TACO Run
Chapter 33
When Ryōta knocked on the door to the room he'd lent his foreign guest, he expected a snort and a grumble at being woken up, or perhaps silence, if he slept particularly hard. Instead, the door opened almost immediately, to show the young man already mostly dressed, and in the process of finger-combing his hair into some kind of order. "Good morning," Ryōta said, smiling at him. "I'll be making breakfast soon, if you want some. I thought it best to show you where we take our meals, here."
A slow blink, and then a faintly puzzled nod. The young man—it transpired that his name was Alfin—scratched at his stubble, and grabbed the rust-colored vest he'd been wearing the previous day from the floor, shrugging it on as he followed Ryōta barefoot down the hallway towards the kitchen.
It was an older kitchen, with a gas stove rather than a modern electric one, and limited counter-space, but it was all that Ryōta generally needed. Larger meals for the whole congregation were cooked piecemeal at various homes and brought to the church to be shared. He thought that the word in English was 'potluck', but he wasn't sure what was lucky about it.
Ryōta wasn't sure what to make his guest for breakfast. Rice was a staple, of course, and there was plenty leftover in the rice-cooker from the previous day.
Perhaps chazuke. It was simple, filling, delicious, and a good use for leftovers.
Hm…
"Feel free to make yourself at home," he told young Alfin over his shoulder, smiling reassuringly as the young man looked about with open curiosity. "This won't take long." By the time he'd dug out the chicken left over from a previous meal, some scallions, the shaker of furikake, and a sheet of nori, young Alfin had tamed his sleep-mussed hair with a string and was poking through the cupboards as though looking for something he could help with. "If you could get two bowls down, I would appreciate it," Ryōta told him, and was answered with a blankly puzzled look.
Ah, right. He didn't know Japanese. "Two bowls, please," Ryōta repeated slowly, making the appropriate shape with his hands and then gesturing for young Alfin to get them down.
His guest brightened with realization, and hastily fetched down two of the deep ceramic bowls Ryōta had stocked the cabinets with ages ago.
"Thank you." Ryōta scooped warm rice into the bowls, added leftover chicken and toppings, and then reached for the pot of seaweed stock he'd been heating on the stove to a bare simmer. Carefully pouring the hot stock over the contents of both bowls, he filled them until the toppings barely poked out of the liquid, and then set the pot aside. There was enough for seconds, if young Alfin needed it. Which he might, based on how much of the pork soup he'd eaten the previous evening.
Well, he is a healthy young man, Ryōta mused to himself, handing his guest one bowl and picking the other up for himself. Once they were seated at the table, Ryōta crossed himself, bent his head, and spoke the blessing over their food—he was amused to see that young Alfin hastily put down his spoon and bent his own head respectfully while he did so, despite already having a mouthful of rice, chicken, and seaweed stock.
After that, breakfast passed in peaceful, mutual near-silence. Young Alfin had a second bowl—and Ryōta made himself tea—and then it was time to start doing the rounds.
Alfin just kind of followed Father Fugo around for most of the morning, as he did his priestly duties or whatever. He helped wash the dishes from breakfast, and weeded the front walk while the old priest swept the steps. A couple ladies showed up while they were doing that, and got to work dusting and polishing the interior of the chapel, and gathering up any cloth things that needed washing. Father Fugo spent the time at a small table, reading a leather-bound book and taking notes, occasionally looking up to chat with the ladies when they asked him questions.
One of them showed him her rectangle thing, and he frowned as he adjusted his reading-glasses to get a better look. They talked for a little longer, both seeming worried, and Father Fugo offered her words of comfort before sending her off with the other lady. Then he got back to work on his reading and writing, with his own rectangle thing sitting on the table beside him.
Alfyn didn't know what he was doing, exactly, but he didn't think he should interrupt, so he went back outside and finished weeding the front walk. By the time he was done, he was pretty damn thirsty, and tromped back into the church to see if he could find some water.
Father Fugo seemed grateful for the interruption, and smiled gently at him, leading him back to the kitchen and pulling a funny-looking two-sectioned pitcher out of the cool-cabinet that was made out of some kinda glass-like stuff that wasn't glass. It had nice cold water in it, and Alfyn guzzled some before refilling his waterskin from it and handing the pitcher back to the priest.
Father Fugo refilled it from the spigot over the washbasin, and Alfyn watched, fascinated, as the water in the top section slowly trickled down into the bottom half through what was probably a series of filters.
