Just as Professor Drake recorded, the experiences of the poet, Mr. Roland, took place this year, in the spring of 1853.
It was a sunny day. Mr. Roland, carrying his notebook and a small knife hidden on his person for self-defense, headed to the wetlands and lakes of western Huntington for a spring outing to gather inspiration.
Although his primary profession was that of a translator, Mr. Roland had a wide circle of friends. While passing through the apple orchard of his good friend, Mr. Cedric, he wandered aimlessly through the trees, preparing to compose a short poem themed around the winter frost upon the branches.
When he reached the depths of the orchard's woods, a human face suddenly appeared on a tree beside him. More accurately, the grain and cracks of the trunk formed the likeness of a human face
"I know it is hard to believe, but I am certain it was not a hallucination brought on by drink."
At this point in the tavern, Mr. Roland held up his glass in defense
"I usually do not drink when I am writing poetry."
Much like the fisherman from Lower Luther Village who had been terrified by the talking snake, Mr. Roland—despite being more educated than a villager—was nonetheless frightened by such a strange occurrence.
He described to Shade his panic at the time and his frantic, haphazard attempts to flee
"I don't remember how long I ran, but I simply could not escape those woods. Yes, I feel that I hadn't engaged in such strenuous exercise since the autumn of 1850, when I was chased through three streets by a stray dog."
As Mr. Roland reminisced, Shade nodded and took notes, feeling that these magical experiences were even more interesting than the Lady of the Lake herself.
The face on the tree could move across the trunks; thus, when Mr. Roland no longer had the strength to move forward, the face on the trunk spoke once more.
"It seemed to be singing then, just like something out of a fairy tale. I cannot describe the sound produced by the tree, but the song was roughly asking me: as spring approaches and the winter snows melt, wouldn't those snows look quite pitiful?"
The poet said, taking a large gulp of his drink. The ale in this kind of small tavern was not high in alcohol, so there was no need to worry about getting drunk.
"And how did you answer?"
Shade asked curiously. Mr. Roland traced circles in the air with his right index finger and hummed softly
"Snow is the messenger of winter. When spring arrives, it is only right that they yield their place, allowing blossoms and sunlight to return to the world of men."
Such a phrasing was very much in keeping with a poet's tone.
"And if it were you, Mr. Watson, how would you answer?"
The poet turned the question to Shade. Shade thought for a moment
"The snow does not disappear; it becomes water, soaking the earth in spring. It will evaporate back into the sky during the coming summer, fall as rain in autumn, and become snow once more to cover the earth in winter. It is a cycle; the snow does not die."
Mr. Roland smiled
"Would you mind if I noted your words down?"
After the poet answered the question of the face on the tree, the face seemed satisfied with the response. Consequently, the ground shook, and the trees that had trapped Mr. Roland parted to reveal a small path.
Trapped in the woods, Mr. Roland walked in terror along that path toward its end, where he discovered a lake.
"I immediately thought of the legends of the Lady of the Lake. Mr. Watson, I am a local. Though I am but a commoner, my family has lived here for five generations. I grew up listening to local stories, so it was easy to associate this with those wondrous rumors."
"Did you walk across the ice to reach the island in the center of the lake?"
Shade asked, but the poet shook his head slightly
"No, no, spring had already arrived, and there was no ice on the lake. However, a small boat was moored by the shore. When I sat in it, I didn't even need to use the oars; it carried me automatically, gliding across the silk-like surface of the lake toward the island in the center, where everything was bursting with life."
He narrowed his eyes, savoring his memories.
Shade nodded and recorded this in his notebook. It seemed the seasons of that lake corresponded with the real world, rather than remaining in the eternal winter described by the one-eyed fisherman, Mr. Grayford
"Next question: what did you encounter on the island?"
"I met a middle-aged lady wearing a white robe and leaning on a white oak staff. Although she was dressed simply, I felt that even the Queen in the newspapers was not as beautiful as she."
This differed from Old Grayford's account from Lower Luther Village, as the fisherman had encountered an old woman.
"Did you make a wish to her?"
"Yes, but before that, she asked me to compose a poem for her praising her beauty. That was not difficult for me. Or rather, even if she hadn't asked, I would have written poetry; her beauty was beyond compare."
The poet spoke with nostalgia.
"Once the poem was finished, she asked if I had any wishes. I was so excited my head was spinning. I intended to ask for 'talent,' but then I felt my own talent was already quite outstanding; to ask for more would be unfair to other poets."
