The Wandering Blade (3)
"Blow?!"
Blow did not spare a glance for Rudney and Max, who were staring at him in open shock. He broke into a run. He had only one thought: the shoe drifting away on the current was Marta's, and he had to get it back, no matter what.
But even in winter the valley stream ran far too fast, and in an instant the shoe was swept beyond anywhere he could reach. To get ahead of it he slid down the slope beside the water and kept running toward the lake the current was bound for.
"Ngh..."
It was no proper path. He fell and scraped his knees; branches snagged him and tore his clothes. He had no room left to care.
"Hah... hah..."
He ran without pause for some twenty minutes before he reached the place where the valley met the lake. There he stopped, just for a moment, and looked up at the stretch of stream pouring down toward him. Had the shoe already gone into the lake, or caught on something in the valley? If it was still coming, would it ride this very current he was watching?
His thoughts snarled together. He jerked his head this way and that—and by a mercy he had no right to expect, something pale caught his eye, floating on the lake. It was not far. He did not stop to look twice. He hastily wet his chest and arms and stepped into the water.
"Aaaagh!"
The cold bit his feet as if they would freeze solid, and the cry tore out of him before he could stop it. Even so he plunged in and drove himself forward, one step and then another. His head felt as if it would split, and pain surged up from the scrapes he had taken earlier. Even so—
M-Marta's shoe. That's it!
The moment he knew it for what it was, he shoved the agony aside and swam hard toward it. At last Blow Deblique seized Marta's shoe and lifted his hand as if to declare that he had done it.
Then his heart dropped.
Why is there only one?
In a cold that bored straight into his bones, Blow fought to keep his wits and turned his head every which way. No matter how he looked, the other shoe would not appear.
First—somewhere I can see the whole lake...!
He tried to get his bearings, breath steaming white, and attempted to stand, but the water where he was ran far too deep. He could not find his feet at all. The sun was slipping past the mountains. The world was going dark. Just as panic tightened in him, a rock he might be able to climb finally caught his eye in the distance.
He barely swam to it—and in that instant a host of shadows filled his sight.
"Blow Deblique!"
The shout came with a multitude of torches. He stood there stunned, and a harsh voice flew at him again.
"That thing in your hand...!"
Blow held out the white shoe he had been clutching all this time. His hand trembled, and the strength had gone out of it. The nuns wrapped him in cloth at once, and everyone bent to examine the shoe he offered. From behind them came a voice thick with dismay.
"It's Marta's! The gold embroidery I did myself... there's no mistake...."
"This is Marta's? White? Don't tell me...?"
Their faces hardened. They looked down at Blow—lips gone blue, gaze dropped to the ground—as if he were a criminal standing before them.
"Blow Deblique! You—you really—!"
But every ounce of strength had gone into fishing Marta's shoe from the water, and Blow could not take in the words the monk spat after that. The world before his eyes had gone far too dark.
Given what had happened, an emergency meeting was convened at the monastery that night. Fortunately Blow's life was not in serious danger, but he had come down with a vicious cold and could barely hold himself upright.
"The Blessing Ceremony is tomorrow. Perhaps we ought to decide his punishment after that."
After a long wrangle, everyone fell in with Brother Litten, who spoke for the monks. It was also settled that the abbot himself would later apologize to Blow's mother, Luce Deblique, and explain in full what had occurred. The meeting was just about to close when Sister Berka, who had embroidered Marta's shoes, clutched the one remaining shoe and spoke.
"But why did Blow bring Marta's shoe out of the lake?"
"A scrap of guilt, perhaps."
At those words Abbot Francis asked back, his tone calm.
"Brother Litten. So you believe Blow threw the shoes into the lake?"
"I wouldn't go so far as to say it for certain. But the other children were at dinner."
"He shares a bedroom with them, so he would have had a fair idea where the Blessing Ceremony clothes were kept."
"The boy has been trouble in more ways than one... There was that incident of violence last time, as well."
A few of the other monks and nuns lent their weight to Brother Litten's words. The abbot waited until they fell quiet, then slowly opened his mouth.
"If this was Blow's doing, he went into that freezing water himself. It seems to me we ought not punish him any further than that."
