Chapter 13: Rooted Unease
The morning air hung heavy, the sky clouded over in a pale gray haze. Asher put on the first pair of gloves he could find, the crispness of the season creeping through the cracks of the church walls, defying its intricate heating systems.
Hailstones, small and harmless, tapped against the windows in a rhythmic melody.
Another day had passed since his arrival, and Asher had reluctantly fallen into the church's odd routine. He couldn't call it home—not yet—but the structure of each day was grounding.
Kaspar was already at their bench, fiddling with a cluster of tangled wire and gears, their muttered curses interspersed with the occasional triumphant cheer.
"Ah-ha! It work now! Or... soon work. Yes, soon!" Kaspar announced to no one in particular.
"Morning, Kaspar," Asher said, fighting a yawn as he exited into the hall.
Kaspar glanced up, their goggles making their wide eyes seem even more exaggerated. "Morning, morning. You do food now, yes? Go. Food not make itself. And try red root today! Make soup sing!" They emphasized before diving back into the project.
The kitchen greeted him like an old acquaintance—still cramped, still cluttered, but familiar. He rummaged through the makeshift pantry, pulling out the ingredients they'd managed to scavenge or trade for in town. The hail disappeared as he worked, leaving a growing storm to take its place.
With a bubbling pot on the stove, Asher stirred a simple broth, chopping a mix of vegetables, both familiar and foreign.
Now he was left focusing instead on the odd red roots Kaspar had mentioned before. Dropping it into the aromatic mix.
It did not in fact make the soup sing.
Asher gagged the moment the root's bitter tang hit his nose. "Kaspar!" he shouted, setting the spoon down with a clatter.
The eccentric poked their head into the kitchen, a grin plastered across their face. "What? You ruin soup?"
"You said this root was good!"
Confused, Kaspar snatched the offending vegetable from the counter, sniffing it before licking it. Their grin widened. "Good for... other things. Not soup. You learn now!"
Asher groaned, dumping the ruined broth out the window, where it was promptly carried away by the growing storm.
The bitter red root's overpowering tang still clung to his nostrils, making him wince.
The storm had grown fiercer, its rhythmic tapping against the windows now a relentless drumming, as if the world itself mocked his culinary failure.
Kaspar, oblivious to Asher's frustration, was back at their workbench in the main hall, humming a tuneless melody as they fiddled with gears and wires. Asher sighed, rubbing his temple. "You're on your own with breakfast," he called over his shoulder.
Grabbing a few salvaged vegetables and some bread, Asher managed to scrape together a bland, serviceable stew alongside some dry toast. It wasn't much, but it would keep them going. He set the bowls on a dining table in the dimly lit kitchen, the usual clamor of the church noticeably absent.
The storm had seemingly emptied the building of visitors.
Otto, normally an imposing presence bustling between sermons and prayers, had been scarce all morning. When he finally appeared, the priest's mood was as grim as the storm outside.
Otto sat heavily at the table, his black cassock slightly rumpled, and muttered a half-hearted blessing over the meal before digging in. The usual quiet reverence of mealtime was replaced by an uncomfortable tension. Otto's movements were sharp and irritable, his knife scraping loudly against the plate as he cut into his toast.
"Storm's keeping them away," Otto finally muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His tone was bitter, and his gaze darted toward the windows, where the snow pelted relentlessly. "They'll come crawling back when the sun's out again, fair-weather flock that they are."
Asher didn't respond, focusing on his own bowl. Kaspar, undeterred by Otto's mood, chattered about their latest invention—a "self-stirring pot" that had, so far, only managed to fling soup halfway across the kitchen.
When the meal ended, Otto excused himself without a word, his footsteps heavy as he retreated down the hall. Kaspar gave Asher a conspiratorial grin. "Otto mad. Like, mad-mad. You see him drink soon, I bet."
"Is he always like this when it's gloomy?" Asher asked, standing to clear the table.
Kaspar shrugged, gathering their tools. "Not storm. Donations slow, too. He worry too much. Always do."
Asher's cleaning duties took him down the main hall of the church, where the dim light from the high windows barely illuminated the stone walls.
As he passed Otto's room, a faint sound caught his attention—a low, irregular knocking. It came from the direction of the basement. He froze, listening closely as the sound repeated: knock... knock... knock.
The rhythm was too deliberate to be the storm.
