Chapter 169: St. Anne's Spring

Early on the morning of January 4, the group gathered at the edge of town.

The guide was a burly man in his forties named Jenkins.

He had a thick, reddish-brown beard that bobbed when he spoke, looking as if a squirrel were hanging from his chin.

The group consisted of seven people: Jenkins, Richard, and five hiking enthusiasts.

Three of the five were retired railway workers, one was a middle school teacher from Manchester, and the last was a local wool merchant.

"How old are you, lad?" Jenkins eyed Richard before they set off.

"Almost seventeen."

"Seventeen?" Jenkins's beard twitched. "You came alone?"

"Alone."

"Have you done long-distance hikes before?"

"I have."

"How far?"

"Five miles in a single day, at most."

Jenkins's face fell. He didn't ask anything else.

Before they set out, he pulled a folded map from his backpack and spread it across an old boundary stone at the edge of town.

"We're taking the north route today."

He tapped a few markings on the map.

"It's a two-day round trip. Today, we head north along the ridge and camp around St. Anne's Spring. Tomorrow, we loop back."

"St. Anne's Spring?" The teacher from Manchester leaned in for a closer look.

"That's the official name," Jenkins said with a smile. "We call it Maiden's Spring."

"Why Maiden's Spring?"

"An old local legend." Jenkins folded the map back up.

"About four hundred years ago, there was a girl in Osborne named Anne Moore, the daughter of a local miller.

"That year brought a plague, and Anne caught it. Her family sent her up into the hills to quarantine in a little wooden cabin right by the spring."

"And then?"

"And then Anne didn't die."

Jenkins kept the details vague. "She lived by the spring for a month, beat the plague, and walked back into town on her own two feet."

"The townsfolk believed the spring water saved her, so they named it Maiden's Spring. The parish later changed it to St. Anne's Spring."

"Is it really that miraculous?" the wool merchant asked.

"Hard to say." Jenkins shrugged.

"The older generation believes it. Every early spring, a few women from the city still make the trek just to fetch a pot of water to boil, claiming it cures chills.

"But most folks think there's nothing special about it—it's just a very clean mountain spring."

Hearing this, Richard felt a faint stir in his Inspiration.

He kept quiet, mentally reviewing the results of his Stone Reading.

An "Unfinished Matter," facing north.

If there really was something at St. Anne's Spring, it would perfectly align with the Stone Reading.

The group hiked north along the ridge of the hills.

The winter hills were barren. The heather was reduced to grayish-brown stalks that snapped and crunched underfoot.

Wind blew in from the west, carrying the scent of earth and withered grass.

Richard walked in the middle of the pack. His steps were steady, his breathing even.

[Breathing] and [walking] operated on autopilot, the rhythm of every step aligning flawlessly with his respiratory cycle.

The guide shot him a glance, somewhat surprised. He had assumed the half-grown lad would drag them down.

After walking for about two hours, the group took a break in a wind-sheltered hollow.

Jenkins dug an iron kettle out of his backpack and set it over a portable stove to boil water.

"Here, have something warm."

He poured everyone a cup of strong tea.

The tea was scalding. Richard cupped his mug in both hands, letting the steam wash over his face.

"What do you do, lad?" the Manchester teacher leaned in and asked.

"I'm a student."

"What do you study?"

"Classical literature," Richard said, taking a sip of his tea. "Latin, Greek, things like that."

"Oh?" The teacher's eyes lit up. "I teach literature myself. Have you read Gibbon's 'The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire'?"

"I've read the first three volumes."

"The first three volumes!" The teacher slapped his thigh. "I've taught for over a decade, and not a single student in my class has ever finished the first!"

"The first volume is admittedly a bit dry," Richard agreed. "But it gets much better from the second onward."

The two of them struck up a conversation about Gibbon.

As they talked, the topic shifted from the Roman Empire to the Roman wall ruins within the Empire, and then from the ruins to the local history of Yorkshire.

The three retired railway workers chimed in as well.

"Do you know where the name Osborne comes from?" one of the workers asked.

"It's Old Albion. 'Os' means god, and 'burn' means stream. Together, it's the Stream of God."

"Hah!" The worker's eyes went wide. "I've lived here for decades and never knew that."

"What about Whitcom?" another worker pressed.

"'Whit' means white, and 'com' means valley. White Valley."

"Sheffield?"

"'Sheaf' refers to the River Sheaf, and 'field' is just a field. The field by the River Sheaf."

"Briston?"

"'Bris' likely comes from the Celtic word 'brys,' meaning hill, and 'ton' means settlement. A settlement on the hill."

The three workers exchanged glances in amazement.

"This lad's got a massive dictionary stuffed in his head."