Huh. Would that actually get any possible impurities out? What was it filtered through? Couldn't be cloth—that'd start rotting after a while, and make the water worse. Maybe charcoal sand? He'd used it for that purpose a couple times, and he knew some alchemists did the same. The Prof had mentioned that some texts talked about charcoal having purifying properties, too, though it hadn't been clear why… And that some people had tried to eat chunks of it and gotten sick, which was pretty obvious to anyone with a brain. Because charcoal wasn't food, and delivery mattered just as much to medicine as dosage did. You didn't inject people with things meant to be taken orally, and you didn't feed people ear-drops!
Once the pitcher was put away in the cool-cabinet again, Alfyn followed Father Fugo back out into the chapel proper, and found a young woman sitting on one of the benches there, obviously very pregnant. Alfyn'd estimate her having maybe six hands of days to go, so pretty far along.
Father Fugo greeted her, and they talked for a little bit, and then he led her over to that little freestanding closet thing and let her inside.
Alfyn just scratched his head, puzzled, as Father Fugo went to sit inside the other half of the closet thing—why did it have two halves? Why did people sit in it? What were they even doing in there?—and there was some quiet conversation for a little while, muffled enough that Alfyn didn't think he could've understood it even if they were speaking plain Orsterran.
Huh. Maybe it was a kind of private consultation room thing? Except to keep people from making gross rumors and such if people were alone together, they had it split in half?
That was weird, and pretty excessive, but Alfyn didn't even know what the gods around here were like, so maybe they were really strict about that kind of thing.
Once the lady left—looking tired, but calmer—Father Fugo went back to his book and his notes again, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
Alfyn was getting kind of restless at that point. Not just bored, but kind of antsy, wanting to do something useful, or at least try to make progress on finding the other guys. He could go back to that tavern, see if maybe they'd found anything out, but he didn't want to just leave without Father Fugo knowing where he went, and he didn't want to interrupt him while he was working, so…
He scribbled a little sketch real quick, of the church's outside, with an arrow curving around it to show he was planning on exploring a bit. Quietly, he set the sketch on the side of the table Father Fugo wasn't using, and scooted out the side-door.
The church's grounds weren't expansive. There was a bit of a yard on the front and to the sides—only a stride or so deep, and in need of a bit of weeding like the walk had been—but other than that there wasn't much land in view of the street. There was a bit more space behind the church, though. Maybe four, five strides deep, the back yard was all gravel and garden, with raised beds dividing things into neat rows. There were two rows of winter cabbage—not a kind he'd seen before, either!—that looked like they were just about ripe, and another bed that looked like it had recently been seeded, though there wasn't anything sprouting quite yet.
There were a few trays of seedlings on a worktable, with a kind of cage-thing over them that had been wrapped in a layer of some odd… clear film of some kind? It seemed really flimsy, even fragile, so Alfyn didn't want to touch it, but the cages had handles on top so they could be lifted off without damaging the film.
Alfyn thought one tray looked like onion seedlings, and another could've been turnips? Alfyn didn't want to poke at them to get a better look, just in case they were fragile or temperature-sensitive. He was pretty sure he recognized carrot seedlings, though!
He puttered around the back garden for a bit, until a commotion at the front of the church made him poke his head back around the corner. A whole gaggle of kids was there, with three ladies who looked to be in charge of 'em, gently herding the group up the steps into the church. Alfyn didn't follow them, because he was pretty sure that'd seem weird, since they wouldn't know him or anything. Instead, he went back around to the side-door and entered that way, so they'd see him coming out of the church's dorm area and know he wasn't some weirdo loitering around for no reason.
Father Fugo had put his book and notes away, it looked like, and was greeting the kids and their caretakers with an elder's fond smile, patting heads and shaking hands and gently guiding the whole group towards the side-door as they swarmed around him.
Alfyn just kind of stood awkwardly in the doorway, giving a grin and a little wave of greeting when they spotted him there.
Father Fugo said something to the group, probably trying to introduce him or something, because the kids all chorused out funny-sounding attempts at saying 'Alfyn' that didn't quite work and somehow came out sounding like a dog sneezed or something.
He kind of had to laugh at that, though, and crouched to grin at the kids when they crowded around him, rufflin' hair and admiring flowers the kids showed off. Pretty flowers, small pink blossoms that had gotten damaged by being squashed in grubby hands, but still plenty cute. Nothing he recognized, though.
Father Fugo gave a quiet cough, and Alfyn scrubbed the back of his neck, scooting out of the way so the kids could get herded back to one of the other rooms.
The next couple hours or so was spent with the kids getting lessons in various useful arts and crafts. Glass jars were filled with cream from the cool-cabinet, and rolled back and forth underfoot as the kids sat around a long wooden table and wove long, thin strips of pliable wood or reeds into baskets. One of the kids—a little boy around maybe seven—looked up at Alfyn and scooted over to make room for him, patting the table.
