"Again, Mr. Guls, welcome to Talbot."

 

Father Keen congratulates me for what must be the second time today, welcoming me to a set of new accomodations after his short evaluation.

 

As for the contents of this evaluation, Raymond was mainly concerned with my way of thinking and logical capabilities. We started with simple questions like “if villages have many horses, and village A has many horses, does village B have horses?”. 

 

The knowledgeable reader will understand that these questions are a test of whether a person possesses abstract thinking abilities. Without any form of education, humans are unable to warp their minds to think outside of their own world: and in this case, it is a hypothetical world where all villages have “many horses”. The retarded farmer who has never seen more than two horses in his life will thus be unable to answer the question.

 

In light of Raymond’s examination, I have decided to record my knowledge of mathematics and science for fear of losing them. It is rather fortunate that I arrived in this world at a stage of life where mathematical concepts are applied at all times (high school). What a blessing it is to be young.

 

Risa, this is for you. You’re already a woman of thirty-seven. Please review your percentages. I don’t understand how you did our taxes before, but it’s wrong. Oh, and if you run away with the deposit just because I’m not home, I’ll be really mad. 

 

Writing on ink-and-reed was also an enjoyable experience. It brought back a bag of good memories from years ago, when I was experimenting with various forms of writing. A heavy load of research was conducted on the written expressions of old, in particular my family’s. In the end, I even managed to discover a collection of vellum scrolls, which was an interesting experience, although I had a tad bit of trouble understanding a lost language that less than a handful of people knew at any given time.

 

Speaking of languages, you may have wondered how I understood the local language. You can be rest assured, I didn’t completely gloss over this glaring issue, like certain authors make a point of doing, or make a poor job of expositing. In fact, I’m betting that you didn’t even notice my lack of explanation. Dear reader, even if this is a web novel, you should be putting more of your mental capacity to work. There’s no sense in living the life of a mindless consumer.

 

To sum up how my translation ability functions, while the villagers here are definitely not speaking our language, I have no difficulty understanding them. The level of this ability seems to transcend mere translators, as I am able to comprehend and even speak the local language at a level where it wouldn’t be wrong to call it my mother tongue. Whether or not this effect is applied on every inhabitant of this world or just a select few like myself, remains to be determined.

 

I breathe an air of relief as I set down my book, massaging my slightly sore hands from days of stressful use. I am fairly confident that the straw bed, on which I lie, will net me a nest of insect bites once I settle in for the night. However, it appears that I will have to endure for now. 

 

To end on a thankful note, I am relieved to have been reminded of the dilemma of rats. There is no doubt in my mind that this common pest dwells within the very walls my bed lies against, and I have no intention of bringing ruin to my baggage or testing whether they can chew through an aluminum can. I relocate the shoulder-slung sack to an empty-stranded chain hanging from the ceiling, praying for its safety.

____________________________

 

Dear readers, it is my hope that you will have attained some form of insight to the world, and by the Gods, maybe even enjoyed it, although that would simply be too much to ask from a reader these days. Good night.

 

And Eliana,

 

the best of days to you

 

my friend

____________________________

 

Just woke up. Still pretty groggy, and my breath isn’t faring so well either, since I haven’t brushed my teeth. I’ll see if I can get some water to fix that. 

 

 I also discovered a chain of bed bug bites up my right leg, stretching from my ankle up to the back of my knee. It itches like hell, worse than any insect bite I’ve ever experienced. I’m pretty sure my hair has lice in it as well. 

 

These primitives must really enjoy their life here.

 

I’m heading out for the day. No time to waste.

____________________________

 

Brushing away the last pockets of wrinkles on my track pants, I leaned my weight against the rather poor excuse of a door and exit my man-hole. 

 

A midday streak of sunlight blinds me for a moment, trapping me in the midday air. Dust swirls around the holy ground in great storms, only visible against the orange-brilliant backdrop. It was as if I’d slept in and missed school, treading through a silent household, the dread of isolation on high. Not sure of what the villagers would be up to at this time of day, I decided that it would be best to seek out my benefactor.

 

There’s a familiar crunch of shoe against dust.

 

I pry open a pair of shutters to find Father Keen, his probing eyes screening the earth and green before him, hands tied behind his back. Small sprouts of green dot the tender patch of earth surrounding the church, fashioning themselves collectively as a garden. A fence surrounds this insignificant field, but it is built with the trust of his neighbors, rather than any physical barrier.

 

“Good day  to you, Mr Guls,” Keen finishes before he can look up.

 

“To you as well, father.”

 

I sighed, leaning my arms against the window frame.

 

“My apologies for the late wake up. Is there still work to be done at this hour?”

 

“It is never too late for a scribe to do his work, Mr. Guls.”

 

“Even at night?”

 

“Even when the sun has set, Mr. Guls.”

 

I scoff lightly, running a hand through my disheveled hair. Father Keen raises his index finger towards the stage.

 

“I’ve set aside some scripts for you to copy. You may find them in my office. Complete them by no later than tonight.”

 

The priest pats his chest, stifling a cough. He turns to his left, where the silent shuffle of dirt turning over can be heard.