"Abbot! This isn't just anything—these are the shoes for the Blessing Ceremony."
Sister Berka protested, but the abbot shook his head with quiet dignity.
"The God Lunaria would not wish any harsher judgment. And there is always the chance that Blow did not do it. In truth, no one saw him steal the shoes, or throw them."
"Then what about Marta...! Our poor Marta..."
"Is there a spare pair?"
The abbot turned a face full of worry toward the nun in charge of the Blessing Ceremony vestments, but she shook her head, her eyes pained. A sigh escaped every mouth.
"I will speak with Marta."
With those words Francis rose. Together with Sister Berka, who was pressing hard at the corners of her eyes, and Brother Litten, he went to find Marta. After she had heard the abbot's explanation, Marta asked him in a voice that was nothing but calm.
"Did Blow do it?"
"We can't be certain. But as things stand, we believe it is likely. Marta."
"It's all right, Abbot."
"Marta!!"
At that even tone Berka seized Marta's hand, but Marta only smiled at her, gentle, as if to offer comfort.
"I have already forgiven him, Sister Berka."
Seeing Marta hold Sister Berka so, the abbot closed his eyes once, slowly, then opened them and forced open a mouth that did not want to move.
"Then what shall we do about the shoes? Ordinary shoes, perhaps..."
"I think it would be better to go barefoot. Better than wearing some other pair...."
"Marta...."
"Abbot."
"Yes. Speak."
What Marta said next was something none of them could have foreseen.
"May I see Blow for a moment?"
"Marta...! You needn't go so far...!"
The abbot said it with a hand on her shoulder, but Marta repeated herself, her voice firm.
"No. I want to see him, Abbot."
Faced with that resolute expression, the abbot had no choice but to take her to the recovery room where the boy lay. Marta knelt beside Blow, who lay under several layers of blankets, breathing faint and thin, and quietly took his hand.
"Almighty Lunaria, grant Your grace, that Blow's days to come may be filled with nothing but blessing and peace..."
After that she remained kneeling at his side for a long while. Then she laid a hand once upon his head and rose.
A few days later, when Blow Deblique had barely overcome the vicious cold and risen from his bed, he found he had been moved not back to the monastery but to a mansion in Roten. From a servant he heard that a blind girl at the monastery had received a revelation from the God Lunaria.
Blow said nothing. He only closed his eyes.
And when he returned to the domain, he burned everything he had worn at the monastery. Then he tried to erase every one of those memories.
When the story was finished, Blow drained in one long pull the wine he had not once touched while he spoke.
"So that's why you looked uncomfortable whenever the Saintess came up, Young Master."
Blow nodded at Jane's words. Yulia, wearing a look of disbelief, swallowed and asked.
"Is everything you said true, Young Master Blow?"
"Yes. It is."
"You took the whole of the blame on yourself. You were so young... It must have been hard."
But Blow only gave her a bitter smile.
"If I hadn't driven those children to that point, I don't think any of it would have happened. So as I am now, I believe that whole chain of events happened because of me."
"Even so."
"By the time I came to my senses, I was already out of the monastery, and my mother told me, with anger on her face, never to speak of the place again. So there was nothing more to say."
"Ah..."
A brief silence followed. Yulia, who had been lost in thought through it, spoke to him carefully.
"What if you told the Saintess tomorrow, Young Master Blow?"
"It's all right. It's in the past."
"Isn't it because it's in the past that you can say it?"
"Bringing it up myself is another matter... but if the subject comes up, I'll try to find the courage."
"Yes. That would be good, Young Master Blow. I'm sure the Saintess will want to hear it."
Only then did Yulia nod, as if relieved. The long telling had left Blow tired, and yet the knot he had carried in his chest for so long seemed to have loosened. He felt easier inside. At some point he picked up the wine bottle, which had not emptied, a faint smile on his lips.
"Senior, have a glass. This time I'll pour."
"Thank you, Young Master Blow."
"Another night gone, and I still haven't learned a thing about wine."
"We'll learn next time. There's tomorrow, too."
Blow filled the glasses—Yulia's, as she spoke as if to comfort him, and Jane's, as she watched him with a look of quiet pity. And so their night at the monastery deepened.