Hradec Wine and Dormitory Chaos

Good day, Mayor Sithi.

And to you, Elder Sithis.

Elder Sithis subtly glanced at the roasted meat on the plate before the Mayor’s desk, and, momentarily forgetting it was Lent, he mused aloud:

“The plague has finally ended. The church’s graveyard is filled with bones, and daily, people confess to the priests, while others steadily embrace the Lord. Perhaps the plague was a trial from the Lord to His faithful.”

The Mayor sighed involuntarily, “Indeed… I never imagined the plague would strike so suddenly. Hundreds have perished in just half a year; I fear a witch is at work.”

The Elder remained noncommittal.

The Mayor continued, “Oh, by the way! Elder Sithis, did you witness the recent burning? The witch who spread the plague was burned alive, and the wicked source of the pestilence was purified by the flames!”

As a wise theologian, Elder Sithis knew perfectly well that witches could not exist in the Lord’s earthly kingdom; such beliefs were merely the malicious conjectures of ignorant people facing natural disasters and calamities.

He firmly countered, “Mayor! You and I both know full well that in the world crafted by the Almighty, no entity can truly be called a ‘witch.’ In the past, it was merely another term for pole-climbing heretics, but since Saint Wenceslaus ascended to heaven, there have been no heretics left in this land.”

The Norse youth on duty by the door let out a contemptuous snort, pursed his lips, and whistled a melodic tune.

The Elder simply ignored him, continuing independently, “I believe, Mayor, you should reveal the truth to the citizens and rescue those innocent girls who are being burned alive.”

Sithi retorted mockingly, “That is the priests’ duty. If you were capable of saving these plague-stricken people, would the citizens act this way? Since the plague began, how many have died from bloodletting? And how many truly succumbed to the illness itself? Surely, Elder Sithis, you are not unaware of these facts?”

Faced with the Mayor’s blatant sarcasm, Sithis, as the abbey elder, could only remain silent, for what was said was true. Yet, how could a merchant like the Mayor comprehend matters of herbalism and medicine?

Only when the tainted, plague-ridden blood was expelled would the miraculous human body, created by God, naturally generate clean, untainted fresh blood!

Unwilling to elaborate further, and with no interest in continuing the discussion, he stated his purpose: “I hear you’ve recently acquired a new wine called ‘Hradec’?”

Sithi threw his head back and laughed heartily, “Haha! I knew it! You old drunkard wouldn’t visit without a reason!”

After his jibe, Sithi gave a definitive answer: “Yes! That’s right! There is such a wine, but I advise you not to set your sights on it. My niece cherishes it like a priceless treasure, so if you’re after the recipe, you might as well give up now!”

“I can offer twenty jars of honey, ten jars of beeswax, and forty acres of cultivated land in exchange,” the Elder laid out his terms.

“That’s far too little, and ‘Hradec’ is a fine vintage brewed by my niece. I don’t even know the recipe,” the Mayor shook his head.

“But you can decide on her behalf, can’t you? I’ll add five more chests of parchment,” the Elder increased his bid, yet the scales remained unmoved.

The Mayor scoffed, “Using the parchment I donated to the monastery as a bargaining chip—you certainly know how to conduct business…”

Having finished his remark, the Mayor returned his quill to the inkwell and instructed the Norse youth on duty at the door, “Tyr, see the Elder out, and tell the stable master to arrange a carriage to transport all of Noren’s wine stored here to the monastery.”

The young guard named Tyr nodded, then gestured for other guards to take their posts before jogging away.

Sithi turned to the Elder, “How about this? I’ll have someone inform you the next time my niece visits Hradec. Whether you strike a deal then will be beyond my purview.”

Elder Sithis rose, clasped his hands, and bowed slightly, “God bless you.”

He then turned and exited the Mayor’s office.

Seeing this, the monastic apprentice Simir also bowed slightly, then hurried to catch up with his uncle, taking the small, quick steps characteristic of monks.

****

In the deserted marketplace, patches of snow still clung to the ground. Pedestrians hurried by, rushing about their livelihoods, while hawkers set up their stalls, calling out their wares of fruits and vegetables.

Around the wooden platform in the market’s center, several logs stood upright, to which beautiful, dark-haired girls were bound, stark naked. Their hair was drenched, their bodies purple with cold, their eyelids drooped listlessly, and their chapped lips parted and closed, emitting syllables that failed to form a coherent sentence.

The sky had darkened, and the light piercing through the thick clouds fell precisely upon these girls, as if Jesus had sanctioned the citizens’ judgment of the witches. Or perhaps, God Himself was merely a voyeur, casting down beams of light from heaven simply to better observe the intricate details.

A stout woman with a headscarf passed by, her face contorted in disgust. She reached into her basket, intending to throw an egg at the witches tied to the posts, but after a moment’s thought, she merely spat out a few venomous words. Throw eggs? She couldn’t bear to waste them.

Sithis and his nephew witnessed this scene. They stood ten yards away, watching from a distance, their expressions vacant, utterly unmoved.

Simir was, after all, still a youth. Born into a wealthy family and having joined the monastery early, he had witnessed too little of the medieval world’s atrocities. He found himself deeply pained. “Uncle, can’t we save them?”

“Call me Elder… never mind,” Sithis looked up at the innocent scapegoats. “If you don’t want to be stripped of this monastic robe, or rather, if you don’t wish to die, then don’t save them. You can’t.”

