Act XV, Hyperpolia (12)
twelve
Before dawn, Yakov mounted the pony, ready to enter the city. Before leaving, he took the longsword from under the red horn and fastened it to his waist, and also secretly took the small wooden wheel from behind the icon. "Go ahead," Yubi said goodbye, putting his arm around Dalia's shoulder. "I'll stay here to look after them and wait for you to return."
"Okay." Yakov took the reins and galloped away.
The river was still strangely frozen solid in May. Yakov rode south along the riverbank, his horse's hooves crunching on the icy mud. The small stream flowed into the larger river, and he joined the crowd squeezing through the city gate. Outside, he saw only beggars, pleading for some kind adult to give them work. On the wall of criminals at the city gate, Yakov found Grikli's wanted poster—apostasy, disturbance, a reward of twenty pi—not exactly a heinous crime. But a wooden sign hanging there prevented the poor peasant from ever returning home.
The news turned out to be true, Yakov clicked his tongue in exasperation. He turned his horse around and headed towards the cathedral where the arrest warrant had been issued.
Novgorod also has a St. Sophia Cathedral—not as grand and imposing as the one in Constantinople; but it is also built of stone, brand new and clean, with its own courtyard in the city, overlooking a beautiful river bend, occupying a prime location. Yakov followed the disaster victims seeking relief into the cathedral and stopped by the holy water pool. Like the churches of Greece, he saw that the interior was decorated with exquisite and expensive mosaics, and stood huge crosses covered with carvings. The bishop, dressed in magnificent robes, swung an incense burner and chanted prayers. The bald men beside him, vowing to practice penance, clutched documents and coins, and were far healthier and stronger than the farmers who had come to pray for help.
Yakov, weary and used to these sights, simply sought out a monk to speak with. “I’m looking for someone,” he said. “I have a friend named Grikley who is wanted and excommunicated.”
“There are quite a few people named Grikley.” The monk led him into the copying room. “Where does your friend live, what does he do, and what crime did he commit?”
“He lives in the village to the north; he’s a farmer.” Yakov’s eyes glanced discreetly at the birch bark document in his hand. “Go to his house and tell his wife that he has apostasy and become a Chude bandit.”
“Oh, Chu De people are bandits.” The monk could only shake his head helplessly. “These days, there are quite a few people who betray their religion and become bandits.”
“He’s the most foolish yet most devout fellow I know, the least likely to apostatize and become a bandit.” Yakov frowned. “You’re probably mistaken.”
“That’s not true. Sometimes, it’s the most foolish yet most devout who are most easily tempted by the devil.” The monk shook his head as he lazily flipped through the documents, pulling one out: “Grikli, the yeoman farmer, publicly insulted God, misled believers, and promoted the heresy of Chud. See for yourself.”
Without a word, Yakov took the birch bark and began to read it carefully—"You can actually read?" the monk asked in surprise, looking at his rough fur.
Yakov didn't respond to the dismissive surprise. "He only talked the talk; he didn't kill, burn, rob, or steal. So how can he be considered an apostate and a bandit?"
“…That’s what it says in the document.” The monk looked troubled. “It’s the council’s ruling.”
So Yakov, carrying the verdict, crossed the bridge eastward to the other side of Novgorod. The Volkhov River beneath was covered in snow, the ice creaking against the bridge's planks. The other, most desirable land on the bank belonged to the prince. Yakov didn't bother to care whether the current lord was Yaroslav or Vladimir; he went straight to the city council—this place was called the Free State precisely because of its city council. These people, called Viche, had the power to appoint nobles and princes, manage the city, and operate the courts, making it more enlightened and democratic than places ruled by hereditary emperors or kings—or so it should be, Yakov thought, now no longer easily blinded by this superficial freedom.
He went into the courtyard and found a clerk. "There's absolutely no problem with this judgment." The clerk, busy as a bee, replied perfunctorily, "Come back to me for the reward once you've captured him."
“That’s why I’m asking you for details,” Yakov said without batting an eye. “I need to know what this man did in the city, to understand him, so I can catch him.”
