Splash—splash—
As the boat cut through the waves, the soldiers lounged leisurely on deck, enjoying the ride. They barely glanced at Patrick, as if to say, “Where could you possibly run in the middle of the sea?”
“Once this transfer’s done, it’s time to punch out, right?”
“Right. You heading off too when we dock?”
“Where to? Oh, that tavern the captain’s treating us to?”
When posture relaxes, so does the mind. Basking in the warm sun, the soldiers salivated at the thought of tonight’s booze.
“But what got that tightwad ticked off? Did he finally collect on some loan he made?”
“Nah.”
One soldier curled thumb and forefinger to indicate a small amount.
“This time he scored a fat bonus behind the scenes.”
“He’s not a knight commander—who’d slip that kind of sweetener to a mere head of guards?”
“Aw, don’t be naive. Look around: a guy with no family, no money, no connections—why else would he end up on this godforsaken island?”
Patrick pricked up his ears. They were talking about him.
“Exile’s a gamble—you get sent to places like this if you’re unlucky. Anything else to it?”
“If being penniless and friendless is unlucky, then yeah, you’re cursed. The decent villages got snapped up by the kids of wealthy, well-connected families—gave the village chiefs and commanders fat envelopes, I hear.”
“Huh?”
“You heard how hard it was to assign exile spots this time, right?”
“That I did. Couldn’t have been only one or two implicated wizards.”
“There were dozens of exiles across the fiefdoms. Think the lord of each manor had time to personally scout every village? Our captain did the backdoor deals from the start. He’s sharp. Hey, thanks to him, we get free booze—so no harm, no foul, right?”
“Does it really work like that?”
Cringing in the corner, Patrick spoke up timidly.
“Excuse me, sirs. May I ask just one thing?”
“Huh? What is it, Wizard?”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping… but your stories are so entertaining, I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“Oh? Heh, heh!”
“I don’t blame you. That’s how the world works.”
The soldier who’d bragged about the bribes relaxed at Patrick’s jest.
“I always thought wizards were stuffy and stiff—but you’re different.”
“I’ve been nibbling on scraps at the Tower for eight years now. By the way, I gathered that exiles sometimes swap out their villages?”
“That’s true. Sometimes you have to move. Interested?”
“A little.”
“Got any hidden cash stashed away?”
“Money?”
“Changing exile spots isn’t too hard—but it costs. You have to grease enough palms.”
“Oh…!”
This so-called “romantic age” clearly trusted old-school favors over fair automated systems. In other words, generosity-scented gifts could solve most problems.
“No matter how polite you are, high criminals won’t budge—but half-witted types exiled for insolence? A neat little present and they avoid dump-tier islands.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Wealthy, well-connected folks treat exile like a long vacation.”
The soldiers, delighted by Patrick’s polite attention, chattered away.
So, in short: if you have enough money, you can change your exile destination?
Caw—caw—
Beyond the intermittent cries of seagulls, the quiet island village drew near.
They’d provide me a house, so I’ll inspect the situation first—and if it’s impossible, I’ll save up and scram!
I’ll show them 21st-century know-how!
First, though—check out the house.
“Well then, we’ll see you in a month, Wizard! Don’t even think about leaving the island. If you do, and they drag you to the mines, you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself.”
“…Yes.”
“Take this too. At least they’ll give you some basic supplies.”
“…Yes.”
Patrick arrived on the island with the soldiers. They pulled out a crude map from their jackets, spun it around, and found the way.
I knew something felt off.
On the walk to the house they’d arranged, there hadn’t been a single other dwelling in sight.
“This is a ruin.”
The creaking gate spoke volumes. A half-collapsed stone wall, barely holding together. One strong gust and the whole thing would cave in.
What was I expecting, a mansion?
There was no one left in the world to champion prisoners’ rights—especially not exiles pushed here by wealthier criminals. It would have been stranger if they’d bothered to give me a livable house.
Still, Patrick shouldered on, pushed the gate open, and stepped inside.
The soldiers had already left—no use standing around staring at a wrecked shack.
Growl—
He was starving. Since morning, all he’d had was a thin gruel.
I won’t get anything else here, will I?
He checked the kitchen—only a single rosemary pot someone had planted. No potatoes, no supplies.
The pouch the soldiers had left held one pot, a spoon, a fork, a small kitchen knife, and a tinderbox. Nothing to fill a stomach.
“It’s okay! I saw the beach on the way here.”
Patrick kept his spirits high. There’s an old saying that seaside villagers never starve.
If I dig, I’ll find clams or crabs. I saw it on TV, didn’t I?
Celebrities who never even touch water flip rocks on the shore and find two-finger-long crabs crawling about. If they can do it, so can I.
That’s why TV sucks—no realism, man!
Despite stomach gurgles, a spark of hope gave him energy.
“Today’s my first day as a natural man.”
With nothing but optimism, Patrick strode off.
After twenty minutes, he reached the shore. The tide had receded, leaving a wet, shell-studded floor.
Clatter!
“Oho! There they are!”
Patrick flipped a rock the size of a watermelon; beneath it scuttled a few thumbnail-sized crabs into hidden crevices.
Good. I’ll search a bit more, but if I can’t find anything, I’ll cook these and eat them. First fill my belly, then tomorrow I’ll search again from dawn.
Gratification warmed him.
Am I a born hunter-gatherer?
I could start a YouTube channel. Maybe I wouldn’t have died of overwork after all.
“What’s the use of regretting the past? I’ll live for the present. Ooh—score!”
He spotted a wooden bucket washed ashore. It was cracked and would leak, but it could carry clams or crabs home.
I look like I’ve lived here forever, right?
With bucket in one hand and a stick in the other, he probed the shoreline. Miserably ragged, but no mirrors or witnesses—so no shame.
Splash!
A sudden wave soaked his feet, as if to remind him to stay sharp.
“Brr, that’s cold!”
Patrick shook sand from his only pair of shoes, then something caught his eye.
“Huh…? Oh—wow!”
Before him lay a top shell—a conch—size of an adult fist. Wild, natural shells!
Jackpot!
Nearby, three more of equal size hid under rocks. Four shells total!
Am I not amazing?
Grinning, Patrick tossed all four shells into his bucket. That would be plenty for dinner; even after gutting, there’d be generous meat.
I just need some sauce. And soju.
Bucket in hand, he strode home, determined to boil them.
Luckily there was a fresh-water spring nearby. If I had to fetch water every day…
Ugh, horrifying thought.
What felt like ten minutes passed in three hours. At last the water boiled; Patrick dropped all four shells in.
Bubble…bubble…
“Ow, ow, ow!”
He fished out the cooked shells, placed them on a flat stone he’d cleaned as a makeshift cutting board, and began gutting them.
“Should I just eat them whole? Yeah! Nobody’s watching. That’s the romance of it!”
Like ripping into drumsticks in cartoons, Patrick tore into a shell with his bare hands—no fork needed.
Fresh from the sea, slightly bland but quite tasty.
Chewy-tender, each bite brimming with umami, he closed his eyes and twisted in delight.
“Wow. Is this happiness? This is happiness.”
He demolished all four shells in a blink, then collapsed onto the unclean floor. Stomach full, he patted his belly with satisfaction and drifted off—exhausted by the day.
After a short while.
“Ugh…ugh! Ugh!”
Patrick awoke, retching.
“Huh? What…what’s happening to me?!”
He bolted toward the door to vomit outside, but his head spun, limbs went numb, and he collapsed with a thud.
In that moment he thought:
Why is this day lasting so damn long?