Chapter 352: The Caravan

"We've been out for six days; I wonder how things are at the manor." Field lifted the bitter tea and sipped, the intense bitterness making his tongue root to gums contract.

This was already the third settlement they'd visited. To seek more primitive information, they'd chosen routes far from main transport arteries, where road conditions grew worse, and relentless travel and reading left them mentally and physically exhausted.

The church's administrator seemed to sense their time was tight; after serving two cups of tea said to invigorate the spirit, he led them to the library and left them undisturbed.

"I hope our discoveries are interesting enough that Mr. Kraft won't mind us missing our regular reports."

Compared to possible reprimands later, he was more concerned about his companion's health.

Yet that discomfort during dinner had come quickly and passed just as fast; since then, Dominic had shown no further physical symptoms and remained in good spirits.

That gave him some relief; otherwise, Field would never have let a sick person wander outside—he'd have bound the man and dragged him back.

"Mm."

Dominic murmured in reply, continuing to burrow through the pages, reading the words more diligently than even the one who proposed this trip, and surprisingly fast—several old books already piled beside him.

Field always felt his efficiency stemmed from some clear purpose, though Dominic couldn't articulate what it was—he only knew what it wasn't.

At this pace, they should finish reviewing the selected transcripts before nightfall, then decide whether to turn back or press on to the next location for luck.

Contrary to their speed, progress so far had been poor.

It wasn't that relevant materials were scarce. In fact, nearly all early personal records contained some mention of local primitive folk customs.

Beyond the majority that remained superficial, there were always those who attempted deeper study—through extensive field visits and self-verification—leaving behind substantial written records and hand-drawn illustrations.

One particularly successful case even learned the craft of weaving spiral-shaped handicrafts before beginning missionary work, surpassing ordinary locals in skill, able to make his own straw hats and simple woven baskets.

Yet he admitted his craftsmanship still fell short of the weaver respected by the villagers. Perhaps due to innate talent, or perhaps a family's ancestral secret—the man's technique contained elements inexplicable by pure skill alone.

Even when following step-by-step, the final product always turned out different—even when his own work was neater. It was as if the man's mind held a perfect template guiding his fingers, fixing the branches within some invisible vortex.

After countless failed attempts, he abandoned the idea of infiltrating and transforming local beliefs, and began preaching directly.

No one deliberately concealed anything, yet an invisible barrier seemed to exist, rendering everything like a water reflection—clearly visible, yet utterly untouchable.

All in-depth accounts ultimately yielded no novel conclusions; except for the first, which abruptly halted just as it seemed to be gaining traction, others either faded into futility after a period of intense interest, or ended due to the author's insufficient ability.

As for the field survey results recorded, contradictions abounded. Some described the object of local worship and fear as a flying creature dwelling atop the mountain, fond of circling high above to hunt prey; others claimed it was a giant land-fish, gliding on smooth belly scales, swallowing those who strayed into mist, leaving behind water vortex patterns resembling fish feeding.

In short, accounts varied wildly, but their common thread was always the strange vortex pattern, linked to various disappearance stories.

Enough to compile into a collection to quiet children's night terrors, but clearly impractical as work material; relying on the vague notion that "a once-widespread but unknown pagan cult once existed here" wouldn't impress anyone.

Field's view was mixed. The difficulty of research and scarcity of references confirmed they were entering uncharted territory—if they succeeded, the findings might merit publication.

The bad part was they might not have enough time; they must return before the manor clinic is built, when Mr. Kraft will personally inspect the site—they must both be present.

Dominic, sitting across from him, suddenly groaned, pressing his knuckles against the bridge of his nose and sniffing.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just a bit of a headache—it used to happen when I had a stuffy nose… ah." Dominic tried to shake his head, but the motion tugged at the pain, making him frown again. "The weather's turned colder."

"You'd better pay attention—falling ill out here isn't a joke." Field watched his companion, who was already immersed again in reading, and silently slowed his pace, deciding to stay an extra day to rest.

The book in his hand was relatively recent, written by a former assistant priest, only noticed because it was a personal journal.

When this assistant priest wrote, the parish had long since left its early hardships behind; monks from the monastery came and went, expanding their influence, and each village church sent suitable successors to the monastery for training.

Any faith outside the mainstream was pushed into corners and rapidly faded from view.

His duties were merely to assist the priest in preparing for gatherings and rituals, occasionally tend the vegetable garden, receive passing visitors and fellow clergy, and record daily expenditures.

It was more like a work log and ledger—Field found himself drowsy, yawning, eager to finish quickly and switch to something more interesting, so when a sudden, unfamiliar large discrepancy in income or expenditure appeared amid the clutter, he nearly skipped right over it.

It occurred just before a harvest season, when the church suddenly withdrew from its storehouse a quantity of grain sufficient to feed all members for three months.

If it had been only staple grain, that wouldn't have been strange—after all, during lean periods, the church often aided surrounding villagers.

But they also gave away considerable amounts of meat, vegetables, and fodder, and even lent out their only horse.

It didn't look like charity—it resembled a hastily departing caravan passing through, needing not just food supplies but also draft animals.

Moreover, the relationship seemed amicable: after giving away three months' worth of reserves, the church was left with exactly enough to last until the next harvest.

Of course, this generosity wasn't without return—the visitors left behind a complete set of pure silver liturgical vessels: a chalice, a paten, and ornaments for the officiant to wear, wealth far exceeding the value of what they'd received.

Field used his finger to mark his place, flipped back several pages, and found the recorded year. A rough calculation placed it roughly twenty years ago.

"Hmm?"

"Did you find something?" Dominic leaned over.

"No, it's nothing. Just… odd."

?? Thank you to CastlePeak_H's patron (=? Д? =)

? (End of Chapter)