Curiosity prickled at him, and he took a hesitant step toward the stairwell opposite Otto's bed. Before he could get closer, a sharp voice cut through the quiet.
"Don't."
Asher turned to find Otto standing in the doorway of the room, his dark eyes fixed on him with a warning glare. The priest's face was pale, the lines of stress etched deeply into his features.
"It's nothing you need to concern yourself with," Otto said firmly, his tone allowing no argument.
"What is it?" Asher asked, his voice quiet. "It sounds like—"
"Drop it," Otto snapped. His gaze softened for a brief moment, but only enough to replace anger with a weary sort of resolve. "Just... stay away from the basement. That's an order."
Asher nodded reluctantly, stepping back as Otto disappeared into his room. The door shut with a thud, followed by the distinct clink of glass on glass.
For the rest of the afternoon, Otto remained holed up in his room. Every so often, Asher heard the faint sound of a bottle being uncorked, followed by the soft slosh of liquid being poured. Kaspar was right—Otto was drinking.
The church felt emptier than ever, the usual hum of activity replaced by the muffled storm outside and the faint, unsettling rhythm of the knocking beneath the floor.
The blizzard raged on, growing heavier as the hours crept by. The windows rattled in their frames, the pale gray light outside fading into a dreary dimness.
With Samantha absent and the shopping trip no longer an option, the church felt more isolated than ever.
Asher found his thoughts drifting to the scrap-selling homeless man who occasionally passed by the church.
We offer a roof for the weary so it's odd to see no one here today. On that topic, how's that scrap scammer doing?
With little else to occupy himself, he wandered back into the nave where Kaspar was still engrossed in their latest project.
"You look bored," Kaspar said with eyes in the back of there head, their fingers deftly twisting wires into place.
"I am bored," Asher admitted. "Teach me something."
Kaspar's head shot up, their goggles making their excitement all the more exaggerated. "Ah, yes! You learn! But... I not explain good. You watch. Watch and... uh, copy!"
What followed was a chaotic, borderline incoherent lesson in mechanics.
Kaspar worked at breakneck speed, muttering to themselves in broken sentences, leaving Asher to piece together their methods.
He managed to fix a loose hinge on a box and even bashed a small clock that had stopped ticking into operation.
"Good! Not useless!" Kaspar declared with a grin, slapping Asher on the back. "You stay with me; I make you genius!"
Asher smirked. "Sure. Genius in training."
By late afternoon, the storm showed no signs of letting up. Asher, still restless, remembered the bitter red roots and decided to experiment. He fetched Kaspar's salt-making contraption—a rickety machine of whirring gears and sputtering steam—and fed a few chunks of the root into it.
The machine chugged loudly for a moment before spitting out a fine red powder. Tentatively, Asher scooped a bit onto his fingertip and tasted it. To his surprise, the flavor was rich, with a subtle sweetness that would work well in tea.
Kaspar wandered over, sniffing the air. "What you make?"
"Red root powder. It's... actually not bad."
Kaspar's eyes lit up. "Ah! Genius already!"
Encouraged, Asher brewed a pot of tea using the powder. The warm, spiced aroma filled the kitchen, cutting through the church's damp chill. It wasn't quite enough to erase the morning's culinary disaster, but it was a start.
Dinner was another simple affair—vegetable stew with a side of hardening bread. Asher set the table but quickly noticed Otto's absence.
He knocked on the priest's door, balancing a tray of food in one hand.
"Leave it," Otto's groggy voice called out from within.
"You sure? It's not much, but—"
"Just leave it at the door, Asher."
The sharp edge in Otto's tone left no room for argument. Asher set the tray down and retreated, the sound of Otto's sighs trailing faintly behind him.
After dinner, Asher joined Kaspar in the library for another round of Feysac language lessons. The two sat huddled over a tattered textbook, Kaspar's donning and doffing the feather for Asher to better understand.
"Now, now," Kaspar said, wagging a finger. "Serious! You not sound Feysac, people think you tourist. Or spy. Or worse—stupid."
Asher grinned. "Can't have that."
The lessons dragged on until Asher's head began to ache from the unfamiliar sounds and structures of the language. Finally, he set the book down and leaned back in his chair.
"Do you know what's going on with Otto?" he asked, his voice low.
Kaspar hesitated, their usual cheer dimming. "Otto... he worry too much. Church not same. People not same. He—" With a strange knock they stopped, glancing toward the library door as if expecting Otto to appear.
"Creepy basement. Very not help."