bookworm

Bonus Short Stories

Bathtub Concerto

The bathtub is a Japanese citizen’s paradise. Of course, I’m an imperial citizen now, but still.

“All right, that should do it.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow as I gazed at the fruit of several days’ hard labor near a small stream in the woods by my canton. Having paid the toll of sweat and agony all great feats of creation call for, I’d given physical form to my hardships, frustration, and ingenuity. Seeing the large wooden tub enshrined before me almost brought a tear to my eye.

The size was just about right to whip up some miso or soy sauce inside, but I didn’t plan on recreating the flavors of my motherland—all I wanted was a bath.

Our canton was too rural for anything more than a cost-efficient Turkish bath. Saunas had their own merits, but my soul forged in the land of the rising sun longed for shoulder-deep hot springs. Every trip to the steam bath only fanned the flames of my desire, and I finally lost my patience and built my own.

Boy, I was full of myself.

I’d thought that constructing a big bucket would have been easy with my whittling skill, but the process had been a nightmare. Lining up all of the planks to create a watertight fit truly was the work of an artisan. I don’t think I would have finished the project without the advice of the local blacksmith.

After thrice failing to piece together defective planks that I salvaged from the sawmill, I had finally managed to make something that held water on my fourth attempt. I had also patched up the holes in an old firewood stove from the canton’s junk heap and tossed a rusty pot on top to boil up some hot water. I couldn’t create something as complex as a water heater, but I figured diluting boiling water with fresh stuff from the river would be enough for the small, single-person tub.

“The nearby stream makes this so easy,” I said to myself, tossing firewood into the stove. I worked up a sweat while scooping water into the tub, but I was more than happy to for the sake of my bath—after all, there’s nothing like soaking in hot water when you’re sweaty and tired.

“It’s almooost ready...”

Raising the temperature of the water had been more painstaking than I’d anticipated, but at long last, my preparations were complete. Steeping myself in water that was the slightest bit too hot was my Truth, and I felt quite pleased with myself when I dunked my hand in to check the heat—until a cold shiver ran up my spine.

“You’ve been so distant lately, but I would have never guessed you were hiding away building something like this.” A sultry voice that seeped into my ears was accompanied by a new sensation of weight on my back. My neck turned like an unoiled hinge to see my grinning childhood friend. “Everyone would want a turn if word got out about this. Wouldn’t that be a shame?”

“...How did it turn out like this?” I asked.

“Ahh, how pleasant,” Margit said, ignoring me.

Although the details were far from my original plan, I found myself bathing only a few minutes later. The girl who had threatened me with a cheery smile just moments ago now sat in my lap.

I’d made the tub on the smaller end to make it easier to fill it with hot water; an adult would have to squeeze in, and two mensch children would barely fit. However, Margit’s build meant that there was room to spare, so long as she folded up her legs and rested on top of me. Still, I had one issue: my nice, soothing bath had become a horribly literal stew of tension.

“Mmm, I’ve heard of hot water baths before, but I never realized they were this wonderful, Erich,” she said, peering over her shoulder with a mischievous smile. Her usual pigtails had been undone, and her mysterious charm left no trace of any innocence appropriate for her age.

“I’m happy you’ve taken a liking to it...”

“Very much so,” she said. “Shall we do this again sometime?” As she spoke, her arms made their way around my neck and she leaned her whole body against mine.

“Wha—hey!”

“But you know, the fact that the water cools so quickly really is a shame. Oh, so that’s why you’re still boiling water despite already being in the tub. Let me see, how much should I add to warm us up?”

Margit certainly would have had an easier time reaching the hot water if she leaned forward a bit. She’s doing this on purpose... How terrifying! Any other boy our age would have lost it in more ways than one!

“Still, I would have appreciated it if you’d given me some forewarning.” She ladled up some more boiling water to adjust the temperature and shot me an accusatory glare. “I didn’t know to bring soap, so I can’t wash myself.”

“Hold on a second,” I said, “you can’t do that anyway.”

“What? But baths are meant to clean the body.”

“No, you’re supposed to keep the tub clean.”

“Huh? But I can’t help but feel strange without washing up...”

“You absolutely aren’t allowed to dirty the tub!”

For better or for worse, my passionate lecture about the proper way to bathe made me completely forget certain other details of my current situation. Still, Margit had only ever experienced saunas before, and continued looking wholly unconvinced no matter how enthusiastically I tried to explain my position.

[Tips] Imperial citizens also wash themselves before entering the bath, but it is acceptable to use a scrubber in the water.

