Vol 3 Chapter 26 – Boyhood: Autumn at Thirteen・Part 5

The baths in the Mie Empire are like a small amusement park. There are lounges where one may lie down and receive a massage, benches on which to sit and chat with someone, and even outdoor spaces for light wrestling.

I and Lord Faige had just emerged from the sauna and met again on a bench by the cold bath as we cooled off.

I was increasingly reminded of the mysterious nature of tree people. Their faces and limbs appeared nothing more than a tangle of gnarled, twisted branches arranged into a human shape—and if not for the sparkle in their eyes, one might easily mistake their visage for that of an ancient tree produced by a simulacrum effect.

The silver leaves adorning his head like hair, along with the undulating contours of his branches and leaves, bestowed on him the dignified appearance of an old tree—a quiet testament that even tree people, like ordinary humans, grow old with time and experience.

“When you grow old, the moisture simply evaporates. That’s why I come here—to replenish my body’s water.”

With those words, he called out to a nearby water vendor. Merchants peddling drinks—so one might prolong the pleasure of the bath—were an indispensable sight in the bathing quarter.

“Oh, my good sir, as always. How are you, Agine-na?”

“The bath is something to enjoy anytime. As long as it doesn’t run dry—ah, I’d like some Ettaga-no, please.”

Perhaps he was a familiar vendor. Flowing gracefully, the man poured water into a glass—a water imbued with a refreshing, citrusy acidity—and handed over a cup.

“Have a drink. The water after you’ve been steeped in steam is…”

“Like ambrosia?”

I downed a gulp of the water, offered with that poetic expression, savoring its freshness as it seeped into my sweat-dried body, and couldn’t help commenting on the familiar turn of phrase. “Ho…” he murmured while stroking the silver moss on his chin.

“Is that so? You know your classics well.”

“Bernkastel, isn’t it? The master of prose poetry.”

The poem he quoted—and to which I had replied—was an everyday verse by a prose poet who had made his mark before the founding of the Empire. In this region, it wasn’t only rhymed poetry that caught on; unpretentious prose poetry celebrating raw emotion had also become popular among the common folk. Even the wordplay I shared with Margit one night in the forest could be traced back to that very source.

There was a time when I spent every waking hour in the cathedral, devouring every book in its cramped library. Needless to say, aside from theological works, the collections amassed by successive priests included many anthologies of poetry familiar to common people. Naturally, rural priests—being locals themselves—tended to share the same cultural tastes.

“Yes, it’s splendid. The language is both relaxed and dignified, the joy of living is expressed in an unrestrained manner, and the impression it leaves is simply marvelous.”

“I understand completely. After reading, I too feel the urge to take a bath or go for a walk.”

Bernkastel, who adopted solely the name of his hometown as his pen name, remains an enigmatic figure; yet, given that both published editions and original manuscripts survive, he is regarded as far from a mere commoner. However, since his poetry, which so delicately celebrates an emotionally rich ordinary life, is a far cry from the ostentatious lifestyle of the elite, many now think he must have been either a common-born poet who secured noble patronage or a well-off illegitimate under aristocratic protection.

Although his work is very popular, within aristocratic circles it is still the meticulously crafted, fixed-form verse that is held in higher esteem. I never would have imagined that one of those esteemed copyists—who had earned fame reproducing manuscripts—could harbor such a fondness for prose poetry.

“Is that so? That you appreciate its beauty—unusual for someone so young.”

Lord Faige guzzled his water with delight, purchased a refill from the water vendor, and even offered me one. “Yes, I understand—one tends to loosen one’s purse strings when a kindred spirit is found.” I recalled that when a junior at the company, who was unusually knowledgeable about role-playing games, joined us, I ended up spending extravagantly. In fact, I can’t even remember his name these days.

“Nowadays, young folks are all about poets like Verlaine or Heinrich—obsessing over technique and extolling the most mundane things by the dozen…”

For a while, I listened to Lord Faige expound his theories—perhaps even his gripes—while I alternated between the bath and the steam room so as not to cool down too much.

