Chapter 39: The Holy Water Ritual

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Dearest Yamm:

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits.

Your Roland has finally settled down in the metropolis.

The weather here is mostly dreary, damp, and cold, with no shortage of fog. Everyone is in such a hurry, taking long, purposeful strides. It took me many days to adapt (for instance, clearing the soot from my nostrils).

As you know, I have never had many friends. But here, it seems my luck has turned. I have met a boastful boy leader, a sickly shoemaker princess, a skinny boy whose mother is a pastry chef (and several other friends I have yet to pay much attention to, which I truly regret).

How are you faring?

The weekly wage my uncle pays me is quite decent (with room and board included, so I have nowhere to spend it). Working with herbs every day is not as dangerous as you feared. Incidentally, the lady who brought me here has been very kind and attentive to me. With her help, I earn a significant amount of extra income each week through sewing (I have enclosed a rose I stitched myself for you).

I am doing well, and I hope you are doing just as well.

As you always said: our pockets may be empty, but they are filled with hope. I sincerely wish that you, too, will be able to realize those hopes in the near future.

I have tucked ten pounds (two notes in total) inside the fold of this letter (I suspect you have already noticed), and I hope this helps with your living expenses. Of course, this is nothing compared to what you have done for me.

Finally, I look forward to your reply. Wishing you health, beauty, and happiness through all the years to come.

—Always yours, Roland Collins.

...

Regardless of whether Roland would eventually choose to walk this path, the mere acquisition of those specific ritual components was enough to give him a headache.

Before that, he still had to enter that fog-shrouded, dense forest night after night to pass the time with that curious yet exceptionally dangerous little faerie lady. She would not answer any of Roland’s strange questions, nor would she speak a word about the price he sought to understand.

Fortunately, he could now "see."

After confirming that Roland was literate, the Tribunal granted him limited access to some of their archives. This included basic knowledge regarding wraiths and strange entities, as well as a few "Common Rituals" suitable for an apprentice.

...

"The First Drop of Grace (Consecrated Water Preparation)"
"Type: Minor Ritual (Common)"
"Ritual Components"
"Clear water unseen by the night / Seven days of direct sunlight / Faith / A drop of mercury"
"Incantation"
"I yearn for and am never satisfied by that tiny flame..."
"Until I am drowned within it, consumed by the burning fire."
"Effect"

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"Minor protection against curses, stabilizes the mind, and calms the emotions."
"Inflicts damage on nether-entities (wraiths, corpses, etc.)"
"Note: One standard portion per ritual (seven days)"

...

There was no need to dwell on Grand Rituals. Then there were the "Minor Rituals"—as Fernandez had previously mentioned, they were the polar opposite of the highly exclusive Grand Rituals that could only be used by those on the same path:

Minor rituals could be learned and mastered by almost every apprentice and ritualist. They originated from various sects and circulated freely among practitioners. Their effects were not as powerful as Grand Rituals, but they were sufficiently practical.

Below this ritual, someone had scribbled a line in blue ink:
"Ineffective against strange entities. I tried to trick an ignorant cultist into reciting the incantation—he quickly turned into a piece of roasted meat..."

It was a remark full of twisted humor, though it was unclear who had written it.

Using deep-well water and adding a single drop of mercury, the entire test tube glowed as brilliantly as a burning sun. Roland took the small tube, which held a faint, shimmering light, down from the window frame, sealed it with a wooden cork, placed it into his personal small wardrobe, and wrapped it in cotton trousers to keep it from coming into contact with the "night."

There were five more finished ones in the inner pocket of his overcoat.

Roland had never failed in his preparations, and the finished products always seemed "more brilliant" than the descriptions suggested. More interestingly, one day after a ritual, he was surprised to discover that not only had the tube used in the ritual turned into golden consecrated water, but the one left "idle" on the windowsill, waiting to be processed in the next cycle, had also turned into consecrated water.

...

"Whispers of the Page"
"Your eyes will unconsciously distort every ritual, occasionally causing them to produce more powerful effects."