Tingling, Fleeting Love

The wistful gaze of a young girl fell upon a boy of similar age. Bathed in gentle sunlight filtered through the trees of the canton’s woods, Erich dozed off for an afternoon nap. He enjoyed a small degree of local fame, and it was not just his blond hair and blue eyes that were popular with the Rhinian populace.

There were many reasons his name was recognized throughout their canton; first and most simply, he was popular with the ladies. In a world that had yet to achieve cultural maturity, he had the most attractive trait a man could have: the power to earn money. Usually, a fourth-born son with no hope of inheriting his house would draw no more romantic attention than a fallen branch. However, his name was a mainstay in the gossip that bloomed every time young girls gathered.

His statuettes of the Goddess were of good enough make for the church to grab them up, and his wooden board game pieces drew the admiration of even professional craftsmen. In fact, his skill as a whittler was so great that there were rumors of him funding his sickly sister’s persistent medical costs out of pocket. Hunger was a death sentence in this era, and anybody who could put bread on the table was more than certain to draw the eyes and ears of the opposite sex.

However, this girl’s interest was of a different kind. Like Erich, she was a mensch, and her growth spurt had begun one beat earlier than all her peers—as such, the intent behind her passionate stares was different too. Her tale was as simple as it was commonplace; still, to a girl barely past ten, it felt like destiny.

One day, her friends had teased her for her tall, developing body. They hadn’t done so out of malice—she’d grown prettier, and they’d poked fun at her in a cute, childish attempt to process the beating in their own chests.

However, a fragile young girl had no leeway to appreciate this “cuteness.” Unaccustomed to pain, the daggered words of those she considered her friends stung beyond imagination. She felt the wound deep inside her heart, in the vulnerable spot that people seal away when they reach adulthood. Tormented, the girl could only pray that she might disappear.

But then, Erich smoothly stepped in to stop them. With a silver tongue beyond his years, he led the group around by the nose, and before they knew it they were all playing together again. The girl had naturally found her place in their games, just as she found herself captivated by the tender look in Erich’s eyes as he watched over them. From an outsider’s perspective, the boy’s ungodly eloquence might have been seen as unsettling. However, his meaningful gaze only seemed dependable to the young girl, and catalyzed the shift in her feelings from gratitude to love.

Ever since, the girl could not pry her eyes away whenever he came into view. Yet despite harboring her fleeting first love, the girl never partook in the gossip that blossomed amongst her friends.

Erich’s best trait wasn’t that he could make money. He was kind, caring, and wouldn’t turn his back on you in a pinch. What was more, he’d endured the Konigstuhl Watch’s painful training, or so the story she’d heard one day had told, for a reason that tickled her heartstrings: he didn’t want anyone else to feel that same pain. How gallant and noble can he be?

None of the other girls understood his true worth. The money wasn’t secondary, or even tertiary. She could only imagine how dearly he’d care for the girl he deemed most precious.

Her fantasies alone were enough to send a sweet tingling sensation running through her body. She wanted to savor the pit of warmth in the depths of her gut overflowing to every corner forever.

But today the feeling was a bit different. An ice-cold fear made its way up from the tail of her spine. Surprised by this intrusion on the tender warmth of her happiness, she whirled around to face a pair of glowing, golden eyes.

“Excuse me, would you like to join me for a friendly conversation?”

The voice was at once amicable and hostile; the chill it carried drowned out the gentle tingle she’d been basking in—and she would never feel it again.

[Tips] There was once a time in human history when the ability to earn extra coin in the winter was far sexier than good looks or a beautiful singing voice.

Secret Manslaying Arts

Hanna curiously tilted her head when she heard a light knock at the door. She wasn’t expecting any guests, and her relatives wouldn’t do her the honor of asking for permission to enter. She mused over her peculiar visitor as she opened the door to a young girl carrying a basket.

“Oh, if it isn’t Margit!”

“How do you do, Mother Dearest?” the arachne said, playfully curtsying like a noblewoman.

Hanna quickly recognized her son’s friend; in truth, she held the girl in high regard—everything from her spider legs to her adorable chestnut hair and hazel eyes.

The countryside saw little traffic and thus oft fell short on entertainment. Prosaic human drama stood as its foremost pastime, and no conversation could pluck at a mother’s heartstrings like the love lives of her children. Fourth-born sons generally had great difficulty finding partners given the slim pickings of their inheritance, so seeing Erich tied up in young romance left Hanna overjoyed.

Furthermore, not only was Margit a well-mannered hard worker who had everything she needed to succeed in the countryside, but it was obvious from the outside that she was madly in love with Erich. Perhaps members of the less emotionally capable sex wouldn’t have noticed, but Hanna had once been a maiden in love herself.

