The Well-Managed Young Tree (1)

Autumn had come to an end.

The maple leaves that had dyed the forest fell and became drifts of dead leaves. Through the bare branches, the winter wind blew, announcing that the season had turned.

Early winter was a rather busy time in the village. The hunters had to head out for the final hunts to prepare for winter, and if anything was running short, someone had to hurry to the city and back.

Human villages that lived by farming supposedly spent early winter after the harvest eating, drinking, and enjoying festivals—but the life of a hunter was a different matter entirely.

While the whole human kingdom bubbled with celebration, the elf village wandering the forest in pursuit of the last animals of the year was, perhaps, somehow rather out of step with the world.

And yet this year, the mood was different.

"There's nothing to do..."

Thermia, who had come over for no reason but to loaf around, sprawled out on the frozen ground and rolled back and forth.

What do you mean, nothing? You're busy setting up the shrines, aren't you? And lately you've been run off your feet making scripture with Priest Dahlia. Not to mention you're running the neighborhood watch drills too.

"Those are things we do regardless of the season. That's not what I mean. Winter has begun—is it really all right for us to be this comfortable without worrying about food?"

Thermia ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fidgeted restlessly, as if she couldn't adapt to the leisure. She genuinely looked anxious.

Commoners of this era fought all four seasons simply to keep from starving.

When spring came, they ran about replenishing the food that had run out. When summer came, they threw themselves into harvesting nature across mountains and fields. When autumn came, they prepared for winter with what they had gathered, and only barely surviving the cold meant spring began all over again.

When, exactly, could anyone hope to break free of this chain of suffering? It was a life that made you wonder.

Of course, no one ever broke free. The best life available was to spend every waking moment staving off starvation, only to sicken and die anyway.

But our village had shattered that chain.

The Four Seasons Orchard paid no heed to the seasons. Its fruit was, for all practical purposes, endless.

There was no need for desperate winter preparation, so autumn was leisurely. And if autumn was leisurely, then so were summer and spring.

The villagers had become leisurely all year round.

They had been liberated from the struggle against hunger.

And life, inevitably, grows more varied.

"You saw that, didn't you, Lord Tree? Rowan held a little cooking contest this time, and every single prize down to third place went to alcohol. I swear I don't understand why everyone is so besotted with the stuff."

She was talking about Rowan, the human spirit-handler and self-proclaimed former saint.

He'd been told to live on fruit alone since he was becoming an elf, but that was, of course, half a joke, and he was adapting remarkably well.

"I've never touched the stuff myself, so I wouldn't know, but I really don't get why anyone drinks that foul-tasting swill."

Thermia muttered with magnificent composure.

Ooh, is thaaat sooo?

Do you really not knooow?

Thermia flinched and broke into a cold sweat, shooting me furtive glances. Did he see? Did he actually see? her eyes seemed to say.

Well, I suppose it can't be helped. Now that word's gotten out that alcohol fermentation is possible with the water spirits' help, everyone's going to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be at it like it's a craze for a while.

They compressed years of aging into a few hours. Decades, even centuries, could be attempted with ease. A true connoisseur couldn't help but throw themselves into crafting a masterpiece.

Truthfully, I was curious about fruit wine fermented for thousands of years too. Taste aside, no drinker alive could resist trying it.

"Teacher's been egging them on, too."

Yeah, that probably contributes. It'd be nice for the technique to accumulate properly.

Thermia rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, if it's called a cooking contest, shouldn't people actually be making dishes? But nobody seems interested. The fresh fruit you grant us, Lord Tree, is delicious, I'll grant—but shouldn't we at least honor the spirit of the thing?"

It's not that nobody's interested. They're holding back because of me.

"Pardon?"

The fresh fruit is food granted by the Sacred Young Tree, so stepping forward to try to beat it would feel irreverent. Everyone's being careful.

The birth defect of religion, I suppose.

Alcohol's easy to enter since Teacher's backing it, but anything else is hard to attempt seriously at a village contest.

Even just looking around the village now, there were plenty of fruit dishes already.

I'd even seen the innkeeper work out a dish idea: come deep winter, shovel up some snow, drizzle fruit juice over it, and top it with fruit—wouldn't that be delicious?

So it wasn't a lack of interest. There was simply an unspoken agreement that the fresh fruit had to take first place. Even the village elders tip-toed around it, so even if someone did enter, winning a high prize would be difficult.

The fruit of the Four Seasons Orchard had a fantastical flavor that never grew tiresome no matter how often you ate it, but it winning first place was deeply strange. If the ingredients are delicious, then a dish made from them ought to be even more delicious—yet somehow that wasn't the case.

This was the result of a religious distortion taking root.

"But you're not that stiff and humorless a being, Lord Tree."

To you, we talk often. But to most people, you're the Sacred Young Tree that veils the sky with its branches and looks down upon the village from on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠high.

It seemed the excessive caution was simply unavoidable.

Still, everyone recognizes the need, so I expect culinary variety will sort itself out little by little.

"I suppose so, yes."

Thermia stood up. She brushed off the dirt, circled around me, and studied me from all sides.

"Shall I wrap you in thermal cloth?"

Wouldn't that take an awful lot of cloth?

Thermia spread both arms wide to gauge the circumference of my trunk.

"Hmm, that's true enough. But aren't you cold?"

My trunk's gotten thicker, so the cold doesn't bother me. And if it ever really did, I could just ask Pebble to bury me in earth, couldn't I?

"Ooh! That would work, wouldn't it!"

Thermia dashed off toward Pebble Girl.

"If you happen to get cold, I'll be counting on you."

She drew mana stone fruit from her pouch. Not a whole one—a fragment.