 

“Before you leave, Mr. Guls, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

 

Raymond leans around the church walls, gesturing his arms to calm upon the other individual attending to the garden, of what I can hear is any indication.

 

“Cecillia? Come meet our newest member.”

 

Oh, so her name is Cecilia. Now, I’m going to bet five sentences that she’s the first heroine. Another sentence says she’s blonde. One more says she’s a village bumpkin. This is a legitimate character archetype, for those unaware. They mainly appear as heroines in isekai-farming-slow-life (And Gods behold! What an incredibly specific genre) works, which have yet to see any animated adaptation (Perhaps caused by the producers realizing the sheer stupidity of the isekai sub genre as a whole). 

 

I am one of the privileged few that can acknowledge this character type. Indeed, I have become cultured beyond comprehension. It’s rather disappointing, however, that this specific character trope has never been explored or developed in any depth. Perhaps I could attend to that in some future works. 

 

The thought enlightens me so… and oh my God is that a loli?

 

I am struck by a sense of wonder as oblivion stares me in the eye. Framed like turquoise blue fruits, her all-too round irises pulse with the… uh, energy of youth? I ran out of descriptive language there. 

 

Oh, it’s just a child. Never mind. 

 

“Father?”

 

The prepubescent, of ages discernable to be of either eight or ten, looks between Raymond’s legs and my chest, head bobbing almost too suddenly at times, as if the act of avoiding eye contact had become an act that fed all starving beggars in the world and cured them of illness.  

 

The church keeper gives the space our tag of three occupy one of his eyes-shut smiles, thick eyebrows folding that emphasized his coming of age.

 

“This is one of my children, Cecilia.” 

 

Raymond wears a gritted smile: smug, playful, and perhaps just nervous in the slightest. 

 

“Is tha--, Nice to meet you, Cecilia!” 

 

In response to my greeting, “Cecilia” (isn’t this a really heroine-esque name?) can only nod. Like any natured child would do when meeting a stranger with their parents, Cecilia stands with hands pricked together, feet closing me off and head slightly hunched. 

 

“Was she working the gardens just then? She’s quite hard working.”

 

A slither of a smile creeps its way to his face. “Thank you, Mr. Guls.”

 

See, parents are simple creatures. Compliment their children, and they’ll relax their guard completely. Perfect for gaining Father Keen’s support.

 

“Is there a Mrs. Keen with us today?”

 

As the question rolls away from mouth, it seems to hit Raymond like a bolt of lightning, directing his eyes further away from me. 

 

“No longer walking among us, I’m afraid.”

 

Perhaps feeling genuine for the first time in an eternity as a result of my disturbed memory, my face falls to a somewhat remorseful expression. I wonder for a world where the widow, instead of the widower, appears to my aid, sketching the outlines of this mourning woman with my mind. 

 

Imprinting herself back into the canvas and ink she was molded from, Ms. Keen’s frame breaks apart, rearranging themselves as the stairs and walls and high poles of a playground set. I am planted into a waving ridge, resonating between the slight troughs and peaks of the swinging bridge. Aria of the two golden tails faces me, energetic but never explosive. Below us, the unmoving Kurune’s face meshes with the holes of the playground fence.

 

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Cecilia! You will be doing fine, I’m sure.” 

 

I lifted myself up, level now with Father Keen.

 

“Thank you for everything, Father. Please call me if you have any requests.”

 

I take my leave with all the haste that I could, discounting the cold sweat of the previous interaction.

 

____________________________

Now that I think about it, I believe “walking among us” is an expression unique to R’s language, but it was easy to understand, so I didn’t question it.

____________________________

Lunch was a cut of tough bread with a hint of staleness and a handful of berries. Spring is the season of famine, so foodstuffs are limited to leftovers from winter and newly sprung wild vegetation. 

____________________________

It was terrible. But at least it’s food.

____________________________

 

Relatively simple tasks ensued. Raymond, while possessing the status of education and a respectable wealth to enforce it, was not so heavily involved with worldly affairs. His financial movements were limited, with his secretary (yours truly) only having to recount his tally of tithes and debts, some of which the old man had even cancelled, out of the kindness of his heart.

 

For those unaware and uneducated, which I suspect to be the very readers and critics regarding my work, medieval households were obligated to pay a tax to their local church, be it in grain or coin. You may guess which form the penniless peasants paid in. 

 

In the case of Raymond, due to his personal handling of the church, he had far less need of nourishment, and thus adjusted the tax rates to fit the property standards of each respective household. And by “fitting the standards of each respective household”, I mean to say that he collected shit all. He’s a failure of a tax-collector.

 

Fortunately for Raymond, it appears that the mandatory church tribute of this village was mostly waived due to its low accessibility (the reader with good memory recall the mountains). My benefactor did not specify the method for which these funds were collected or submitted, but I suppose that travelling along adventurers to the city was a well-thought route. 

 

Overall, it appears the country and church of this kingdom is rather lenient with its taxes. Far more lenient than any reign, in fact. The source of this policy shift, I suspect, would be the low value of the land here. This manor alone had far less population than I would expect. Without many knights and troops to support the monarch, it’s no wonder if the local lord only kept his position as an honorary title.