...

How unexpected.

Phew Collins sat on a stool in the middle of the room, twisting a root of medicinal herb in his hand, watching this industrious little bee of the Collins family crawling back and forth.

"What on earth have you been doing these past few days, Roland?"

The old man huffed through his nostrils, clearly displeased. Ever since he became one of those "black crows," he had been acting all mysterious. He was either tinkering with strange glass jars, asking William to fetch him a jar of water from somewhere unknown, or lying on the table, staring blankly for half an hour at a time while muttering to himself...

Even though Roland had refused the "wages" he paid him weekly since that day, this was still... it was just too creepy.

"What are you actually doing?"

"Just some minor matters, Uncle."

"Your 'minor matters' had better not blow up my pharmacy." Old Collins’s tone was sharp. "You’ll be married sooner or later; are you really planning to stay with that black crow? How many years older than you is she? How much is her dowry? I don't think it's proper; if people find out, who would bless you..."

[I would, I would.]
-Be quiet.

Roland finished his work and pulled up a chair to sit before his uncle.

"Ms. Enid is not being special toward me, Uncle. She treats everyone the same."

"Oh, I see, it's not as if there aren't any almshouses in the East District," Phew Collins said with a sneer. "Why not have that lady who 'isn't being particularly attentive to you' go scatter her money there, too?"

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"You don't have to do anything, yet you stay at home all day and earn at least ten shillings a week."

"Roland, don't tell me she has so much money she doesn't know where to spend it."

He wore an "I knew it all along" expression, scrutinizing Roland.

Ten shillings?

Hmm...

"How did you know?"

"Look, look, now you're using 'you' again—" Phew Collins snorted, tapping his index finger against the center of Roland’s brow.

"You little thing are just cunning, luring those ladies and misses from the West District to run over here all day long—if you didn't earn at least ten, would you be able to offer me three shillings? You are tucking at least ten shillings into your pocket every single week."

"If you ask me, maybe even more..."

"I guessed right, didn't I?"

[Actually... it's a pound~]

Roland strained to keep his face composed.

[If you can't hold it, just let it go.]
-I can.

"You were absolutely right..." Roland feigned "shame," bowing his head. "My weekly wage is indeed eleven shillings; Ms. Enid is very kind."

Old Collins slapped the table, his face full of certainty: "What did I tell you!"

"I think I can offer more for room and board..."

"I'd rather you didn't do that work at all." He glanced at him sideways, cutting Roland off. "Keep it for yourself; you are, after all, a descendant of the Collins family. Stop going to those filthy places—if I find out you’ve caught any 'romantic stains,' get out of my sight."

"Also, my property will not be left to you; don't count on squandering your money and then eyeing my shop."

Roland placed his hands neatly on his knees and nodded obediently.

"I understand, Uncle."

The old man grumbled, "...Besides, for a face like yours, having to spend money is an utter disgrace..."

[I told you he couldn't say two decent words in a row.]
-Neither can you.

"By the way, about what you asked me to look into..."

Roland blinked. "Wraiths, or rather, spirits. I have found out."

"Very few people wander the world as wraiths after death. Such 'creatures' are the crystallization of certain emotions and obsessions; the probability of them appearing is extremely low."

"Uncle, according to what you said, after so many years, and given that your son passed away from an illness, it is unlikely... I mean, he may have already successfully reincarnated, or ascended to heaven, or even been chosen by the Father of All Things to enjoy eternal blessings in Eden."

Phew Collins opened his mouth, but not a sound came out. His eyes widened, and he didn't know where to put his hands. He dropped the shredded leaves he was holding, clutched them together, and rubbed them, looking exceptionally uneasy.

After a long while, he finally managed to squeeze out a smile.

"I was just saying, maybe some of those magical tricks could let me see him one more time..." He stood up slowly, wiped the herb debris from the table into his palm, and looked down. "I was just asking, just asking. You won't be back for dinner today, right... Heaven is good... reincarnation is good, both are fine..."

Roland fell silent.