She scraped it with her short dagger, and powder came pouring out in a heap. She kept at it for a while, until the mana stone powder had piled up into a little mountain.

Pebble Girl, so grievously wronged, trembled for a moment as though deciding whether to rise—then gave up and went right back to sleep.

Thermia looked down at her for a moment and giggled.

"By the way."

Hm?

"If everyone's being so careful about the cooking contest because they can't feel close to you, Lord Tree—what if we made a few chances to change that?"

Chances to get closer, hm.

"The way you and I talk right now might not be a good idea, but following certain precedents from the Holy Kingdom seems perfectly fine to me."

What precedents?

"Priest Dahlia asked me once whether we had any winter festivals. And it wasn't just small talk about festivals. She told me that in the Holy Kingdom, they hold festivals as a way of giving thanks to the Sun God."

Oh?

"When people bury themselves in the business of living, they can't help but forget to be grateful to the divine. So they hold grand festivals to renew their faith, every so often. I think it might be time we built a festival culture of our own, don't you?"

Now that she mentioned it, that made sense.

I had no interest in expanding my faith, but my desire to get along well with people was considerable.

If festivals helped people feel familiar with my existence, wouldn't needless fear fade away as well?

Then work it out with Priest Dahlia. Winter's already begun and the territorial war is coming soon, so keep it simple for now.

"Yes, we'll start small. Though depending on how preparation goes, it may end up after the territorial war."

Won't winter be over by then?

"That's what I'm saying. We'll only know once we actually start preparing."

If it comes to that, let's just make it a spring festival.

"Understood."

A festival, hm.

Everyone had been working without sleep, or shedding hunting for a change of profession, or burying themselves in literacy lessons—the village culture had really been awfully dry and dreary.

Finally, it was starting to feel like a proper village.

In the time that had passed, the shrine installations had progressed smoothly as well.

I had watched over one promising site after another until the candidate selection was complete.

A tree surveying the land and a person walking it were two different things, so there would certainly be some issues here and there—but the preparatory stage was done.

We had purchased the plots, and buildings were rising across the territory.

It required far more funds than expected, but thanks to the mana stone orchard mine, I could invest without a shred of worry. We weren't selling the mana stone fruit at the moment, but its very existence was enormously reassuring.

Besides, the lord's castle had helped with every step of the process, so the shrine installation went off remarkably smoothly.

Of course, news that some shrine was springing up had the priests of the Holy Kingdom firing off protest letters to the lord's castle, but the Steward had come over to our side, so it was no problem.

So organized religion is a fearsome thing, after all. Firing protests straight up the chain to the powers that be, just like that.

Priest Borlidon had surely submitted his proposal declaring me an Apostle of the Sun God, but it seemed the Grand Temple still hadn't sorted out its official position.

The political situation must be quite a mess right now.

The royal house harbors an ambition to achieve religious independence, and then suddenly a tree might be an apostle of the Sun God.

For the Grand Temple, figuring out which drumbeat to march to would be a genuine headache.

Not that a busy tree like me needed to concern myself with it just now.

"This one's going to the lord's castle. The Steward requested one."

Thermia held up an offering box.

Should I put extra care into blessing that one, then?

"You should. I don't know noble society well enough to judge whether that's proper."

What does Priest Dahlia think?

Priest Dahlia smiled.

"Do as you wish, Lord Young Tree. That, too, is something the Sun God has decreed. Please act as your heart moves you."

Ahh, Thermia was certainly the easier one to communicate with.

Setting that aside—what's your own opinion?

Priest Dahlia looked a bit put on the spot, then answered.

"If we make distinctions based on power alone, I fear that in the distant future, the irreverent may arise."

But making no distinction at all might be impossible, don't you think? As Teacher so often says, religion cannot help but be bound to the secular world.

"Then what would you say to reserving distinction for royalty alone? The royal house has long claimed that their bloodline was bestowed by the Sun God himself. Precedent has accumulated over the years, so honoring royalty above others would not run contrary to doctrine."

The divine right of kings, was it?

Priest Dahlia didn't look eager to agree that religion was bound to the secular world. And yet citing secular precedent on the side—that, it seemed, was simply unavoidable reality.

Well, treating the Steward, who helps us so much, exactly the same as everyone else does feel a bit cold. So let's send one to the King along with the Steward's. He's the acting lord anyway.

"A wise choice."

I'll bless it last, so set it at the far right.

"Yes!"

Thermia carried the offering box bound for the King into place.

Dozens of offering boxes stood in a row across the forest clearing.

I intended to bestow a blessing on each in turn.

Would I be able to pull it off, I wondered.

What I was attempting was not the wholesome mystery of the old ways. It was, if anything, closer to a wicked one.

An offering box is where worldly wealth is laid down. Even though I was its master, in practice it was masterless treasure, sitting there unguarded.

Greed was bound to stir.

I asked the Thief Trio, and they said that if they were still active thieves, this would be exactly the sort of thing to make their mouths water.

The boxes always sat in the same spot, and the guard rotation was fixed—it was a perfect target to plan around.

The Holy Kingdom wielded considerable secular power, so anyone who stole from a temple property would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be hunted down with the private soldiers of the surrounding lords. We had nothing like that authority.

If we lacked secular power, then we had no choice but to wield a power that transcended it.

I poured my intent into the offering boxes.

A blessing unlike any before came pouring out.

To those who would steal, the freedom to suffer nightmares.

To those who would steal, the freedom to collapse in exhaustion.

To those who would steal, the freedom to regret their wrongs.

If you wish for the freedom to steal, then I shall bless you with far more freedom still.

A black light radiated outward.

Whoa—whoa?