"Don't mind if I do!" Alfyn stepped carefully over the bench so he could sit down, and watched attentively as Father Fugo demonstrated how to start the basket's base. It was both simpler and more difficult than it looked, laying out flat strips of reed like the spokes of a wheel, and then weaving thinner strips through them in a circle, alternating which ones went over or under each strip and making sure the ends were tucked in neatly.
It was a crude, kinda lopsided thing Alfyn made in the end, but the kids seemed approving, and it'd be a serviceable mat for a hot tea-kettle or some such, even if it wouldn't make a good basket base.
Alfyn's table-neighbor had made a small bowl-like basket, and was busy fitting another reed strip that he'd bent into a circle around its mouth, to make a sturdy lip he could tie down the raw ends to, so they wouldn't scratch anyone or fray or come loose.
Alfyn let out a low whistle, impressed. Kid must've been doing this for a while, if he was that good at that age. Like the kids who spun thread on drop-spindles back home, keeping themselves busy and helping their mas out.
Alfyn'd never been much good with a drop-spindle. He'd preferred twining cord by hand, even if it took a lot longer.
Father Fugo walked around the table, giving praise where it was earned, advice where it was needed, and encouragement where it would help.
One of the older kids—a solemn-looking girl with black sclerae, purple irises, and a third eye in her forehead who was probably around thirteen—was taking up a bit more space, long reed strips laid out in a hexagonal pattern that was slowly but surely being woven through with thinner strips, making the pattern get more complex and almost… flower-like?
Alfyn caught himself staring at her—the eyes were weird, alright?—and smiled when she glanced up at him. "Lookin' good!" he said, pointing at her basket so she'd know he thought it was awesome, which it was.
She gave a slight smile and a little bow of her head, and got back to work.
Father Fugo chuckled, and patted Alfyn on the shoulder in a way that said he knew it wasn't the weaving he'd been staring at.
…the eyes were weird, alright? Pretty, but weird.
Ryōta chuckled to himself as young Alfin hastily played off his staring at Yume as admiration for her basket-weaving. Admittedly, three eyes were a bit disconcerting the first time you saw them, and her basket-weaving was impressive, so it was understandable.
Yume had a real gift for handicrafts. Possibly her third eye enhanced her depth perception and spatial awareness for fine motor skills, but a great deal of it was also her patient, focused attitude. Ryōta had already spoken with her, and the ladies who ran the group home, and they were looking to see if there were any bamboo-working masters looking to take in an apprentice.
Most of the orphaned children staying at the group home were victims of Villain attacks—often collateral victims, rather than direct targets. Some, like Yume, had obvious gifts that would make finding a new family a bit easier. Others would be taken in as foster families were found for them, though a few unfortunate souls would rotate in and out of various families several times before they found a place to call home. Some very unfortunate few would age out of the system instead… but Ryōta was determined that even if they did, none of the children would be left without some kind of life skills, and the knowledge that they could come to him for advice, prayers, and a warm meal if they needed it.
One of the more worrisome children—not so much an orphan, as abandoned by parents who hadn't even seen fit to name the boy—had recently been adopted by an old acquaintance of Ryōta's, and he had high hopes for his future. He'd obviously had special needs, but Jigoro knew how to handle histrionic types, and had a caring nature beneath his gruff exterior.
Ryōta would keep them both in his prayers, regardless.
"Alright, everyone," he said lightly, watching a few of the children finish up their current projects. Yume's would require another session to complete, due to its complexity, but the rest were mostly finished. "Has everyone been rolling their jars properly?"
The response was a chorus of 'yes!'es, as the children left off their weaving projects to duck under the table's edge and pick up their jars.
"Oho, oho, I see!" Ryōta smiled gently at them. "Looks like we've got plenty of butter ready! Now then, if miss Emma is done in the kitchen, I think it's time for lunch."
It turned out that Emma was indeed done, and was shifting her stack of bamboo baskets out of the pot of water they'd been steaming in. Ryōta showed the children how to pour the buttermilk out of their jars into a larger one he'd use to store it for later use, and then shake out their lumps of soft butter, rinsing them in cold water and kneading the last of the buttermilk out of the crevasses. The empty jars went in the sink to be washed, and miss Haruki and miss Michiko herded the children into a proper line, while Ryōta had Alfin get down a stack of plates to hand out to them. One by one, the children were given a freshly-steamed potato, cut open in a proper cross, with a pat of their own homemade butter melting in the center.
The rest of the butter went into a single large mason jar, to be kept in the group home's fridge and used as necessary.
