Steampunk: Sixth Era Epic

Chapter 890: Chapter 890 The Gifted Card

Just like Professor Drake’s records, the experiences of the poet, Mr. Roland, happened this year, in the spring of 1853.

It was a sunny day, and Mr. Roland set off with his notebook and a small knife for protection, heading to the wetland lake area west of Huntington City for a springtime poetry expedition.

Although primarily a translator by profession, Mr. Roland was well-connected. Upon passing his friend Mr. Cedric’s apple orchard, he leisurely wandered within, preparing to brew a poem themed around the frost on winter trees.

And when he delved into the depths of the orchard woodlands, a human face suddenly appeared on a tree beside him. To be more precise, the patterns and cracks in the bark formed a human face:

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m sure it wasn’t an illusion from being drunk.”

In the tavern, Mr. Roland said this, still holding his wine glass, defending himself:

“I usually don’t drink while writing poetry.”

Just as the fisherman from Lower Lutherville was startled by a talking snake, Mr. Roland, despite being more cultured than the villager, was still frightened by this strange occurrence.

He described to Shard his panicked feelings at the time and the hasty way he attempted to escape:

“I can’t remember how long I ran, but I couldn’t escape that woodland no matter what. Yes, I feel like I haven’t exercised so vigorously since being chased by wild dogs down three streets in the fall of 1850.”

As Mr. Roland reminisced, Shard nodded and took notes, finding these magical experiences more interesting than the Lake Goddess herself.

The face on the tree could move across the trunk, so when Mr. Roland was too exhausted to continue, the face on the tree spoke again.

“It was as if it was singing, like in a fairy tale. I can’t describe the sound the tree made, but the song was roughly asking me, when spring is about to arrive and the winter snow will melt, wouldn’t those snows seem pitiful?”

The poet said, taking a big gulp of wine. The barley wine in this small tavern wasn’t very strong, so there was no need to worry about getting drunk.

“So how did you respond at that time?”

Shard curiously asked, and Mr. Roland drew circles in the air with his right index finger, humming softly:

“Snow is the messenger of winter. When spring comes, they should give up their place and let blossoms and sunshine come to the world.”

This response did sound like the tone of a poet.

“So, if it were you, Mr. Watson, how would you answer?”

The poet asked Shard, and Shard pondered:

“Snow hasn’t disappeared but has turned into water, soaking the earth in spring. They will evaporate back to the sky during the upcoming summer, fall as rain in autumn, and once again become snow covering the earth in winter. It’s a cycle; snow never truly dies.”

Mr. Roland smiled:

“Do you mind if I jot down your words?”

After answering the tree face’s question, it seemed very satisfied with the poet’s response. Then the ground shook, and the trees that surrounded Mr. Roland opened up a small path around him.

Trapped in the woodland, Mr. Roland fearfully walked along that path to its end, where he saw a lake.

“At that time, I immediately thought of the legend of the Lake Goddess. Mr. Watson, I am a local, and although merely a commoner, my family has been living here for five generations. I grew up listening to the local stories, so it was easy for me to connect them to these wonderful legends.”

“Did you walk across the ice to Heart Lake Island?”

Shard asked, but the poet shook his head slightly:

“No, no, spring had already arrived by then, so there was no ice on the lake. However, a small boat was moored by the shore, and when I sat in it, it took me across the silk-like surface of the lake of its own accord, without me needing to row, and carried me to the lively and thriving Heart Lake Island.”

He squinted, savoring his memories.

Shard nodded, once again jotting this down in his notebook. It seems that the lake’s seasons were relative to the real world, rather than always maintaining the winter appearance described by the One-Eyed Fisherman, Mr. Greyfoe:

“Next question, what did you encounter on Heart Lake Island?”

“I met a middle-aged lady in a white robe, holding a white oak staff. Although she was dressed quite simply, I thought not even a queen from the newspapers could match her beauty.”

This differed from Old Greyford from Lower Lutherville’s account, where the fisherman encountered an old woman.

“Did you make a wish to her?”

“Yes, but before that, she asked me to compose a poem for her, to praise her beauty. This was not difficult for me. Or rather, even if she hadn’t asked me to do so, I would still have written the poem, for her beauty was unmatched.”

The poet said nostalgically.

“After writing the poem, she then asked if I had any wishes. At that moment, my mind was so befuddled with excitement that I initially intended to say ‘talent,’ but then I felt that my talent was already quite outstanding, and asking for more would be unfair to other poets.”