“This is from my own mother, to repay you for lending us oil the other day.”

Margit’s basket contained a neatly processed cut of venison. The huntsmen made their livings protecting the preserve’s saplings from deer, and the meat they provided to the canton was a big-ticket item. They used a lot of oil: they needed it to maintain their tools, and many made a handy sum on the side rendering soap from surplus oil and the vast reserves of fat from their kills. Johannes’s farm had its own olive field, and his household often lent the huntsmen oil upon request. Today, it seemed the dues had been paid.

“My,” Hanna said, “this is a shoulder cut!”

“Yes, I’ve heard that you’re all fond of it.”

Trade within the canton was founded on the exchange of favors, to the point that it was rarer to settle an account in cash. Faithfully paying back one’s debt was key to living happily in the village, but this gift was extraordinary. The shoulder cut of a deer was very lean but flavorful, and its preparation largely depended on the culinary skill of the chef.

In some regions of the world, a woman’s beauty was evidenced by how well she could prepare her hometown’s dish. Hanna figured she’d marinate the meat in a wine-based sauce that her fourth son was particular to when she suddenly had a revelation.

“You know, Margit...Erich is out right now on a little errand.”

“Yes, I’m well aware,” the arachne replied. “I don’t mean to intrude, so I’ll be taking my leave—”

“I’m going to make one of his favorite dishes. Would you care to join me?”

“By all means!”

Hanna couldn’t stifle a full-blown grin at seeing Margit’s enthusiasm. The sight of this lovestruck maiden filled her with secondhand embarrassment as it reminded her of her youth. She, too, had once devoted countless hours cooking with a boy’s mother, tweaking this and that over an infinite number of trial runs that he would never eat. The bitter memories that melted over her tongue left her with a nagging urge to cheer the little arachne on however she could.

She couldn’t help but suspect she’d used up all of her luck as a mother. To think that there’s a girl who loves Erich not for his status or fortune, but for him!

“To start with the ingredients, we’re going to want to find the most sour wine we can.”

“Huh? But Erich likes sweet wine...”

“Hee hee, that’s right! But we can adjust the flavor with honey, and we don’t want it to taste too overbearing.”

Seeing Margit’s attention locked on like she was at one of the bishop’s sermons, Hanna happily taught the girl her secret manslaying arts.

[Tips] Sauerbraten is a dish made with heavily marinated meat, and a local classic in the Empire. Generally, pork or deer shoulder is steeped in wine-based sauce.

Lively voices bounced back and forth over the dining table. Eating a huge lunch to prepare oneself for the backbreaking work of the afternoon was a very Rhinian thing to do, and I felt blessed to be sitting at a table lined with steamed meats and bread.

“Man, this is as great as always.”

As I happily munched on one of my favorite dishes, a knowing smile crept onto my mother’s face as she began telling her story. She wove her tale like a sonorous poet, and I’m sure a lyre would have fit her quite nicely as she revealed that today’s dish had been made in tandem with Margit, who’d stopped by to drop off the meat in my absence.

“Ahh, so this is from that girl,” my father said. “I had a feeling this meat was softer than usual—maybe it’s because those huntsmen prep it properly.”

“Oh, right, Margit’s parents are huntsmen,” my eldest brother followed. “Hold up, does that mean we can eat all the meat we want if they’re our relatives?”

“Heinz, you’re a genius!” Michael exclaimed. “Do you think we’d get boar and fowl meat too?!”

“That’d be awesome,” Hans agreed. “Erich, when are you marrying into their family?”

My father’s sharp observation was immediately followed by my brothers jumping in saying whatever they pleased, leaving me pinching my furrowed brow. The way Margit sets her traps is so damn cunning!

“Mr. Brother, no!”

“Why not, Elisa?! It’s not every day you get to eat meat this good!”

I basked in the wholesomeness of the one member of my family who chose me over meat, and took another bite out of what was essentially a pit trap in culinary form. It tasted delicious, but the thought that this flavor might decide my life left me puckering my lips.

[Tips] Marriage is commonly decided by those around the couple being wed as opposed to the pair themselves.

Pushy Mother

“My, my! Welcome!”

I knocked on the door of a home that scarcely resembled my own and was answered by a sweet voice from within. This stone house in the shadow of the wood was home to the magistrate’s officially appointed huntsman—which made this Margit’s residence. That being said, she was not the one to greet me at the door.

“I’m so sorry, dear. Margit’s away on an errand right now. Why don’t you come on inside in the meantime?”