A rumbling growl emanated from young Alfin's stomach, and he flushed a little, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand to keep from drooling at the enticing scent of steamed potatoes with butter.
Ryōta couldn't help but laugh a little, and lift the last steamer basket from its place, showing the four potatoes left inside—one for each of the ladies watching the children, and one for young Alfin.
Well, originally the potato had been meant for Ryōta, but he could fix himself a snack later.
Stepping into the tavern he'd first met Father Fugo at later that evening, Alfyn couldn't help but hold his breath. Because the folks there were nice, and they'd met Therion once, and he liked taverns so he might've come back.
Blond, brunette, brunet, redhead, not even sure if that's actually hair…
No white.
Damn. Alfyn's shoulders slumped just a little, but he shook himself and followed Father Fugo over to the bar. Maybe there'd be news anyway, even if Therion wasn't here right now. Even if there wasn't, maybe he could wash dishes in the back to help out, pay them back and earn himself dinner. Wouldn't be right to run up a tab when he didn't live here, after all!
That Taisho guy smiled a greeting, and miss Shinobu called out a welcome from where she was carrying two trays of glass tankards over to a coupla tables. Father Fugo ordered them something to eat—holy shit they had braised eel? He hadn't seen any eel in the streams and rivers around here!—and it was really damn good, especially with whatever sauce they'd put on it. He still didn't know what those white grains people here used for every meal were—they weren't anything like oats or wheat or barley—but they went real well with the eel and sauce and he maybe shoveled more into his mouth than he should have, because he almost choked.
A glass of cold water washed the choking hazard down, and Father Fugo gave a quiet little chuckle once he was sure Alfyn was alright.
Miss Shinobu—she was a real cute little lady, and probably around Tressa's age—came over when she had a moment to breathe, and she held up her rectangle thing to show him the front of it.
There was a picture of what looked kind of like a town message-board on it, and she flicked her finger to scroll down it and show him some messages excitedly. Which would've been great, if he could read 'em… wait. Wait. "That's Cyrus!" Alfyn seized the rectangle-thing along with miss Shinobu's hands, staring at the picture of the Prof surrounded by pretty girls in frilly aprons.
"Ano, okyaku-san…" Miss Shinobu's uncomfortable voice snapped him out of it, and he let go of her hastily.
"Eheh, sorry about that," he said, scrubbing the back of his neck apologetically. "But that's Cyrus! Where'd you find the picture? Does it say where he is?!"
It took a lot of trying and gestures and pantomime, and even some scribbling of sketches on a spare pad of paper, but eventually miss Shinobu got across that there was a message-board for tavern-folks that they could use their rectangle-things to look at, and the picture was from a few days ago. She knew where that tavern was, and could even write him directions if she needed to, but she didn't think Cyrus was still there anymore.
Well, probably not. The Prof was probably looking for the rest of them, same as Alfyn was, so he wouldn't've stuck to one place the whole time.
Mister Taisho said something else to miss Shinobu, and after a little back-and-forth she scrolled back up to the top of the message-board, showing Alfyn a picture of—oh! That was a picture of him! That must've been what she was doing with her rectangle-thing last night! It was a really good picture—well, high-quality anyway. He was kinda teary-eyed in it, clinking glasses with that redheaded guy who'd been here too, arms around each other's shoulders and a big ol' grin on his face.
There were a couple of smaller notes posted to the board beneath his picture, and Alfyn couldn't tell what they said, but miss Shinobu seemed kind of excited about one of 'em, talking real fast and turning her rectangle towards him and then herself rapidly as she did things to it.
Eventually, Father Fugo calmed her down with a pat on the arm, and she seemed kind of embarrassed about it, but managed to get across that another tavern-owner—or maybe a baker?—had seen the picture—and the picture of the pictures Alfyn had drawn of the guys—and started communicating with miss Shinobu about having met the Prof too!
And that had been earlier today! Just a couple hours ago, even! Miss Shinobu wrote him directions there, but got across that it was kinda far away, at least a couple hours' walk, and the bakery was probably closed already.
Well, that made sense. He could come back in the morning, and walk from here to the bakery, and miss Shinobu managed to communicate that she'd contact the bakery's owners and have them keep the Prof there tomorrow if he showed up again. And Father Fugo made it clear that he could spend the night again, so Alfyn didn't feel bad at all.
He felt even better when Taisho let him wash dishes to pay for his dinner, and all the help they'd given him.
A/N: One of the posts beneath Alfyn's picture was commenting that he's 'kinda cute, for a scruffy guy'. Another one was from the redhead's sister, who scolded him for getting drunk on a weeknight.