 

I can relate to that at some levels.

____________________________

 

I can’t help but think that these snippets are too short. I mean, there’s no doubt that I’ll be able to hit light novel length ~50,000~ when considering the future, but the content itself is problematic. Why can’t there be any interesting plot developments? All of that walking just brought up tedious memories. 

 

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We interrupt this existential dread with dinner. (there i go again with cutting off the snippet without any warning)

 

Yes, I’ve just been called to dinner. The helpful Cecilia interrupted my musings, most probably entrusted by Raymond to do the deed. 

It was my wish that I’d be able to create some interesting characters out of these two. However, in life, the eccentric and the beautiful are rare, and when they are presented to us in the form of breathing humans, we find it difficult to describe them with any significant deeper meaning, similar to the process of writing a novel, if you will. While the ideas may sound grand and revolutionary within your mind, they make little sense on paper and are full of flaws.

 

Despite all this writing, I will confess that I find little interest in the character of Raymond and Cecilia themselves, only seeking to find some unique character quirk or what role they play in the grand scheme of things.

 

Raymond, while possessing the refined intelligence I esteem, is utterly alien to my perception. While I see no logical reason to not accept his goodwill, I am discomforted by the subtle expressions of awkwardness which are submerged under his mask. 

 

The readers who comprehend that I am a real person indebted to this great nation of ours will grasp the insight that perhaps I am discomforted by the idea of a nation-wide faith which dominates every facet of its society, and associate these negative connotations with Raymond and his fellowship. The horrors of witch hunts and the zealous fury required to raise a crusade live on in this man.

 

And yet, this really means so little, does it not? If I am discomforted by this duo of daughter and father, I will give whatever pity I can spare for their loss of a loved one (unfortunately raising troubling memories in my own heart) and be on my way to adventure.

 

The question then turns to if I, Tereszia Guls, am of sound mind to participate in the quick affairs of battle and death. 

 

When looking to the pedigree from which I was hatched, one can find great warriors and war “heroes”, if you will, in the portraits and medals which decorate the old manor at the end of Pender Street. And yet, when attempting to down the foul stew presented before me, perhaps the life of warriors is not fit for myself after all.

 

I dare not ask what accursed concoctions went into its wicked construction, which inspire a sense of dread oh so infinitely terrifying, so expansive as to remind myself of the utter insignificance we all possess in this universe, without boundary yet finite yet nevertheless infinite to our ant-like perceptions. 

 

When summarizing the state of human beings, I would say that fear organizes us; it is the strongest emotion of all, and it is the fear of the unknown which precisely petrifies us. Yet this stew; I fear it possesses secrets which lie beyond human comprehension, so much that the mere understanding of the subject would inspire madness.

Haha, it’s ok. Let’s lighten the dinner mood a little.

 

“What do the two of you usually enjoy for dinner, Father?”

 

Droplets of green soup fall from Raymond’s spoon as he swallows his bread garnish.

 

“Year round we have bread from Mr. Baker, and this stew here--. 

 

(*_* you eat this stuff year round?)

 

The berries from lunch appear in spring and early summer, and crane fruits are quite popular later on in the year. Lord Harriet shares his grapes with us too, if he happens to own them.”

 

I took a sip of the small cup of milk I was offered, refusing to falter at its fatty taste, musky but rich in flavor. A shy voice interrupts my meeting with milk. 

 

“Eggs…”

Our heads turn to the shortest member on the dining table. Cecilia looks down, faintly stuttering her lips.

 

“There are… also eggs.”

 

I suppress the well of saliva rushing into my mouth. What I wouldn’t do for a nice, smooth hard boiled egg right now. I, for one, find foreign fruits and stale bread to be hardly appetizing. Perhaps the local cheeses would satisfy a refined palate, but I struggle to compare the primitive cheese-making techniques of the ages of antiquity with our industrialized process. 

 

“Really? Where do you get them?”

 

I narrowly avoiding placing a preposition at the end of my sentence. I really have no idea as to how the educated individuals of this world speak to each other, but my faux-polite tone appears to have impressed Father Keen. I reckoned it had something to do with my translation power, with its apparent property of distinguishing accents.

 

“From Mr. Brennet,” Cecilia begins, quickly losing interest in looking at her food. “I, I go to Mr. Bennet’s house and he gives them to me. Did you know that eggs have little chickens in them? That’s why they taste so good.”

 

“I see. Have you eaten chicken before?”

 

“Um…”

 

“Uh…”

 

“I…”

 

Take care, Cecilia! If you make claims carelessly as a child without evidence you’ll always end up humiliated when others question you

As the conversation progressed, it finally occurred to me that my priestly host was rather pleased with my company. If I had to take a good guess, it must have been difficult for him to show affection to his child due to his religious discipline. Seeing one’s family happy… a delightful sensation, to be certain. It’s difficult to relate to from my position, but it looks like all those books about family values and shit were correct.

 

Since I’m feeling rather happy with myself for the day, I’ll hold off on editing myself today.