The clerk glanced at him with displeasure before his gaze fell on the documents in his hands. "Grikley, that's too common a name." His annoyed voice was muffled by the scratching of the pen. "I'll help you find out who this person is. Come back and ask me again in two weeks."
“I can read.” Yakov remained motionless, shifting to a more comfortable position. “I can find it myself.”
The clerk's lips curled downwards at his stubborn expression. The two faced off for a while, drawing grumbles from the people queuing behind them. "Then find it yourself," a large, tangled stack of birch bark was finally shoved in front of Yakov. "Give it back to me when you're done."
Yakov thanked him hastily and immediately began flipping through the stiff documents with his rough fingers. Soon, he had sifted through the register to find all the people named Grikli—clearly, this was a task that wouldn't be completed in two weeks. He picked up a page and frowned at the Cyrillic letters on it.
“He came here to petition, asking about the blacksmiths’ guild,” Yakov questioned. “Just two days before the verdict.”
The clerk ignored him, busy talking to a well-dressed Saxon merchant.
Yakov, too lazy to ask any more questions, simply touched the birch bark and slipped away. He read the inscription as he mounted his horse—"The self-sufficient farmer Grikli sues the blacksmiths' guild for coercing him into giving him memberships, thus defrauding him of his savings. No such claim has been found; this lawsuit is invalid and is merely the result of ignorant peasant misbehavior." Further down, the bark listed the number of people in Grikli's family, the amount of land he owned, and which monastery it belonged to—almost revealing everything about his family. Yakov ignored the details, focusing instead on the blacksmiths' guild's address at the bottom. A general idea was already forming in his mind.
The blacksmiths' guild should have been a bustling and lively place—in this icy wilderness, hiring a blacksmith to repair or build a furnace was always a top priority for weddings, funerals, or any major construction or relocation. But now, the guild hall was deserted and eerily quiet. Yakov stopped his horse and pushed open the door. The firewood inside wasn't burning hot enough, and his feet felt cold as soon as he stepped inside.
"Are you starting work?" The doorman smiled ingratiatingly as soon as he saw him. "Let me introduce you to the best master craftsman!"
“I won’t start work.” Yakov shook his head.
Upon hearing this, the doorman's fawning smile vanished instantly. "You're not here to register as an apprentice too, are you?" He replaced his expression with disdain, scrutinizing Yakov's weathered face and the longsword at his waist. "You must first obtain a church membership certificate from the church, apply for citizenship from the council, then find a mentor to grant you entry, and finally pay the membership fee and tuition, and sign a profit-sharing agreement..."
“This trade is ruthless,” Yakov couldn’t help but interrupt him. “Blacksmiths come here to find work and earn money, not to pay for work.”
"Anyway, people outside the union aren't allowed to take on jobs on their own now." The doorman crossed his arms impatiently. "If you're not going to register, then go find another way to make a living."
“I’m not registering.” Yakov rolled his eyes and handed Grikli’s documents to the doorman. “I’m here to see this person.”
The doorman, not yet literate, used his fingers to decipher the words, and it took him a long time to spell out the crooked letters. "Grikley," he muttered, "I know this man. He came to register before and paid all the money in his share."
"I've registered and paid the fee, but I still can't join?" Yakov asked, tapping the counter with his finger.
"There's no such thing as a free lunch! Whether you can become a blacksmith depends on your blacksmithing skills, of course." The doorman's voice rose. "It's the mentor's decision!"
Following the address the doorman had given him, Yakov trudged through the ice to ask his way to the western part of the town. When he finally found Grikly's mentor, he discovered the old blacksmith was already passed out drunk in a nearby tavern, snoring loudly. This guy still had money and time to buy alcohol? Yakov sat down beside him with a cold expression and silently kicked over his chair. The old blacksmith fell to the floor, instantly sobering up.
"...What are you doing!" he shouted to bolster his courage, "Don't try to hurt me!"
“I’m here to see Grikli.” Yakov pressed the wanted poster in front of him. “He’s your apprentice, isn’t he?”