Listening from the sidelines, Jenkins was equally amazed by Richard's Learning.

"Alright, finish your tea and let's move," he said, standing to pack away the stove. "We need to reach camp before dark."

The group pressed on northward. Around two in the afternoon, they reached a fork in the path.

Jenkins stopped and unfolded the map once more.

"Two paths," he pointed out to everyone.

"One leads straight to camp and takes half an hour. The other detours past St. Anne's Spring and adds forty minutes to the trek."

"Do you want to go look at the spring?"

"Yes!" The teacher immediately raised his hand.

"Yes!" the three retired railway workers echoed.

"...I have no objections." The wool merchant stroked his goat-like beard. "It's only an extra forty minutes anyway."

Jenkins looked at Richard.

"Lad?"

Richard nodded. "Let's go."

The group turned down the side path.

It was much narrower than the main trail, flanked by thorny thickets that grew taller than their heads.

Clumps of wool hung from the brambles.

Sheep had likely passed through during the summer, their fleece getting caught on the thorns and clinging on into the winter.

After walking for about twenty minutes, the path sloped downward.

The decline wasn't steep, but the flagstones underfoot were coated in moss, forcing them to place every step with care.

The group descended into a small hollow.

Enclosed by rock walls on three sides, a small stone-masoned pool sat exactly in the center.

The pool was about three paces across, filled to the brim with water so still it resembled a pane of glass.

On the northern edge of the pool stood an old stone monument, half-buried in the dirt.

"This was erected in 1487," Jenkins said, pointing to the stone. "The parish set it up for the spring after the plague died down that year."

"The words on it look like Latin." The teacher leaned closer. "Lad, could you read it?"

"'St. Anne's Spring, Anno Domini 1487,'" Richard read aloud.

"Is that it? So short?"

"That's it."

"...I thought it would be a bit longer." The teacher sounded disappointed.

Richard remained silent.

He was observing the stone monument with his Spirit Vision.

Beneath the surface of the stone lay a second layer, concealed by the crude Latin etching on top.

The characters in this second layer were far older—an early variant of ancient Celtic script, its strokes consisting almost entirely of curves.

Richard recognized a few of them:

'Tobar', Gaelic for 'spring'.

'na nIngean', of the maidens.

'Faoi an mBrat', beneath the veil.

Pieced together, it roughly read: 'The maidens' spring beneath the veil.'

More than four hundred years ago, this spring had already been marked.

Richard looked into the spring with his Spirit Vision.

Beneath the water's surface lay an entirely different sight.

There were no stones at the bottom, nor was there any silt.

At the bottom lay a very faint, slowly flowing gray light.

The gray light was neither deep nor dense, and it carried no aggression. It looked like a thin veil draped across the bottom of the pool.

This was a weak point in the veil, but it was incredibly shallow.

So shallow that it was completely harmless to ordinary people. At most, they would find the water cooler than elsewhere, capable of clearing their senses when they drank it.

It was also virtually harmless to those of low Rank. Standing by the edge of the pool, Richard felt his Micro-circulation get very slowly "tugged" by the spring water.

But the tugging stopped after just a moment. The spring itself held no malice.

The gray light in the water even possessed a somewhat... soothing power.

He thought back to the story Jenkins had told.

Four hundred years ago, Anne Moore lived by this spring for a month and survived the plague.

For someone like her, whose body had been pushed to its absolute limits by the disease, the seepage from this weak point had acted as a perfect, mild harmonizing force.

Richard crouched down.

"What are you doing, lad?" Jenkins asked.

"Getting a drink."

"Is it clean?" the wool merchant asked, somewhat doubtful.

"It is," Jenkins answered for him.

"It's been hundreds of years, and I've never heard of anyone getting a bad stomach from drinking here."

Richard cupped a handful of water.

It was freezing cold.

He brought it to his lips and took a sip. As it slid down his throat, it carried a very faint sweetness.

In his heart, he silently murmured, 'Thank you for this spring.'

The gray light seemed to "hear" him.

The surface of the water shifted. Ripples spread outward, vanishing as they met the edges of the pool.

His [Perception] progress jumped up another notch.

Richard stood up.

"How is it?" the teacher asked him.

"The water is excellent."

"Clean?"

"Clean, and even a little sweet. It would be great to bottle up and take back for brewing tea or making soup."

"I'll have a sip too, then."

The teacher crouched down and cupped some water.

The three retired workers followed suit.

The wool merchant was the last to crouch down.

Before he did, he muttered, "I have tap water at home. Why am I drinking this?" but he still scooped up a mouthful anyway.

Jenkins stood to the side, watching them.

"Not having any, guide?" the teacher looked up and asked.

"I've had it plenty of times." Jenkins waved a hand. "I'll leave it for the guests."