“Why? Didn’t you teach me that God loves the world and that we should save all living beings with great love?”

Simir’s mind was filled with bewilderment. In his eyes, his uncle, despite being an elder and strict, had never lacked compassion or kindness.

His uncle lowered his head and whispered, “Because of ignorant, unruly common folk.”

“?”

Seeing his nephew still wearing a bewildered expression, he continued, “Because the flock is ignorant, and they are furious. If you try to stop them, sharp horns will sprout from their heads, and they will gore you fiercely, taking the shepherd’s life. Especially here, the populace is unruly, and only the Mayor’s guards can keep them in check. I have no desire to impulsively cause dozens of lives in the monastery to be sacrificed in vain.”

“You’re just afraid to die,” his nephew hit the mark, casting a disdainful look.

His uncle fell into a long silence, then turned expressionlessly. He quickly forgot everything he had seen, boarded the wine carriage, and set off on the road back to the monastery.

Simir was pulled onto the carriage by his uncle. Reluctantly, he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and forced himself to forget everything. He truly ought to learn from his uncle and all the priests, to master the art of dulling the mind with alcohol, thereby drawing close to God within the illusions it created, listening to the gospel, and thus avoid witnessing such tragedies in this earthly purgatory.

The carriage began to move, its wheels groaning.

****

The church bells rang, signaling the start of curfew within the monastery.

Simir had returned to the apprentice dormitory, now thoroughly drunk, his eyes glazed over as he collapsed onto his straw bed.

He babbled incessantly in his drunken stupor, muttering incoherent phrases like “Oh God,” “purgatory,” “pity,” and “Cao Pi.”

Hearing this, Gregor felt his head throb. He had just begun studying astronomy today and was already physically and mentally exhausted, only to find he had to share a room with a drunkard.

Though called a room, it offered no privacy whatsoever. Fortunately, the space was ample, with no clutter, so they didn’t have to sleep head-to-toe. Even with half a yard between each straw pallet, ten people could fit in a row, making the entire room more than enough for thirty individuals.

However, only a handful of people occupied this particular room—apprentices whose families had donated property to the monastery. Gregor, of course, was different; he… well, Gregor preferred not to speak of it.

Gregor kicked the drunkard, sending him tumbling into the corner. Simir lay on the floor, still muttering drunkenly, even scratching an itch on his backside.

“Gregor, he…” The speaker was a new apprentice who had joined the monastery that day, granted the new name Anthony by the abbot.

“Ignore him. Go to sleep. If you oversleep and miss tomorrow’s morning prayers, you’ll be punished!” Gregor threatened the young apprentice. He had spent the whole day teaching young Anthony the basics of monastic life, and now all he wanted was to go to bed, not to discuss personal matters.

“Oh…” The young apprentice pouted, then, in the darkness, stuck out his tongue at Gregor and made a face.

Silence returned to the room. The other older apprentices smiled, closed their eyes, and finally prepared for sleep.

“Ugh—”

A sudden projectile vomit startled all the apprentices, followed by a curse: “Damn his mother, by Jesus!”

The young apprentice blinked in confusion, watching Gregor, who had jumped onto the windowsill.

The person on the windowsill was furious, cursing loudly, “Simir, you bastard! You scoundrel! You vomited on me!”

Simir, the instigator, groggily wiped the corner of his mouth, completely oblivious to the vomit that had sprayed a full three yards in front of him. He rose, stumbled to another corner, leaned against it, bent his knees, and slowly slid down the wall to the floor, his head resting against the surface as he fell asleep.

Gregor longed to rush over and beat the drunkard senseless, but the faint footsteps echoing in the corridor reminded him—it was the night patrol monks!

“Damn it all! Why now, of all times?” he muttered under his breath, quickly jumping between two apprentices, pulling them into an embrace, and feigning sleep.

“Screech—” The door creaked open, a harsh sound.

A ball of light floated in the air. It first hovered before the drunkard in the corner, uttering a sigh, “I wish I could drink ‘Hradec’ too.”

It then drifted over to observe the three ‘brothers from different fathers and mothers’ sleeping soundly in an embrace, sighing again, “Looks like we can recruit three fewer nuns.”

Finally, as it departed, the candle spirit seemed to trip over something, falling heavily from the air to the ground.

“Hiss~ What’s this sticky stuff? Sniff sniff~ Ugh!!!!”

Two more balls of candlelight floated in from outside the room, helping the fallen one to its feet. Perhaps Simir’s projectile range was quite extensive, for as they helped, all three balls of candlelight tumbled down together!

“Ouch (x3)!” Three cries of pain, signifying three unfortunate monks.

In their minds, the apprentices collectively exclaimed, ‘Simir, look what you’ve done!’

The three monks scrambled to their feet, swaying as they moved to Simir’s side, each delivering a resounding slap. Yet, he merely smacked his lips, as if mocking the monks’ frailness.

So the three monks exchanged glances, wound up their arms, and delivered three more slaps. But these three blows did not rouse Simir in the slightest; instead, he looked as if he was about to vomit again.

The monks quickly released him, grumbling as they pushed open the door and left.

Gregor and the two apprentices he was embracing simultaneously exhaled a sigh of relief, but in their hearts, they collectively wailed, “My future wives, ah~~~”

In the darkness, Anthony’s eyes gleamed. ‘This monastery is truly interesting~’