It was now the fifth day of my bizarre reincarnation. While I was staring attentively at a spider-like insect moving across the ceiling, the door swung open violently. A burly man rushed inside, and before I could do anything, he picked me up and squeezed me so hard I could feel my ribs cracking.
"I missed you so much, my little lamb! You know, the evil mayor worked me to the bone for all this time! It is not my fault if he only just remembered that the Mud Arena is opening soon. Oh, but how I missed you. Look, I also prepared this cut leather for you. I dyed it grey, just like yours and Eleonore’s eyes."
The man in question—whom I now supposed was my father—said this while handing me a wearable grey pelt, the kind you wear over normal clothes.
"But Father, what is the Mud Arena?" I asked. It must be pretty important if the whole village was gearing up, no?
"Well, my little Elvit, you know how we live near the western border? Behind that, in the dark woods, savage monsters live! They are barbarians that bathe in blood to receive blessings from the nature spirits. Every year, to decide who is the biggest and meanest leader, they scuffle in a muddy arena. If the leader loses, all of his family and friends are chased away to our lands, and they come here to raid and die trying to restore their honor. Truly barbaric, killing innocent lives just to demonstrate something. How, in Jute’s name, these people are still allowed to live is a mystery to me."
"Nicholos! What are you talking about with your four-year-old daughter?! Do you want her to have nightmares for the next four days? Now that you saw that she is better, bring your arse back to the workshop, or we will not have a house by tomorrow!"
Remind me never to cross this woman. She has the commanding presence of a drill sergeant.
But she was right. If we only had this house thanks to Father’s job, him going to work was the best course of action. Also, the more protective gear he could produce before these barbarians raided us, the better our chances of surviving.
And so, a week passed, and finally, I was able to step outside. As my mother said, my ember had stabilized, so I was now free back into the world. I still had no idea how I survived a lethal fever without a single drop of antibiotics, but apparently this ’ember’ was doing its job. Of course, the first thing I did was take a tour of the village. Better to know every nook and cranny of my new home, no?
After an intense session of begging, I was allowed to go around the village, with the strict promise that I would not go near the river or the palisade.
I exited our house, which was located near the palisade, and started to walk along the rutted dirt roads. The village was not crowded with houses; there were at least ten feet from one wooden hovel to another. The architecture was purely utilitarian, built to withstand harsh winters and potential raids rather than for aesthetics. Thick, rough-hewn logs made up the walls, and the smell of damp earth, woodsmoke, and livestock hung heavy in the air.
After just two turns, I arrived at what seemed to be the main and only square of the village. It was a wide, muddy expanse where the earth had been trampled flat by countless boots and hooves. On the sides were lined some improvised wooden stalls where people were selling various basic products—mostly root vegetables, rough fabrics, and butchered meat. Despite the grim undertones of my father’s stories, life here was vibrant. There were some teenagers dancing and balancing various objects on their heads with a small, cheering crowd gathered near them, trying to find joy in an otherwise harsh existence.
At the far end of the square stood the only building made entirely of stone that I had seen so far. It struck a massive contrast to the surrounding wooden structures. It reminded me a little bit of an Orthodox church, but the center was much higher than the rest of the structure, built with cold, grey stone blocks that looked impenetrable. On top, there was a stark, imposing statue of a woman with a book in her hand, pointing accusingly in front of her.
Driven by nothing other than curiosity, I approached the building. I received some strange gazes from the few people near me—I guess a four-year-old wandering around alone was pretty anomalous—but once they saw I was heading towards the stone building, they lost interest, almost as if approaching that place was normal only for those seeking judgment. The building was built a little bit higher than the ground, with two broad stone steps before the heavy oak entrance. On each corner, a stern stele stood: on one, an image of a woman judging a poor-looking man, and on the other, the same woman judging a man with a crown.
Even kings bow to justice here.
Once I was in front of the closed door, a heavy hand touched my right shoulder.
"Are you not too young to wander alone, little one?" said a warm and old voice from up above me.
As I turned, I saw a tall, elderly man dressed in white and bright green garbs. Underneath, he wore a pure white robe, and on his right shoulder rested a green cloth long enough to cover his entire arm.
"Sorry if I startled you, child. I am Magister Aruld. I am new here, so I apologize that I do not know your name."
"I am Elvit, Ser Magister, but what does magister mean?"
Aruld chuckled lightly. "Aren’t you a curious one? Well, it means that I am the voice of Jute in this village. I saw you were looking at my court. Would you like to enter and see Jute’s home?"
Not waiting for an answer, he started walking inside, and I followed.
As we walked inside the court, I was struck by how the structure was built. The whole building had no columns or internal walls and felt like a massive, intimidating open space. It was designed to make whoever entered feel small and insignificant. On the right and left sides were placed a lot of rigid wooden chairs. After four rows, there were no more chairs, and the center was mostly free—an empty stage for the accused.
But on the far right and left, imposing desks faced the middle, and on the cold stone floor, a massive symbol of a weighing scale was deeply engraved. Just above the symbol, the structure expanded vertically in a conic fashion, and the roof of the elongated part was made of glass, making the natural rays of the sun shine directly on the scale like a divine spotlight. The rest of the structure was bathed in the flickering, dramatic illumination of torches affixed to the walls. Finally, at the far end, raised above everything else to assert absolute authority, there was a massive wooden lectern with a heavy tome placed on top.
As I was walking with wonder in my eyes, taking in the tactical layout of this medieval courtroom, the Magister, after looking at me for a few seconds, made a gesture to sit under the lectern.
"You have wise eyes, Elvit. Would you like to learn how to read and write? Before you give your answer, you should talk with your parents; they will know what that means. You can enter whenever you would like to, but now it is getting late, and you should go back to your house."
While he was stroking his small white beard with one hand, he indicated the door with the other. I reluctantly obliged and exited.
Walking home, I thought a lot about what I had learned on my first outing.
My village was not so big, but I saw at least fifty people today going around, so at least five hundred people should live here. I think most of them live outside the palisade, probably farmers or shepherds. Another thing was how the village layout was well-organized; the square was at the center, and everything was built around it for defense and centralization.
And lastly, the meeting with the Magister. I still do not know how to feel about the gods here. Sure, I believed in my old world, but I was never a "go to church every Sunday" guy; it was more of an internal connection that I liked to have with God. So, I still do not know what to make of Jute. Does she exist? Was she the one who brought me here?
But now, the pressing matter is to talk with my parents. The proposal of the Magister seemed incredible, but it probably comes with strings attached, and I think pretty strong ones, too. From what I could see, there was no writing around me, so most of the people either cannot read or do not put importance on it. I will lean more toward the first hypothesis.