The old blacksmith's expression suddenly became incredibly complex. Yakov stared at his face, watching the details of fear, helplessness, shame, and disgust clearly revealed in his eyes and brows. "You can't blame all the blame for his being wanted and excommunicated on me." Those chaotic emotions finally coalesced into a cold statement escaping the old man's lips, "That lad is mentally unstable from birth; sooner or later he'll be mixed up with infidels. It's really not my fault; I can't help him."
He turned and grabbed his coat, intending to run away, but Yakov immediately grabbed his shirt and pulled him back to his seat. "Grikli's got a good head on his shoulders; he's a good prospect for a blacksmith. He's already built good, smoke-free stoves for several families in the village." Yakov pressed closer. "He gave all his savings to you and the union, didn't he? Why didn't you recruit him, or let him take on jobs and earn money?"
"The furnace he built? It's just a pile of pebbles and mud, not even bricks!" the old blacksmith complained angrily. "How could I let someone like that join the association?"
“I think the blacksmith who doesn’t even need bricks is the most skilled,” Yakov chuckled. “Why don’t you just teach him how to use bricks? You’re his mentor, and you’ve been paid.”
The old blacksmith avoided his gaze upon hearing this. "I... I taught him, but he doesn't know where to find a brick kiln. Even if he can buy cheap bricks, he still won't get any business." The old man seemed to realize he was in the wrong, and his voice grew softer. "This kid can't read, and his manners are undignified. How can he serve the adults who can afford white-fired stoves... These days, apprentices are scrambling to join the association, and there are countless craftsmen more skilled than him. Why is it that he, an illiterate peasant, gets to join? Besides, so many people can't join, so why is he the only one who wants to complain to the council? And when he gets the cold shoulder, he's going to betray the faith?"
He must have thought he was about to lose his temper, Yakov thought. But the hunter simply called the shopkeeper over and bought a cup of kvass.
“I don’t blame you for trying to save your own life.” Yakov said, gripping the old man’s shoulder tightly as he drank his beverage. “Tell me where he went, and I won’t hold it against you.”
The old blacksmith sighed repeatedly at his words. "...Actually, Grikli is a clever boy." Two tears welled up in the corners of his wrinkled eyes. "He said he wanted to find a village of Chud people to live in, probably heading further west."
At night, Yakov rode out of the city and into the dangerous forest. Following the trails, he inquired at each village along the way, asking about Grikli and the Chud people. His horse had been running for several days, and he had spent a considerable amount of money on food. Amidst the incessant barking of dogs, Yakov circled valleys, waded through mudflats, and finally found the Chud village by a large lake on another border, where he found a panicked Grikli.
Not a single Chude man would take in this madman. When he was found, Grikli looked like a savage, mimicking the appearance of "bandits" and "witches," with incongruous mud tattoos on his face and tattered furs he'd found somewhere covering his body. "Damn Christians, I won't be with you! I don't believe anymore!" he bared his teeth at Yakov, sizing him up with wolf-like eyes. "You're all liars, not a single good person... You've all plotted this, waiting for me to fall into your trap so I could starve to death!"
Yakov took the wheel-shaped wooden carving from his palm and tossed it over. "You want to be a Chud?" he asked nonchalantly, scrutinizing Grikli's comical appearance. "Then do you know the Chud gods?"
Grikley was taken aback by the small wooden wheel and didn't know what to do. Yakov, watching his bewildered and resentful face from horseback, suddenly felt a pang of sorrow and pity, as if looking at his former self. He composed himself, spurred his horse around the poor farmer, and effortlessly attacked him from behind, binding him tightly with ropes.
The prisoner howled on Yakov's horse as if he were about to be slaughtered. "I won't go back!" Grikli writhed in fear. "I'd rather be a savage, a bandit... I won't go back to the people who harmed me!"
“Save those words for Dalia,” Yakov said, turning his horse around and starting the return journey. “She and the children begged me to take you back.”
Upon hearing the name, Grik's howls turned into cries.
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