“Yes.”

Shard held back a laugh.

“So in the end, I wished for luck from that lady.”

He pointed to the cards next to the wine glass on the table.

“And then you just left?”

“Yes, when I went back to look for that lake, it was nowhere to be found. But this extraordinary luck did indeed appear with me.”

Mr. Roland sighed and clinked his glass with Shard’s, using his intact left hand:

“It’s quite a wonderful story, isn’t it? But I don’t want to share it with anyone, because I don’t want those driven by greed to disturb the lady’s serenity.”

Shard frowned as he took a sip of his own wine, satisfied with the watered-down taste that was somewhat like grape juice:

“I noticed your story didn’t mention how your fingers ended up that way.”

“Actually, in my memory, I can’t find any reason for missing those two fingers.”

Mr. Roland shook his head, appearing equally puzzled:

“It seems they’ve always been like this. In all my old photos, my hand looks this way, and my friends say that when they met me, my hand was like this. But I clearly remember I wasn’t born with this disability, so there must be something odd about it. I just can’t recall what.”

“Do you think it’s related to the unusual experience this spring?”

Shard asked, and the poet slightly shook his head:

“Perhaps it is, but I really don’t know.”

“Could you tell me the address of that orchard?”

“Of course, I wish you success, Mr. Watson. But please, don’t be greedy. Yes, do not be greedy.”

He pulled a fountain pen from his pocket, took over Shard’s notebook, and wrote the address with blue-black ink, letter by letter:

“We can only gain what is destined to be ours.”

After writing, he didn’t immediately return Shard’s notebook. Instead, he selected the ‘Carsonrick Horror Story: Headless Horseman Jack’ from his deck and inserted the card into the notebook, handing it back to Shard:

“This now belongs to you.”

“Why?”

Shard asked curiously, picking up the Roder card to examine it.

Mr. Roland shrugged:

“You did win against me, and since you don’t want my money, take this card instead. You deserve it. Also, I believe you’re the kind of person who, when taking another’s benefit, will certainly help others. So, please do your best to find Lake Cherub and have the Lake Goddess reclaim the luck that’s been bestowed on me. Yes, take it back, I find it too burdensome to bear such luck any longer.”

Shard looked at the card of the Headless Horseman and smiled:

“I promise I will.”

It was two in the afternoon when Shard left the tavern, roughly the warmest time of day. However, in early winter, the biting wind could still send chills down one’s spine.

The Cedric Orchard Mr. Roland mentioned was a large apple orchard on the western edge of Huntington City. The orchard’s owner, Mr. Cedric, wasn’t a local but a wealthy merchant from Velindale, and the orchard and book store were just a few among his many ventures.

Not wanting to run into more bad luck like yesterday, Shard decided against detouring to the east of the city to ask Mr. Benhart for an introduction letter and instead rode directly to the west.

The Cedric Orchard was enormous, impossible to fence in entirely. Additionally, by winter, there were no fruits left on the tree branches, so even the orchard’s guards had little interest in making patrol rounds. When Shard led his horse from the east side of the orchard, near the direction of Lake Lain, no one took notice.

He remembered Professor Drake mentioning that the search for the Lake Goddess should not be conducted with that intention, yet controlling his thoughts was difficult. Last night he encountered a pack of wolves and accidentally stumbled into this during the pursuit of the escaping wolves, but there were no blind-eyed packs of wolves here to trouble Shard.

Wandering through the woods, leading his horse beneath the barren branches and upon the soft ground, Shard knew that if he continued, he would likely find no clues. So he found a sparse patch of woodland, stopped, tied his horse to a tree to let it graze on the remaining sparse grass, while he leaned back against a tree trunk and took out his notebook to finish outlining the mathematical thesis he planned to write.

He had started drafting part of it last night, and if completed today, he’d have time in the following days to seek Miss Sylvia’s help with editing.

The winter sun beyond the city was just right. It illuminated the notebook and the handsome young man in a black coat, who was deeply absorbed in his mathematical problems.

Beside him, the chestnut-bay horse, saddled, steadily munched on the grass. Occasionally lifting its head to glance into the distance, then impatiently stomping its hooves on the ground, as though curious about Shard’s preoccupations.

It was an ordinary winter afternoon, and Shard was anticipating yet another encounter.