Author's Note: The idea of having Holo meet a wandering artist was lightly inspired by "1000 Words", a lovely short story written by Wenqing Yan. But as the summary says, their meeting takes place many years before Holo goes on her travels with Lawrence — and "many years" is probably referring to several centuries (I would assume). That is why this is only a one-shot; I'm sorry to say I won't be updating any further chapters. However, this was very fun for me to write. I'm particularly fond of Holo's manners of speech (and there are times when I catch myself using them...).
Oh, and another thing! During the time when I wrote this, I only had Volume 5 of the light novels in my possession. I recently bought Volume 1, and in a scene where Holo sees a picture that Lawrence drew of his future shop, she remarks that she once knew "an artist who planned to draw everything before him". This was a delightful surprise that I just thought I might mention. ( ^ _ ^ )
The wheat fields of Pasloe run vast, spread in acres under the great expanse of a blue sky. The wind blowing through the stalks makes the fragrant ears bow and dance, raising up a rustling tune, and when the sun arrives at its highest peak in the summer sky, the fields turn from an earthy beige to the most brilliant gold. The fields are said to be as worthy to harvest as they are to admire, for the wheat is so bountiful that rumors sweep about, calling Pasloe one of the richest terrains in the country.
It is therefore easy to sympathize when the harvest is poor, and it has been so many times. Depending on which, the villagers of Pasloe either thank or blame Holo of the Wheaten Tail, Holo the Wisewolf.
A wolf who had lived for centuries, who had ensured the wheat harvest...
"Ho, you draw these fields, traveler?"
The man turned to meet eyes with the maiden who had appeared by his side. The high stalks of wheat could not entirely hide her; her bare skin was pearly as if no hand or ray of sun had ever touched it. Fine, silky hair flowed down over her shoulders and back — a perfect match to the fur of her tail and white-tipped ears. Yet even though she was completely naked in front of a man, the maiden showed no sign of discomfort. All her attention was fixed on the sheet of parchment spread on a flat stone.
The man stared at her a moment longer before turning away. He had seemed startled to encounter someone so far out in the fields, but apparently not too embarrassed despite seeing her in the nude, although the flush on his neck might not have been wholly because of the summer heat. The wolf-tailed maiden drew closer, emerging from the wheat so that the sunlight illuminated her pale flesh. Strands of her chestnut hair fell over the line of her collarbone, and her supple arms were so fine that to touch them would have been like smearing mud on silk. It was quite obvious now; the deep blush spread to the man's cheeks fast. This did not escape the girl's notice and she laughed in open delight.
"How he averts his flustered gaze upon seeing the bare maiden! And you are quite a young knight as well." She placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned against him teasingly, chuckling when she felt him stiffen under her touch. The white shirt he wore was thin with wear, and the warmth of her palms were near scorching.
"Enough, enough," the man said, still avoiding her amused eye. "I am but a wanderer, hardly some daring knight."
"Oh, ho?" The maiden took her hands away and settled on her stomach, resting her head in her hands. The grin on her face bared sharp canines. "But 'tis a daring wanderer, indeed, to venture into the fields of Holo the Wisewolf."
"...And you are she, I presume."
"Aye, and I've this queerest little habit. See, I tend to play with my prey before devouring them." At that the man's face took on a bewildered expression. Holo clutched her midriff and howled with laughter. Her tail was covered with chestnut-colored fur, but the underside was snowy white and flashed like a beacon as Holo wagged her tail to and fro. It was clear she was enjoying herself immensely.
The man had also realized this. He frowned despite the new blush tinging his cheeks and silently returned to his painting. Holo gradually ceased her mirth and watched his hands move across the parchment for a while.
"Have you any ale, traveler?" she soon asked, picking up a bulging leather satchel that rested against the man's waist. Near it was a coat made from tanned sheepskin, which seemed a shade too small for the man and had evidently been taken off in the heat.
There was a faint note of exasperation in his voice at her inquiry. "So you do not plan to eat me but my fare?"