I suppose his temperament was not for everyone.

His lofty bearing, profound knowledge, and a technique worthy of nobility were evident. Yet he lamented that he lacked the talent to compose the very poetry, ballads, or stories he so cherished—which led him to work with these texts instead. Moreover, his extraordinary skill in reproducing famous works and rare manuscripts, for which orders from the highborn never ceased, did not quite match the refined tastes of his inner connoisseur.

Had he been merely one of the countless copyists dutifully reproducing manuscripts, that would have sufficed. In fact, copyists like him usually received orders to duplicate the disposable sagas and poems favored by common folk. Surely, Lord Faige would have enjoyed his work endlessly, finding fresh nuances in the same poem each time.

But alas, his excellent craft led him to work on novels—by “novels” here, I mean short treatises or small discourses; in this world, what suit me best are stories or heroic epics. When one considers that one after another the aristocracy would present grand narratives, national treatises, magical dissertations, history books, and—even the only poetry I was familiar with—yet all in bindings too noble and highbrow for the masses… it is no wonder that his approach, mismatched with these commissions, earned him a reputation for being peculiarly cantankerous.

That his talent was such that he could make a living this way was the true tragedy of his situation. Although it is said that one’s passion does not always coincide with one’s skill, it remains a profoundly sad state of affairs.

By the time my mind had become completely soft and muddled, Lord Faige’s discourse finally came to an end. I found it rather enlightening; his depth of expertise was remarkable, and he never failed to surprise me with tidbits of knowledge that only deepened my own experience. Even the slight dizziness I felt was a price worth paying.

“My apologies, little one. I got carried away. Please forgive me—it’s just an old tree’s bad habit.”

“No, no—it was a collection of the most intriguing tales; truly, I enjoyed every bit of it.”

Leaving the bath, I found solace in the gentle autumn night breeze. Looking up, I saw the familiar white moon trying to form a perfect circle, partly veiled by faint clouds. In stark contrast, the ominous black moon was receding into shadow, nearly disappearing from view.

“So, in the end, you never mentioned your purpose. What business brings you to visit this old tree?”

Seizing the generous opportunity, I replied, “Yes. I have come on orders from Agrippina de Staal to request the manuscript copy of ‘The Nameless God’s Ritual Woven Scriptures’ that you reproduced.”

At my deeply bowed request, Lord Faige’s eyebrows arched sternly, and his eyes, reminiscent of a gilded beetle, shifted to a dark red hue.

It was not that Agrippina de Staal had commissioned a new manuscript from him.

I had come seeking the copy that Lord Faige had once been commissioned to reproduce but, following a tremendous quarrel with his client, was never delivered.

I couldn’t fathom what this imposing book recorded. The very description of a “Nameless God”—a deity that had lost its name—had never appeared in any theological work I’d read before, which must mean it is treated as a kind of taboo.

A book venerating that god, by its very nature, could not possibly contain anything mundane. If fortune allowed me to acquire it, I would deliver it to Agrippina de Staal without ever so much as turning a page. For the three prohibitions—“do not look, do not know, do not touch”—must surely have their rightful reason.

I had no desire to become like Orpheus, doomed to mourn those dear to him. Since there are predecessors who have demonstrated the dire consequences of breaking such prohibitions, it is best to avoid treading in their footsteps.

“Do you still possess his book?”

I asked while bowing deeply and keeping my gaze fixed on the ground. The knots in the wood creaked ominously, and I saw birds taking flight from among the trees.

“…Very well. This isn’t the place for such discussions. Just follow me.”

Then, at the edge of my vision, I caught sight of Lord Faige’s feet turning.

Not wanting to be left behind, I hurriedly looked up at his tall back and followed him…

【Tips】 Over the long course of history, there have been gods who lost their followers and hid their true forms—and deities whose natures transformed as faith itself changed.

Guided by Lord Faige, we eventually arrived at the base of a colossal evergreen tree near the city walls—a tree whose presence was strikingly out of the ordinary. It is said that this is not only the origin of the tree people but also his current dwelling.

