Chapter 341: The Curled Pattern

“Good news—Mr. Kraft’s assistant will be passing by the estate today; perhaps we can ask him to say a few kind words.”

“No need. These are merely daily chores; even farmers know not to boast of land that hasn’t yet yielded its harvest.” Dominik gazed into the basin, pushed his forehead hair back, tightened the collar of his robe, and adjusted the clasp of his cloak, shaped like a religious emblem.

“Our best strategy is to vanish entirely from the monastery’s sight for several months—until Mr. Kraft has nearly forgotten that cursed carriage—and by then, the estate should show some visible results.”

“So where are you going now?”

“To see Old John.”

The reflection in the water wore proper attire, his forehead bare—perfect for a monk making an official visit. “Come along?”

“No, you really intend to keep meddling in this?”

“Are you coming or not?”

“I’m coming.”

Leaving the main road and walking half a circuit around the settlement’s edge, you’d find Old John’s house near a patch of neglected, withered wheat fields. More accurately, it was now the home of Old John’s son, Young John.

Though the monks had interacted with many locals, they knew little about this household.

Women spoke of the best seamstresses, men compared drinking stamina and strength, and children traded gossip about whose orchards bore fruit worth stealing.

Once you delved into the trivialities, you realized the village, though seemingly complex, was tiny—a tightly woven spiderweb. With little entertainment, even minor incidents or rumors spread rapidly from one end to the other, and you’d hear the same story again and again from different perspectives.

Yet some individuals always remained on the fringes of this network, whether due to their own utter dullness or others’ unconscious avoidance.

Their homes, like their owners, lay in obscure corners—old and ordinary, with nothing remarkable to speak of.

Though the owner wasn’t particularly friendly, he was thankfully no more eccentric than expected. After identifying themselves, the two monks were quickly granted entry.

Pushing open the half-open wooden door, Dominik saw “Young John”—a man older than the stonemason—sitting on a wooden bench by the window, pinning a half-finished object between his thighs.

It was a basket, woven from fresh hazel branches gathered from the hills, still open at the top, which prevented him from standing to answer the door—not out of disrespect.

The room’s lighting was poor; stepping from bright to dim, vision blurred, revealing only half a figure and coiled, supple branches.

“May the Lord bless you, my friend.”

“Thank you. What is this?”

“We are newly arrived monks at the monastery, currently planning a mass to reestablish the Church’s bond with the faithful. We hope to meet each believer personally and extend the invitation.”

Dominik observed him closely, especially when he mentioned “faith” and “Heavenly Father.” He didn’t know what he was waiting for—like a climber hoping for an uneven protrusion or depression ahead, something to grip, to climb higher toward an unseen goal.

“Oh, of course,” Young John replied matter-of-factly, his hands moving again, pulling and weaving the tender, flexible hazel branches into the emerging form.

His technique was skilled—alternating left and right, effortlessly arranging the fibers into dizzying patterns, expanding outward in concentric circles. This wasn’t occasional self-made work; he did it professionally.

“When will it be? I’ll be there on time.”

“We’ll hold small gatherings every weekend. If the response is good, the Feast of Consecration after the autumn harvest will be an ideal time for a grand celebration.” This was already planned—and perfect for introducing other matters.

“It’s also a chance to connect with neighbors.” Once his eyes adjusted to the dimness, his vision grew clearer, and his peripheral gaze began to wander.

“Even longstanding disputes, under the watch of the Heavenly Father, can be peacefully resolved.”

The room was filled with woven items—large ones stacked together, similar to Young John’s basket, likely storage baskets; smaller, flat ones hung on the walls. He’d seen these before—those wide-brimmed hats sent by Field—but these were more expertly made, with smooth, spiraling vortex patterns radiating from the center, offering a unique decorative effect.

As the weaving expanded outward, the density slightly decreased, forming a loose yet intact edge. The frayed ends were left untrimmed, lending a gentle impression of ongoing expansion.

“Hmm, I’ll go,” Young John replied, his tone neutral, revealing no emotion.

The conversation had largely ended. By protocol, they should now leave a small gift and depart. But the monk had no intention of stopping yet—he needed to find a new topic.

“Fine craftsmanship. Are you a basket maker?”

Cities and villages needed such artisans—turning cheap materials into everyday baskets, carriers, hats, even beehives and backpacks; some exquisite pieces even became sacred baskets for rituals.

He’d used and seen many before, but this style was unfamiliar—more complex, heavier, yet layered and three-dimensional.

“Family tradition. I only know how to weave these.” As he spoke, Young John completed another loop.

The basket-making technique shared much in common with hat-making—complex, yet following a similar spiral path.

His focus was almost entirely on his work; the repeated circling and crossing revealed a devotion akin to that of a contemplative monk, silently reciting prayers as he moved his prayer beads.

Dominik almost felt guilty for intruding. Craftsmen who devoted themselves to their art usually had stable faith and livelihoods. Seeing the son was like seeing the father—this was likely just a misunderstanding about the grave-robbing.

Next Sunday, he’d invite both the stonemason and the basket maker together and clarify things face-to-face.

“Then we’ll take our leave. May the Heavenly Father bless you.”

Dominik reached for the hand-carved holy emblem pendant he’d prepared to give, then realized the man had no free hand to receive it.

He glanced around, searching for a place to temporarily hang it.

Everywhere in the room were similar vortexes, slowly rotating under the dim light, layered, light, intricate.

It reminded him of Field’s words about the origin of the straw hat’s shape—the vortex resembled some strange cloud formation, spun and curled by wind or some other force, twisting in every visible direction, filling his nose and throat with nausea and dizziness.

But leaving hastily would be impolite. Dominik tilted his head upward, trying to escape the shape and the revulsion it triggered.

Above him lay the thatched roof—straw and wheat stalks coiled and converged inward, spiraling tightly into a skyward...

【Vortex?】