Holo twitched her ear and gave a somewhat lofty scoff. Already her hands had flipped open the top of the satchel. "If your fare turns up disappointing then, I may decide 'twould be better to eat you after all."
There was a minute of silence greeting this before the man sighed, recognizing his defeat. "I've nothing but a bit of rabbit and bread. There may be half a bottle of mulled wine left, so I can't offer much if you're thirsty. Ah, and I did pick a few apples from some neighboring orchards." Holo's ears perked up at that, and with her tail waving in a satisfied manner, she proceeded to pluck a bright red apple from his pack and bite into it happily.
Easy silence encompassed them again, broken only by Holo's munching and the swish of the man's brushes on the parchment. Line after line traced out the stalks and their grainy tops, the horizon of the wheat fields with the billowing clouds overhead.
"So, traveler, what brings thee to my fields?" asked Holo, licking the sticky apple juice from her fingers. Her red-brown eyes were fixed on his painting, appraising every detail while her other hand reached for another apple.
"I told you I am merely a wanderer. I go where the wind may take me, whatever direction it blows." As if to support his statement, the breeze ruffled his straight blonde hair, tossing it as it did the heads of wheat.
"And these are your mementos, of a sort?"
"Aye, you may call them so," he agreed. A fine-hair brush colored the parchment sky a deep shade of blue.
"The memories of men are odd, you see. We build fortresses of stone and wood, and we expect them to last practically forever. Yet time will wear them down to nothing, back to the earth on which they were built. We keep records on paper and in ink and then lock them away for safekeeping. But really, if even stone can be worn away, how so much more the mere words of men? So I suppose these paintings — these mementos, as you call them — are something of this man's weak attempt to preserve his precious memories. To put down...let us say, the images in his heart to see for himself before they are destroyed and faded with time." He cast the sky a sad smile, not looking to see Holo's reaction. "'Tis all rather sentimental, do you not think?"
He wasn't answered for a while — and then a ravaged apple core smacked the back of his head.
"Ow—!"
"What sort of ninny's rumination is that?" Holo sniffed disdainfully. "Have you lived such a soft life that you cannot remember the sight of the sky, or sunlight on the earth?" She poked a corner of his painting as she pulled herself over to his side. "Things like human dwellings and their words on paper will surely not last. They are the works of fools after all! But things like these—" Here she leaped up and thrust her arms out wide. "—are not so easily forgotten. For one, the taste of a proper apple!" She stomped lightly on his leg at that last part. "Hmph. If you wish for good fruit, 'twould be better to beg pick from the trees than take bad ones that have fallen."
"Those apples seemed fair enough," the man said weakly, rubbing his leg.
"But nothing like one straight from the branch!" Holo sat down with a huff, nibbling a bit on her tail. After a few minutes of this she finally turned back to him. "Whence do you hail?"
"Ah, from around the east. My father was a tanner and he wished for me to follow in the trade. He was rather displeased when I chose instead the path of an artist, to say the least."
"Is that so? I knew you were a soft lad," Holo sniffed. She began to comb her fingers through her tail, gathering a ball of fluff in her palm. "The lass you choose shall be a hard-fisted one, 'tis sure to come."
"Oh, no, I do not plan to marry."
Holo stopped at that, her tail puffing up and her ears upright. "Mm?"
"The life of one who drifts with the wind is not easy, but I cannot say I hate it." He was smiling a little as he spread the parchment fields with soft gold. "Laboring for every meal, meeting strangers both kind and less so, 'tis all part of this journey. I'm still looking for what I am supposed to be seeking, if anything at all, but so far, I have enjoyed quite a bit of this path. And perhaps someday..." The man smiled at Holo, a very gentle gesture. "Perhaps someday, you too will go out and see the beauties of this world."
Holo was quiet, her hands still hovering above her tail. Then she made an impatient noise. "Are you daft, boy? Have I not said I am Holo the Wisewolf, guardian of these fields? Do you truly think..." The man thought he heard her voice waver for a moment, but it might have been his imagination. "...that I can simply leave?"