"Indeed."
Shade suppressed a smile.
"So, in the end, I wished that lady for luck."
He pointed to the playing cards beside the glass on the table.
"And then you left?"
"Yes. Later, when I tried to find that lake again, I could no longer find it. But this extraordinary luck did indeed manifest in my life."
Mr. Roland sighed. Holding his glass with his intact left hand, he clinked it against Shade's
"A wonderful story, isn't it? But I do not wish to share it with anyone, because I do not want those blinded by greed to disturb that lady's peace."
Shade frowned and took a sip of his wine, quite satisfied with this watered-down version, which tasted somewhat like grape juice
"I noticed that in your story, you didn't mention how your fingers became like this."
"Actually, in my memory, I cannot find the reason why I am missing these two fingers."
Mr. Roland shook his head, appearing equally perplexed
"It seems they have always been this way. In all my old photographs, my hand looks like this, and my friends all say my hand was like this when they first met me. But I clearly remember that I was not born with this disability, so something must be wrong, yet I simply cannot recall it."
"Is it related to your special experience this spring?"
Shade asked. The poet shook his head slightly
"Perhaps, I don't know."
"Then would it be convenient to tell me the address of that orchard?"
"Of course. I wish you success, Mr. Watson. But whatever you do, do not be greedy. Yes, absolutely do not be greedy."
He took a fountain pen from his pocket, pulled Shade's notebook toward him, and wrote the letters in blue-black ink. This was the address of the orchard
"The only things we can obtain are those that were always meant to belong to us."
After writing, he did not immediately return the notebook. Instead, he selected the Star 1 card [Carsonrick's Horror Stories: Headless Horseman Jack] from his deck, tucked the card into the notebook, and handed it to Shade
"This belongs to you."
"Why?"
Shade asked curiously, picking up the Rhode card to examine it.
Mr. Roland shrugged
"You did indeed beat me. Since you don't want my money, take this card; you deserve it. Moreover, I believe you are the type of person who, upon receiving a favor, will certainly help others. Therefore, please do your best to find the Lake of Cherubim and ask the Lady of the Lake to take back the luck she gave me. Yes, take it back; I truly can no longer bear the burden of this luck."
Shade looked at the artwork of the Headless Horseman and smiled
"I will. I promise you."
It was two in the afternoon when he left the tavern, likely the warmest part of the day. However, in the early winter, the biting wind could still make one shiver.
The Cedric Orchard mentioned by Mr. Roland was a large apple orchard in the western part of Huntington's urban area. The owner, Mr. Cedric, was not a local but a wealthy merchant from Wyndell; the orchard and a bookstore were merely among his various properties.
Shade did not want to encounter the kind of misfortune he had yesterday, so he did not detour to the east end of the city to find Mr. Bernhart for a letter of introduction. Instead, he rode his horse directly to the west.
The Cedric Orchard was vast, making it impossible to fence in the entire woodland. Furthermore, by winter, the fruit had long since vanished from the branches, and even the orchard guards had little interest in patrolling. Thus, when Shade led his horse into the woods from the eastern side, near Lake Ryan, he attracted no attention.
He remembered Professor Drake's warning: one must not search with the explicit goal of finding the Lady of the Lake. However, it was difficult for him to control his thoughts. Last night, he had encountered a wolf pack and met with an accident while pursuing the fleeing wolves, but there were no blind wolves in these woods foolish enough to provoke Shade.
Strolling through the forest with his horse, dry branches overhead and soft earth beneath his feet, Shade knew that continuing further would likely yield no clues. He decided to stop in a sparse clearing, tying the horse to a tree and letting it graze on the remaining sparse grass. Shade leaned against the trunk and sat down, taking out his notebook to finish the outline of the mathematical paper he planned to write.
He had started writing a portion of it last night. If he could finish it today, he would have time tomorrow or the day after to ask Miss Sylvia for help with the proofreading.
The winter sunlight in the suburbs was just right, illuminating the notebook and the handsome young man in the black coat, who was fully immersed in his mathematical problems.
Beside him, the reddish-brown horse, wearing its saddle, grazed docilely. Occasionally, it would lift its head to look into the distance, then impatiently stamp the ground with its hooves, as if curious about what Shade was doing.
It was a very ordinary winter afternoon, and Shade was anticipating another encounter.
(End of Chapter)