Altima was poor, but not so poor they couldn’t afford a holy book for the castle. As minor as her territory was, she was a ruler.
“Oh... Then perhaps you won’t be interested, but this is new.”
The shopkeeper placed a single book down on the counter. It was a rather plain thing with “Holy Book” written in large, unassuming letters on the cover. Below that was written “A Terolish translation with commentary.”
“The pages are made of plant paper, but I can offer you it very cheaply.”
“Hmm...”
Ange assumed that the dull cover was another reason for the low price. She didn’t collect holy books, and even if she did, this drab thing wouldn’t look impressive on a shelf. She had no interest in buying it. She was, however, glad to see that the book was cheaply available for commoners to buy. Having such a book at home was an important way for people to express their faith.
“How much do you charge for them?” she asked.
“Seven silvers a copy.”
Just seven? Given that a holy book written on parchment could easily fetch a hundred silvers, that was surprisingly cheap.
“Isn’t that a little low? Is it preowned?” she asked.
“No, brand new. Take a look.”
The shopkeeper flicked through the pages of the book. Just as he’d said, there wasn’t any sort of discoloration or wear on the pages—it looked brand new.
The first letter of each page was the only one with any decoration, while the rest all looked alike. The overall assembly was dull compared to most holy books.
Upon closer inspection, Ange realized there was something odd about the letters—they were so similar that it was as if they’d all been created with stamps. It was likely that some sort of printing method had been used to reduce the labor required. Even so, the letters shouldn’t have been so uniformly spaced. They were also so cleanly printed that it was easier to read than handwritten text. The only problem was that the array of perfectly identical letters was a little unsettling to look at.
The bottom third of each page was ruled off from the rest, creating space for commentary. Ange had never seen a holy book complete with notes on its interpretation. The right to interpret scripture belonged solely to the clergy, and clergy members provided that interpretation orally within churches. It was an interesting idea.
“Do you mind if I read a little?”
“Not at all.”
Ange left the book on the counter as her eyes scanned over the pages. She quickly realized that this wasn’t the same translation she had in her own library.
Her parchment holy book back in Altima was, of course, the certified translation. The familiar translation certainly wasn’t bad, but there was something beautiful about this version. Like poetry, each passage flowed with rhyme and rhythm. The writer had also avoided any stiff prose, making the scenes and stories captivating. Despite the new composition, the sentences were clear and remained faithful to their original meaning. It was the same content that Ange knew from the certified translation, yet it flowed so well that she felt it might sound like a song if she read it aloud.
Did a woman translate this? Ange wondered. “This...isn’t the certified translation.”
“You’re quite right. I imagine it’s to get around the rule that says copies of the certified translation can only be produced in monasteries.”
That made sense. Almost every copy of the holy book in circulation had been at least in part produced by a monastery.
Part of a monastery worker’s job was to create copies of the holy book. The process involved writing as they read the text, which meant studying, working, and generating money for the monastery all at once. It was three birds with one stone.
Since monasteries in remote regions could generate more revenue by farming crops for use in wines and liqueurs, holy books were only produced in cities that lacked fields.
Some monasteries had members renowned for their creativity, and the holy books that bore their names would sell for a high price. Such works were bound with gorgeous covers, the first letter of each page gilded, and the margins of each page filled with beautiful illustrations.
“Hmmm. But this... It doesn’t look like the work of a fraudster. Whoever produced this translation has to be considerably well educated,” Ange mused.
“Sounds like you rate it highly. I can’t judge the quality of the translation myself because I don’t understand Totish.”
“I can’t read Totish either.”
Totish was the ancient language originally used to write the holy book. It was difficult to learn because of its excessively complicated grammar. Study of the language had actually been such a burden that even clergy members were no longer encouraged to learn it and hadn’t been since long ago. It was just that difficult.
“The commentary’s quite enlightening, so I thought you might benefit from buying it if your purse allows. It’s certainly easier to understand than the sermons the church provides.”
“I see... Well, if it’s only seven silvers, I might as well take a copy.” Ange took the coins from her purse and placed them on the counter.
“Thank you, as always.”
Ange closed the book, then opened the cover to examine the page beneath it. She hoped to learn more about the book’s origin. It began abruptly with a table of contents—there was no record of the time or place of production.
She chuckled to herself when she noticed that there was also a space left empty for a book curse. A book curse was a passage of text, usually written on the underside of the cover, intended to offend anyone who stole the book. The standard one read, “A curse upon the one who steals this book, borrows it without returning it, or buys it while knowing it to be stolen. May a thousand nails impale you that you die as blood drips from a thousand holes.” Books like fairy tales often placed it in the back, so as not to ruin the mood.
At any rate, it was no wonder that the owner was left to write a curse themselves if they felt the need—it would surely lose its effect if it was created by stamped letters, rather than written by hand. Still, it was amusing to see that there was a little box, complete with a border, as a space for a book curse.
Since the front cover lacked any information, Ange wondered whether the rear might prove more fruitful. She turned the book over, and there it was. The final page read as follows:
Year of publication: 2020
Publisher: Hellet Monastery, Ralgolanko Island
Translation provided by Catholica Patera Wichita
Once again, Ange was amused. She knew that an illegal publication like this one wouldn’t provide honest details, but she hadn’t expected something so tongue-in-cheek.
Ralgolanko was a real place that existed in the northern part of the Xur Peninsula, but it certainly wasn’t on an island. It had strong ties to Catholica Wichita. While there’d once been a school of sorts there—known as Ralgolanko Temple—it was now associated with a saint and was the location of a famous church known as Ralgolanko Church.
She didn’t know that Patera had been Catholica Wichita’s baptized name, but that too was amusing. Patera the Southward Saint was known for sailing south to spread his religion during the high disciples’ days of wandering. He was the patron saint of sailors and anyone who faced political persecution. The name was given to many children baptized during infanthood, but it didn’t suit Catholica Wichita at all. He was known for searching for the holy body of Yeesus, but he wasn’t generally associated with political persecution of any kind.
“This should make for interesting reading. If you get any more Shanish books, put some copies aside for me.”
Ange closed the book and put it under her arm. Now that her business was finished, it was time to return to Altima.
“I will. I hope to see you again,” the shopkeeper replied lazily from his chair.