"Well, perhaps not," he sighed. "It's just that...I do not plan to marry since I doubt any woman would prefer a stony road over a warm hearth and home." So they had returned to the topic on hand. Holo flicked an ear and resumed grooming her tail. The man picked up a new brush and touched a spot over the parchment field.
"This journey of yours, traveler; does it end?"
"Hmm? Ah, well, I suppose so." He heaved a light sigh, full of sadness mingled with contentment. "After all, no journey continues on forever. There is always an end, both to our greatest joys and our deepest sorrows."
"You are quite the sage for a lowly vagrant," Holo said severely.
"Why such sharp words?! Were we not having a pleasant exchange?" the man exclaimed, exasperated. Then he and the wisewolf looked at one another before they burst out laughing. A garter snake sliding through the wheat paused, and somewhere in the distant forest a pair of swallows flitted around one another, singing in wistful tones.
For some time, the vagabond and the wisewolf sat chatting idly. Having spent years in the wheat fields, Holo was particularly intrigued by the man's stories. He had set out on his travels when he was eighteen, and as time went by he had roamed all around the east before heading up far north, where a kindly woman had given him a fine sheepskin coat after seeing he had nothing for the cold. Holo roared with laughter as he described his attempt to sneak into the hot springs of Nyohhira — botched when the mistress of the springs just so happened to be soaking in the same pool as he. Then he had traversed into the west, during which he was nearly killed by an angry mother bear — twice — and had the chance to sample foreign dishes at a festival. (He had all of Holo's attention while describing the food.) Now after nearly four years he was headed south, after which he planned to perhaps make one more round of the land before catching a ship to a foreign country.
Holo listened with rapt attention as the wanderer spoke; she sat beside him and looked up at his face with a rather odd expression, a sad sort of contentment. The shifting stalks of wheat raised a crisp fragrance that swirled around them, wrapping them in sweet-smelling warmth. As the man recounted his travels for her, Holo found herself feeling something teetering towards happiness. After all, even if it was only for a while—
She didn't feel lonely at all.
"Ah, the sun... It shan't be too long until dusk now."
The man followed Holo's red-brown gaze to the sinking sun. The wheat was steadily losing its golden luster, fading into a sort of imperial yellow. "Ah yes. It shall soon be time for me to move on as well."
At those words Holo's head jerked up, her eyes boring into his with such intensity that it startled him a bit. "Really?" was all she said, however.
"Yes. By this time tomorrow, I will be well on my way." His words were light and he had stood up, gazing into the far horizon with a keen expression.
"Is that so," Holo murmured. Then her gaze fell on the painting and she froze. Her eyes went wide and she stared hard at the parchment.
The man laughed quietly at her surprised face. "Here. For you," he chuckled, kneeling to take up the painting and present it to her. A vast field of golden wheat swayed beneath a great sky — through which a girl with the ears and tail of a wolf strolled through, hands out to brush over the ears of wheat.
"...Will you return?"
"Who can say? At times it can be difficult for one to retrace his steps, and other times, far too easy." His brushes and paints and rolls of parchment all went into the leather satchel, which he slung over his shoulder, picked up his coat and then stood up again. "I should get going. You hold on to that, 'tis one of a kind." He smiled and his large hands closed over hers briefly, wrapping them in a strong and reassuring warmth.
His eyes were a beautiful clear blue.
"This may only be goodbye for now. So farewell, Holo the Wisewolf." His waving hand lingered long as his lone figure moved off into the distance, gradually being swallowed up by the rolling fields of wheat. But her wolf's-ears could still catch his last parting words:
"May you find happiness!"
Holo did wave back, although only once, still clutching the wanderer's painting.
A wolf who had lived for centuries, who had ensured the wheat harvest, and who feared loneliness above all else.
"Do you have a place to go...?"
"...I wish to return to the North."