The familiar chestnut hair and large, cute, hazel eyes that greeted me adorned a round and youthful face that looked to be around my age based on appearances alone. However, my mensch sensibilities couldn’t properly assess the eight-legged woman’s age; she was by no means my childhood friend’s sibling.

Her hair had a slight wave to it, and the air about her was altogether different from Margit’s. Where her daughter exuded playful mischief, she had the composure of a full grown lady.

“Would you like some tea?” Margit’s venerable mother asked me.

If nothing else, her bearing clashed with her appearance: she certainly didn’t look like she was in her thirties. Although she could pass as the preteen Margit’s sister, her expressions, speech, and mannerisms oozed with mature grace. Furthermore, I could make out dangling earrings lining her ears from between the parts in her hair, and her loose clothing exposed the heavily inked skin underneath. This wasn’t the first time I’d been shocked by her deviance: the traditional arachne leatherwork that she’d worn in past festivals had a deep cut that proudly displayed a spider tattoo on her lower abs and a pair of butterfly wings right above her tailbone.

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” I replied.

“It won’t do to be so reserved from such a young age. Come, come, I’ve just brewed a new batch of tea. Take a seat.”

The old la—er, seasoned mother nudged me along to a chair and poured me a cup of red tea. Not only was it fresh, but she paired it with apparently homemade dried fruits to really stop me from leaving. My imperial pride wouldn’t let me waste a perfectly good cup of tea. Oh well, what can you do?

“Young boys sure are wonderful,” she said with a giggle. “You’re all so full of life.”

Her statement was laden with deeper meaning that sent a jolt along my spine. If Margit’s whispers were a sudden drop of ice, then her mother’s voice was akin to a feather duster tracing my back.

“You know, when I was younger—”

“Mother, what in the world are you doing?!”

My lifelong friend’s familiar voice cut through the peculiar sweet timbre that had been tickling my ear. With a basket under her arm, she entered, for whatever reason, through an open window. She sprang toward me so nimbly that I lost sight of her for a moment, and I had no time to react to her leaping onto my chest. Her usual smile vanished, and she squinted at her mother over my shoulder.

“Why are you making a pass on Erich?!”

“Whatever could you mean? I only poured him a bit of tea.”

Margit’s uncharacteristic anger made her look like a disgruntled puppy (in truth, she was closer to a majestic wolf), her brow crinkled in rage. I tried to calm her down and knocked back the rest of my tea so as to head out. She’d promised me archery lessons in the woods today.

“What are you so upset about?” I asked.

“I saw how smitten you were with my mother,” she said.

“What?! No, hold on...” I tried to allay her suspicions, but she remained irritable, and the day’s training ended up a living hell.

[Tips] Arachne reach physical maturity relatively quickly and see little change to their appearance once they do.

“Margit sounded really mad. What happened?”

A thin man made his way down from the second floor a little while after his daughter dragged away her companion with puffs of steam shooting out her ears. The mensch stripped off his work gloves and shook the wood from his clothes.

He looked to be around fifty; although he could have made a convincing grandfather for Margit, their relation was one step closer, and few people would have believed that he and his wife were not so far apart in age.

“Hm? I gave her a little push is all.”

The lifelong huntsman took a seat next to his partner. In contrast to her exuberant smile dripping with intent, he let his facial muscles relax. “What are you going to do if that lights a fire under her?”

“But dear, I don’t think it’s very proper to be too full of oneself or one’s position.” She put a hand to her cheek and tilted her head as she spoke, causing a familiar sensation to run down her husband’s spine. “If she were to get careless and let her mark escape...well, it’s just not what a hunter does, is it?”

The reason for the man’s chills was simple: her expression was that of an archetypal predator. Reflecting on their history, the man was made to remember that despite his status as a huntsman, he was also a helpless mark entangled in the a spider’s web.

According to his wife, their daughter was by far the favorite in her race of love, but her lead had gone to her head, and she’d recently grown to play with her food. Of course, Margit’s mother would never forbid such things; the period of sweetness that drifted between friendship and courtship was not territory that could be retread once a relationship settled. Still, it was unacceptable to drown in that bliss and lose sight of the dangers of her romantic rivals.

“Our little girl has so much competition,” she sighed. “You know as much, don’t you?”

“It makes sense,” he said. “The boy’s got a good reputation.”

Erich’s face drifted to the thin huntsman’s mind as he thought back on what he’d heard from his friends. The boy was diligent and honest, and was especially popular for the value of his wood carvings. Widows and families without sons were particularly keen on him.

