch?”

And then, accompanied by those shivery whispers as always, an enticing proposal was made…

【Tips】The Line Mie Empire stands out in terms of hygiene compared to its neighboring countries. On average, manor farmers bathe once a week in the summer and once every two to three weeks in the winter. Even if circumstances prevent this, it is a deeply ingrained cultural habit to clean one’s body in each household’s wash area.

Facing the slender-faced boy who had closed his eyes before her, the Arachné maiden formed a slight smile.

Sitting there naked, the scene felt like a meticulously arranged banquet.

The body of the one two years her junior was beginning to show subtle signs of maturity. And all of this was likely due to the fact that he was the only one of his age to persistently participate in the self‐defense corps’ training.

While the other children lost their fighting spirit after being slapped once during their first “baptism,” he, astonishingly, withstood a total of seven slaps—and in the end even deflected a drawn blade with a stone he had picked up. It’s no wonder Mr. Lambert took a liking to him.

The boy’s body bore several painful bruises and was gradually shedding the chubby, childlike form it had once known. The once soft flesh was firming up, and his characteristically pudgy belly was becoming neatly defined.

Might he, too, eventually develop into a robust figure honed by the outdoor labors of the manor’s adults? At the thought, the maiden, Margit, could undeniably feel her heart quicken.

In time with her rising heartbeat, she playfully ran her fingers over one of his bruises. The injury, tinged with a dull blue despite having been struck by a drawn sword, was mild enough—but it delivered just enough pain to startle the boy, who had been hesitating endlessly to begin his hair wash.

“Ow!? W-what is this!?”

That’s it. This reaction was perfect. His innocent display of surprise greatly tickled her predatory instincts.

But this was no small catch. He was not a scurrying field rabbit, but rather a juvenile monster exhibiting the power of a wild boar with sharp tusks and the agility of a fox. At such a tender age, the thought of what might happen if his body matured just like hers sent her heart trembling with a mix of anticipation and unease.

For the prey one targets, the stronger they are, the more exhilarating the pursuit becomes.

“I’m sorry—I just couldn’t help it when I thought it might hurt…”

“Isn’t it only natural to keep touching it!?”

His kitten-blue eyes, constantly shifting color, remained unchanged. Even though they appeared reproachful, their adorable charm only further tickled her sensibilities.

And that is why she followed her instincts.

“I’m truly sorry, you know? So…”

“Hey, Margit!?”

She climbed onto his cross-legged lap. In doing so, the difference in their eye levels—so apparent from before—was evened out. Yet, with the thought that this difference would soon vanish, this very moment felt exceedingly precious to her.

“I’ll wash you carefully.”

Like a spider capturing its panicked prey, she slid her arm around the boy’s neck and smiled seductively…

【Tips】A spider-person’s joint mobility far exceeds that of ordinary humans—so much so that they can easily reach their entire lower legs when cleaning.