The wooden pieces Patrick had made were two types: a memorial tablet and a nameplate. Though he’d become acquainted with the villagers, he’d never properly greeted each household, and it nagged at him.
‘Come to think of it, I’ve basically moved in here. Even if I can’t hand out celebration rice cakes, I’d like to give everyone a little gift.’
If the judges who’d sentenced him saw this, they’d frown and ask what sort of merry outing he was on. But Patrick—ever the optimist—figured exile and moving house were the same thing.
Still, to hand out moving-in rice cakes you’d need at least a sack of rice. Looking at the half-bag of potatoes left, he clicked his tongue.
‘Potatoes…?’
No matter how thoughtless a person, you can’t give someone back their own gift in a prettier package.
“All I’ve got is dirt, wood, stone… Wood? Could I try carving something?”
He dismissed the idea immediately—no carving knife, and he well knew his hands were far from dexterous.
“What’s easy, costs nothing, and would please anyone who receives it?”
“Teacher! Please take this!”
Just then, one of the children appeared grinning, clutching a bundle of sausages.
“Sausages? What on earth—where did you get these?”
“Oh, today is my grandfather’s memorial day.”
“You have rituals here too?”
“…Rituals?”
“Oh, never mind.”
For a moment, Patrick wondered if they practiced a Confucian-like rite in these parts, then nodded.
‘Well, wherever you place things your deceased loved ones liked—graves or memorial tablets—that’s universal.’
Different cultures and religions, but love’s expressions are similar.
“My grandfather loved sausages and beer. So at this time of year, we make lots of sausages and share them with the village.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Dad says even if it’s not recorded, it helps us remember Grandfather.”
“That’s right. It’s the thought that counts.”
“But, Teacher—Dad says that while the heart matters, he wants me to learn my letters well.”
“Ha ha. That’s just a parent wanting their child to succeed. You’re too young to understand.”
The children exchanged puzzled looks and muttered about adults saying one thing and meaning another.
“He wants me to learn to write properly so I can make memorial tablets and nameplates.”
“Huh? Nameplates? Memorial tablets?”
“Yes. Someone on the mainland made one for my grandfather, but Dad says he isn’t sure if the writing’s correct. He told me that when I learn, I’m to rewrite it. But I noticed the writing on the tablet didn’t match what you teach.”
“That’s true! Our nameplate is the same!”
It made sense they were confused. People usually commissioned scholars for house nameplates and memorial tablets—paying handsomely. But those same scholars often scrawled in ornate calligraphy, believing the more elaborate their flourishes, the greater their prestige. To illiterate commoners, however, the characters became indecipherable!
— “Sir, you’re saying this is my father’s name?”
— “Tch. Can’t even read? The top is the place name, below it is the given name!”
Even though any illiterate peasant could memorize their family names like pictures, they couldn’t read the calligraphy. Yet few dared request plain, block script (“zhengzi”), for fear of insulting the scholar and losing face.
Suddenly, Patrick had an idea—one that cost nothing and would let him treat the villagers.
‘I’m an educated man from the capital’s Magic Tower, right? Even a second-circle wizard. Surely I’m qualified to carve memorial tablets and nameplates!’
In the capital, he’d need official sanction, but this tiny island had never seen an academy or the Magic Tower. His credentials more than sufficed.
“Kids, go around the village and write down everyone’s names. If any households have deceased relatives, include their names too. Ben, you’ll proofread. If anything’s wrong, you’ll be the one in trouble.”
“That’s mean. But why?”
“Why? You’ve learned so many words already—it’s time to test if you can write them properly!”
“So is this a test?”
“Something like that.”
Even if his excuse was a stretch, the children leaped with excitement.
“What happens if we pass?”
“Will you teach us magic like Ben?”
“No, you need talent for that. But I’ll teach you something else.”
Patrick grinned.
‘Cleaning and odd jobs at the Tower taught me more than just magic.’
Back at the chief’s house.
“Wah! Such a messy sight, Teacher.”
At last, Luca, overcome with relief, dabbed his eyes. The tablet bore his mother’s name in neat, clear characters—spaced so you could actually read them. Despite his rough appearance—enough to be mistaken for a bandit on a dark mountainside—he was reverent before his benefactor.
“Thinking of my mother always brings tears… sob!”
“It’s all right, don’t cry.”
“Chief!”
Patrick thought: ‘Would it be rude to open this now?’ Luca sat in the doorway, weeping into his hands. Patrick’s attention was fixed on the small pouch Luca had brought.
“May I open it, Teacher?”
“Of course!”
Inside were a handful of thumb-nail–sized stones. Not quite gemstones, but not ordinary rocks either—mysterious in hue.
“Magic stones?”
“Yes, Teacher. They’re too small to sell, so I kept them as ornaments. I thought you might find a use for them.”
Patrick held Luca’s gaze wordlessly. Mistaking that for displeasure, Luca rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers.
“I—I didn’t mean offense! Truly… If you feel insulted by their small size, I apologize, Teacher!”
“No! Not at all. I was just surprised by such an unexpected gift.”
At last Patrick smiled and clasped Luca’s hand tightly.
“I’ll put them to good use!”
Luca, puzzled, brightened. It’s common knowledge that larger magic stones hold more mana. These could barely store a first-circle spell—maybe 20–30% power. Small stones also need frequent recharging, so ordinary wizards rarely used them.
“Really… they’ll be useful?”
“I tried selling them once; the merchant said to string them into bracelets as beads.”
“Well, that’s true normally. But in our situation, they’re perfect.”
“For… teaching the children? As educational tools?”
Patrick laughed. Though Luca didn’t fully grasp it, he sobered, delighted that his gift wasn’t wasted.
“Teacher! The lady next door asked me to give you this!”
“And this is from Grandma!”
“Please take this too.”
Word spread through the tiny village that Patrick had gratefully accepted Luca’s tiny magic stones—like children’s toys—and that the teacher truly appreciated them.
— “He was thrilled with stones treated like playthings?”
— “Our Teacher’s character is amazing. Compared to the tablet fee, these stones cost almost nothing, yet he showed not a hint of disdain.”
— “Right! A wizard from the capital’s Magic Tower—they’d charge a fortune for a memorial tablet!”
If Patrick had heard that, he’d have smacked his own head. The reason villagers hadn’t insisted on paying was that the stone’s monetary value was low, but the gesture was priceless to them. When word got out that the wizard rejoiced over these little stones, villagers thought, ‘Even if they’re not worth much, our Teacher will love them!’
“I’ve never been richer! Sausages! Ham! Ha ha—I'm wealthy!”
“Uh… how rich…”
Patrick danced around, hugging gifts; the children gaped. A more mature child hushed the others. When someone’s so happy, there’s no need to spoil it.
Starting with ham and sausages, then half a bolt of fine cloth, a bottle of ink, sheets of iron plate, fruit tree saplings, a shovel and an axe—it all poured in. Patrick laughed until his face split at the mountain of gifts. Thrust into exile with nothing, he reveled in this treasure trove of odds and ends.
“Teacher!”
“You brought a gift too?”
“Uh? How did you know? It’s… something I thought might help.”
“What is it? …Whoa! Aaah!”
Patrick’s happiness as an exile reached its peak. Ben had brought a fish trap and a fishing rod.