The emergence of tree people is quite special; they do not multiply through mating but are born when a spirit inhabits a tree, thereby establishing individual identity and self-awareness. Once born, they live alongside the tree and are free to go wherever they please.

“Come in.”

At the hollow at the base of the tree where we were beckoned, a space far larger than the tree’s actual diameter stretched out before us.

“Wow… amazing.”

I couldn’t help exclaiming. The space inside the hollow was like an imposing study that would ignite the romantic passions of any book lover.

At the center of the room stood an impressive desk—crafted from amber-colored wood—that would hardly be out of place even if Lord Faige himself were to sit there. Behind it, a dark chair stood proudly with its back arched high, adding to the room’s solemnity.

Encircling the desk were bookshelves holding a multitude of lavishly bound volumes, all arranged meticulously in alphabetical order by the authors’ names. Each title was one I recognized. Books that would normally be bound in a rather careless fashion—typical of a book rental shop that lent out only a few books a day—were here presented with the grandeur of encyclopedias or grand treatises.

“This is exactly what I love—no complaints, right!” declared the room, its character proclaiming an extreme devotion to refined taste. Surely these books must be copies of works that Lord Faige adored, reproduced for his personal use without regard for profit and bound by craftsmen specifically for him.

“Oh, look at this—this must be from that saga, and over here is a collection of poems by the author of a love song I heard at last year’s village festival!?”

In a sense, it was an astonishing treasure. An enthusiast might happily pour money into such items, yet those who invest solely in authority and rarity might not give this collection a second glance. Ah, the fanatic—such creatures are found everywhere.

“Can you appreciate that? If you like, shall I present you with something?”

“Really!?”

I instinctively turned at the unexpected proposal, my face immediately flushing bright red at the realization of my own pettiness. Even if one might use childish behavior as a tactic, one should not become an actual child.

“I—I’m terribly sorry. I am unworthy.”

“No, no—it is rare to have someone appreciate these things so much. The books brought here never fail to capture my interest. That very discontent drove me to abandon my workshop in the imperial capital and return here.”

What a refreshing relief it is to be freed from vexations and live surrounded by one’s true passions. Lord Faige spoke with a calm and contented expression.

“But… it is indeed true that there are things which tarnish that perfection.”

He unlocked a drawer in his desk and let a book lie on top. Its binding—a black leather cover encrusted with lavish, painstakingly carved decoration—spoke silently of a nature that was unmistakably ominous.

Specifically, it was the kind of thing that, if opened carelessly, might force one to roll a one-hundred-sided die.

I involuntarily stepped back. Not only did the ominous aura of its binding unsettle me, but even with eyes as discerning as mine, I sensed something dangerously off about it. Who knows what might happen if it were mishandled? They really should not leave it lying around—it ought to be chained up at the very least.

“This is the manuscript of ‘The Nameless God’s Ritual Woven Scriptures’ that your master seeks.”

I swallowed hard, fighting a wave of nausea and unease, yet I couldn’t break away from the strange allure the book exerted. This was not the kind of fearful curiosity that compels one to watch a horror film, nor the kind born of anxiety over an unknown ending—it was something far more sinister.

“Commissioned by the client, it has been translated with impeccable fidelity from the original archaic and convoluted language into the imperial tongue, with copious annotations to make it easily understandable.”

That meant that if it were opened, even I could read it. The moment I realized this, a part of my mind whispered, “Just read it.”

No, no—this is dangerous, absolutely dangerous. Though unlocking its inherent potential might be probable, it is absolutely not something to tamper with. It is exactly the kind of thing that, if meddled with, would drive one mad.

Such an unthinkable urge confirms that this is one cursed matter indeed. It wouldn’t be surprising if a long-term campaign were launched whose grand finale was to hurl this thing into a volcano.

“Now then, what value does your master place on this?”

【Tips】 Due to their nature, grimoires not only affect one merely by being looked at but some even influence their surroundings simply by existing. There is good reason why the deepest archives of the Magi Academy are known as the forbidden library.