The father was impressed with how completely his daughter had managed to fend off her competitors and retain her place beside him. Yet if she continued to dance around, she risked losing her mark to another predator’s ambush: after all, there existed a situation in which a man had no choice but to take responsibility.

“So, well, you know...” his wife said with a mischievous giggle.

Her laugh filled him with nothing but bad premonitions, and he silently thought of the young boy. This is a path of thorns, son.

“What is it, dear? Is something the matter?”

“...What makes you think that? I was just thinking about how lovely my wife is today.”

“My, you won’t get anything for sweet-talking your lovely wife, you know? Of course, I’m more than happy to accept anything you might give me.”

The missus cheerily grinned at her risque joke and her man mirrored her expression. Their two smiles, as incongruous as they were, continued on for quite some time.

[Tips] “Responsibility” generally falls to the man, even if he finds himself pinned down.

An Arachne’s Views on Love

Any conversation held between a gathering of maidens is sure to bloom into discourse on love, complete with the honeyed scent of dancing petals. Lips lubricated with enough alcohol are sure to let slip the name of their fancied boy, and perhaps even the deeper secrets of their taste in men.

“Why I fell in love with him?” Margit asked in confirmation.

Faced with this question, her characteristic smile had been replaced with a rare grimace. The drunken ramblings of romance shared by the local girls had been boring enough, and to top it off, she personally didn’t think it was decent to speak so openly on the subject. She thoroughly enjoyed the space she currently occupied: she wasn’t quite a lover, but certainly more than a friend, and the saccharine relationship left just enough of a sour aftertaste to stimulate her senses.

Above all else, Margit was well aware that she was not alone in her quest to win her beloved’s heart. Still, she had no intention of sending the enemy any sort of munitions, and the question of why she loved him so had tipped the little hunter over the edge—she decided to answer, as sticking out among her peers wasn’t ideal. At times, the ability to give up proved to be a useful skill.

Margit’s mark was her childhood friend Erich. The impetus of her curiosity was simple enough, but the roots of her love were plentiful. She thought through reasons that outnumbered her fingers, searching for the most fundamental one.

“Let me think...” After a long pause, her first choice was, “Perhaps how resolute he is.”

Erich did not waver. There were times when he would take pause, but he would never abandon the core values that he chose to anchor himself with. No matter how difficult or cumbersome the task, he always completed what he set out to do. Similarly, he never went back on his word.

His disposition manifested itself physically too: he had never allowed Margit to fall when she pounced on him. To leap onto someone is no easy feat, and small mistakes could turn into serious injuries for both the jumper and jumped-on. Even a compact, lightweight jumping spider arachne packed a punch when lunging forward at full speed. If the two of them tumbled to the ground together, a broken bone or two would be no surprise.

However, Erich had lovingly caught her every time. Margit had the same absolute faith when pouncing on him as she did hopping into the sturdy boughs of a great and venerable tree.

“You know, the list of things one can jump onto blind is quite limited,” the arachne said, finishing her grog. Her words only fanned the flames of the other girls’ envy.

How many places were there that one could entrust their body to? It was difficult for most to fully relax and fall face first into one’s own bedding with faith that nothing would go wrong.

Margit’s boasting left a quiet unease in the other girls’ minds: would their crushes or established betrotheds accept them, both physically and emotionally? Her audience’s frustration and the magic of mead (compounded by her pitifully low tolerance) drove the arachne to pile on one lovely characteristic after another.

She spoke of the small things he nonchalantly did for her when catching her or carrying her around; of how considerately he prepared things she wanted without her asking; of his forgiving nature and his willingness to help her learn from her mistakes without reproach; and most of all, of how he chose to say the things she wanted to hear at every turn. How many people would she meet in her lifetime who cared so deeply for her?

“...Oh, and now that I think of it, his hair is wonderful.” Margit’s praise for the good looks she frequently laid eyes on only came at the tail end of her blossoming dialogue as a passing afterthought, filling those around her with a mysterious sense of inferiority. Unaware or uncaring of their struggles, she rose from the table to leave them behind after saying, “Here, take a good look.”

Margit had spoken of the devil, and the boy in question had appeared before her eyes. He must have pulled another empty lot, as he was walking along with an exhausted face and a drink in his hands.

The arachne prepared her usual approach. As a lovestruck maiden, this bombastic display was her god-given right. She snuffed out her presence and snuck up behind him without so much as a footstep, then used every ounce of her spidery agility to leap straight at him.

The result hardly needed to be put to words—one look at the plethora of mugs emptied in frustration was proof enough of her success. After completing her sneak attack, the arachne merrily buried her nose into the boy’s soft, golden hair and smiled.