More than two months had passed since I was allowed to stay in the village. That morning when I was frozen to the bone had grown distant before I even knew it. The soil in the field was black and damp, and nameless grass flowers bloomed here and there between the ridges. The blue wheat received the morning sun and rippled together in the wind. The night of that Shadow Hound also felt like a long time ago. …The seasons truly go round and round. Even in this world. That ordinary fact made me feel somehow a little happy.
Morning starts from the chicken coop. I feed them, check the eggs, and fix the tilted perches. Then I drive the goats out to the grass field behind. Turning to the fields, I pull overgrown weeds and water them. Past noon, I dredge the mud from the irrigation ditch. …I had come to be entrusted with most of the small chores around the village. They were all plain jobs that anyone could do.
Still, when I wake up in the morning, I have things to do. When I am hungry, there is food for what I have worked for. It is not a grand wish. But there was a solid feel to it. Living day by day as a worker in this village. To me right now, that felt like the most down-to-earth life.
The fields of all the houses in the village are separated by narrow ridges and spread out in one continuous stretch. Since there are only a handful of cows and plows, whenever it is time to plow, everyone whose hands are free goes out no matter whose ridge it is. I also join the end of that line. …Winter comes, wheat is sown, and winter comes again. In that fixed cycle, my own place had somehow slipped in among it all.
In the fields and by the well, distant stories occasionally spill over like news brought by the wind. That the roads are dangerous, or that salt and iron are only going up in price. …That castle is probably sending the heroes out to the front lines of the Demon King. It is a continuation of that commotion where I was thrown out. …Yet, every story feels as distant to me as a line from a picture book. Even though I should have been right in the middle of that grand hall, now, as I squat by the ridge and pull weeds, I let those voices wash over me without really listening to half of them. This wind shaking the ears of wheat was much closer to my day.
I roll up the frayed sleeves of my school uniform. I brush my grown-out bangs aside with the back of my hand. Maro on my shoulder was carefree as always. Pecking at chickens or jumping onto a goat’s back and almost getting thrown off. …You really have it easy, don’t you?
By the well, Theo’s mother, Malena, was doing the laundry. Theo was the one who found me when I was about to collapse at the edge of the village and ran to call for help—and that person is her.
“…That Theo of mine has gotten so attached to you, there’s no helping it.”
Malena stopped washing and let out that complaint with a bitter smile. …Though Malena’s tone is blunt, she somehow always looks out for me, an outsider. She adds extra soup to my bowl or notices a frayed sleeve and brings out thread. That is probably because Theo is so attached to me.
That afternoon. Village chief Old wandered over to the field. He carried a small bundle wrapped in cloth in his hand. When I stopped working, Old turned his face the other way, let out a “hmph,” and shoved the bundle toward me.
“…Deliver this to the old man at the edge of the village.”
“The old man…?”
🇦🇷 “The apothecary old man. Right at the edge of the village. …You’ll know when you go.”
Apothecary. …Come to think of it, whenever someone in the village had a stomachache or a fever, I felt like that name popped up here and there. But I had not yet seen the old man himself even once.
Saying just that, Old added with a sour face.
“I’ll tell you this. …He’s eccentric. Even the villagers don’t go near him unless they have business. Well… it should be fine if it’s you.”
…In other words, it seems the villagers don’t really want to go near that eccentric old man. Well, odd jobs like this falling to me is nothing new. I accepted the bundle.
At the very edge of the village. That old barn stood as if half-swallowed by the forest. I knock on the door. No answer. When I knock once more and gently push it open—a smell that strikes the nose heavily. Dust, dry grass, dirt, and something bitter and medicinal were all cooped up together. Inside the dim barn, bundles of grass hung upside down from the ceiling, swaying slightly even though there was no wind.
“…Don’t enter as you please.”
A raspy voice flew from the back. Straining my eyes, I saw an old man with white hair, thin and rounded shoulders, sitting in the corner of the wooden floor with his back turned to us, grinding something in a mortar. Grind, grind, a monotonous sound. He didn’t even turn around.
“From the village chief, this.”
When I placed the bundle on the edge of the wooden floor, the old man just glanced at it and returned his eyes to his hands.
“…Good work. That’s all your business, isn’t it? Go home.”
Cold. …Well, just as I heard. I bowed my head and was about to leave—when my feet suddenly stopped. Earthenware jars lined up in rows on the shelf. Bundles of nameless grass hung on the wall. The monotonous motion of grinding roots in the corner. …Somehow, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
“…What are you making?”
As soon as I asked, I thought, oh no. He’s an eccentric old man. I braced myself, wondering if I would be yelled at. But the old man said flatly without stopping his hands.
“…Medicine for wounds. …Hand me those dried roots over there. Chop them finely.”
There was no time to think “Eh?”. Before I knew it, I was holding a small knife as told and sitting down on the wooden floor. …I hadn’t been asked, nor had I accepted. Just by the flow of the moment, I somehow ended up helping this old man.
Chop, chop, chop, I clumsily cut the roots. The old man looked at it out of the corner of his eye and said,
“…More finely. Don’t rush.”
With that, only his demands were top-notch.
How long had I been doing that? When I suddenly stopped my hands and raised my eyes—right at the very back of the barn. In a corner sunk in darkness, I saw several extra-large jars placed in a row. Thick wooden lids had ropes tied around them over and over. They were clearly handled differently from the open-mouthed jars lined up along the wall. What could it be? Just as I was about to lift my waist, that moment—
“Don’t touch those.”
The old man’s voice flew low. It was somewhat different from his lifeless tone until just a moment ago. When I turned around, wrinkled eyes were staring straight at me.
“They’re aging. …That’s all.”
With that, the old man shut his mouth. There was a clear aura of “don’t ask.” …Not the kind of thing to talk about to an outsider. That must be it.
I obediently sat back down. What are they aging, and for what purpose? I was curious but I decided not to ask. That was the surest way of conducting myself that I had learned in this village.
In the end, until the sun went down, I silently chopped grass, ground roots, and lined them up in the corner of the drying yard. My head was dizzy from the unfamiliar smell. My fingertips were faintly stained green with grass juice.
“…Can I come again?”
When I asked as I was leaving, the old man didn’t answer. He just turned back to the mortar, pretending not to have heard. …He hadn’t turned me down. He has no friendliness, nor does he say thanks. He won’t tell me what is aging in those jars in the back either. A strange old man. …Still, for some reason, I felt like I wanted to come and peek into this dim barn again.