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. It's just daily labor; even farmers know not to boast about land that hasn't yielded its harvest." Dominic gazed down at the basin, pushed his forehead hair back, tightened the collar of his robe, and adjusted the brooch shaped like a religious emblem.

"Our best strategy is to vanish completely from the monastery's sight for several months—until Mr. Kraft has nearly forgotten that cursed carriage—then the estate should have some visible results."

"So where are you going now?"

"To see Old John."

The reflection in the water wore proper attire, his forehead bare, fitting the image of a monk visiting on official business. "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 circle around the settlement, you'd find Old John's house near a patch of withered, neglected wheat fields. More accurately, it was now the house 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 needleworkers; men compared drinking stamina and strength; children traded gossip about whose orchards bore fruit worth stealing.

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

Yet some people always remained on the fringes of this network, either because they were utterly uninteresting, or because others unconsciously kept their distance.

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 quickly received permission to enter.

Pushing open the slightly ajar wooden door, Dominic 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 open the door—he wasn't ignoring his visitors.

The room had poor lighting; from bright to dim, the view grew hazy, 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 reconnect the Church with its faithful. So we hope to meet each believer personally and extend our invitation."

Dominic observed the man, especially when he mentioned "faith" and "Heavenly Father." He didn't know what he was waiting for—like a climber hoping for an irregular bump or depression ahead to grip, to climb higher toward an unseen goal.

"Oh, of course." Young John answered as if it were obvious, 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 attend on time."

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

"Beyond shared prayer and blessings, it's also a chance to connect with neighbors." His eyes had adjusted to the dimness; his vision finally felt comfortable, his peripheral gaze drifting.

"Even long-standing conflicts, 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, likely storage baskets; smaller, flatter ones hung on the walls. He'd seen these before—Feld's wide-brimmed hats—but these were more professional, their spiral vortex patterns smooth and flowing, with 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, giving a gentle impression of continued expansion.

"Hmm, I'll go." Young John replied indifferently, revealing no emotion.

The conversation had largely ended. By protocol, they should now leave a small gift and depart. But the monk hadn't finished—he needed to find a new topic.

"Fine craftsmanship. Are you a basket maker?"

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

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

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

The basket-making method 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 to his craft, like a contemplative monk silently reciting prayers while moving his beads.

Dominic almost felt guilty for continuing to intrude. Craftsmen like this, devoted to their trade, usually had stable faith and livelihood. Seeing the son was like seeing the father—the grave-robbing incident was likely a misunderstanding.

Next Sunday, invite both the stonemason and the basket maker together—clear things up face to face.

"Then we'll take our leave. May the Heavenly Father bless you."

Dominic reached for the hand-carved holy emblem pendant he'd prepared to give—but realized the man had no free hands to receive it.

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

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

It reminded him of Feld's words—the origin of the straw hat's shape: the vortex resembled some strange cloud formation, spun and curled by wind or something else, twisting everywhere within sight, filling his throat and nose with nausea and dizziness.

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

Above him lay the thatched roof—straw and wheat stalks coiled and converged, spiraling inward, forming a sky-bound...

【Vortex?】