Chapter 94 - The Farm in Irttat
Chapter 94: Tower of Crows 02
The Briar Street Seed Shop sustained something of a financial loss that day.
The unreliable shopkeeper had abruptly left in the morning and remained absent for quite some time.
Faced with an unattended counter, the poorer customers, though they would never dare steal outright from someone of such standing, nonetheless reached a quiet, unspoken agreement and slipped generous handfuls of seeds into their pockets before leaving.
Afterward, they spent an uneasy week waiting to see whether anyone would come after them. When no one did, their anxiety gradually faded. They continued visiting the shop as before, and the neighborhood once again marveled at the shopkeeper's mysterious generosity. The incident became yet another story passed around the streets, but that is beside the point.
Meanwhile, two pairs of worn-out boots, one large and one small, picked their way along moss- and frost-lined walls in rhythm with the wind sweeping through the long street. They passed through a crooked labyrinth of cramped alleys, exited through a small gate on the city's northeastern side, and entered the open countryside beyond.
Unlike the graceful southern landscapes, where forests and manor houses stood interspersed, this was a broad expanse of cleared plain. Noble estates and the farmlands of the city's rural residents stretched across it, exposed to the endless sweep of the wind.
Farmers carrying sheaves of wheat passed by, the sharp animal scent of their sweat mingling with the dry warmth of freshly harvested grain.
No one paid any attention to the unfamiliar visitor. Every minute of a farmer's time was precious. On this rare sunny day, they were gathering the results of an entire year's labor. With the autumn wind still favorable, they needed to thresh and winnow the grain before spreading it out to dry. Only then could it be stored away safely.
Until the next harvest, this wheat would be their means of obtaining food and cloth, paying taxes, and securing their place in the world.
At this time of year, nothing mattered more than the harvest.
The weather was unusually fine. With no tall walls or ancient trees to obstruct it, the sunlight poured freely over every living thing. It danced along the tips of the wheat awns like a flowing river of gold, concealing countless blazing sparks within its depths.
A wandering minstrel sat upon a ridge between the fields. (In an age when the profession had all but vanished, the few who remained lived in difficult circumstances.) She played a battered vielle and sang. The lyrics were difficult to make out, and the melody was unfamiliar to Lucita.
A greedy blue dove perched upon a nearby scarecrow, head tilted to one side, perfectly still, as though it too understood the song.
Harvested grain, music by chance, thin soil, and a fittingly warm afternoon breeze. The combination felt accidental yet somehow blessed, vibrant with life.
Fine particles settled on her ears. Lucita's senses had never been so sharp as in this moment.
Her perception spread outward from beneath her feet, extending in all directions through the soil, until at some point it finally touched a powerful surge of living energy—
And then she opened her eyes sharply, looking toward the source.
Among the vast fields of wheat, one particular field grew with an exceptional abundance.
Surrounded by sparse stalks that struggled upright against the poverty of the earth, these wheat plants bowed gently beneath the wind. They were impossibly golden, impossibly full, impossibly lush, as though a god had once placed a kiss upon this patch of land and the wheat had responded with wild joy, transforming it into a paradise of abundance.
It stood out against the landscape like... a beautiful bright scale on a stretch of dull earth.
These were the seeds she had sold. Those tiny treasures, filled with the power of life.
No wonder the seed shop had recently seen such a sudden influx of customers. This must have been what attracted them.
Beside her, Cate pointed toward the distinctive field. "That one is ours, big sis. Mama and Uncle are both there. Let me take you over."
"No need, Cate. Thank you."Lucita emerged from her thoughts and gently declined."I'll walk around by myself for a little while. You should head back."
Cate didn't understand why, but she nodded obediently and made her way along the long ridge path back to her family's field. Once there, she turned and waved to Lucita from a distance.
Lucita waved back. Only then did Cate reluctantly return to helping with the harvest.
Lucita continued along the ridge, extending her perception until it reached the remarkable field and lingered there.
If the lean soil and sparse crops around her barely disturbed the life force sleeping deep within the earth, leaving it buried beneath the surface like an iceberg beneath a dark sea, then this field was a spring. Its vitality renewed itself constantly. Life rose steadily through the roots, condensing through time into something rare and precious.
Even the dormant vitality in the surrounding soil was being subtly stirred by the growing imbalance, drawn inward like a current toward this singular patch of wheat.
Where there was a difference, there was movement. Where there was movement, it could be grasped.
And her own perception, reaching outward in every direction — in a certain sense, was it not its own kind of root system?
She wove the life force into a network of interconnection, drawing nourishment from the soil, then chose one forgotten seed and poured that force into it—
A wheat seedling pushed up through the earth where her foot had passed, taking root and shooting up swiftly, setting its ears and turning golden, swaying gently in the wind alongside all the other wheat.
Lucita turned back and pulled the stalk from the ground. She had only just lifted it for inspection when a sharp voice called out:"Hey! Who are you? What do you think you're doing, pulling up my wheat?"
"Er..." Lucita paused, just about to say something, when she caught an entirely different sound.
"Hmm. This child... what a long life cycle. I can't see where it ends..."
The voice was rough and old, reaching her ears faintly. Along with it came a sudden, powerful sensation of being watched. She wheeled sharply to the right.
People bent over their work. Wind. Sunlight. Nothing appeared unusual.
Her gaze traveled to the farthest point on the right — a field of sparse barley bordering the orchard, with a scarecrow standing in the middle, evidently crafted with some care.
The scarecrow wore a battered grey hat on its head. Its coat was already worn through in several places, the fabric showing the ravages of wind and weather. Sleeves too long for its rough-hewn arms hung loose, swaying gently in the direction of the wind.
She stared fixedly at the scarecrow's head — at this distance, beyond the limits of ordinary human sight, her unusually sharp vision could still make out the neat arrangement of straw bundled within its head. Very few broken ends protruded, giving its surface an unexpectedly smooth appearance.
Lucita was in a state of heightened sensitivity just then, and found herself staring at the scarecrow as though under a spell. After a long moment, she abruptly tucked the wheat stalk into the hands of the person who had challenged her, barely managed a few distracted words of apology to their grumbling, and set off at once toward the barley field on the right.
She walked to the edge of the field where it met the orchard, found a spot of shade, and settled down with her back against a tree, one knee bent up, eyes fixed unblinking on the scarecrow a few meters away.
The field's owner glanced at her, and seeing that she simply sat beneath the tree and did nothing else, chose not to bother with her and went back to harvesting.
Today the wind was gentle. The scarecrow stood motionless. The blue doves and crows no longer feared it at all, and perched boldly in twos and threes on its shoulders, only fluttering briefly away when the field's owner came to chase them off.
Lucita stared at its nonexistent eyes and spoke aloud: "Is that you?"
No answer. As though she had imagined the whole thing.
She narrowed her eyes slightly, drew one leg closer, pulled her loosely pinned bun over her shoulder, leaned back against the trunk, and let her eyelids drift half-shut as though resting.
A ripple passed through the air. She glanced once more at her own sleeping face, and rose from another layer of the world.
The mental cosmos remained as it always was: quiet, vast, and scattered with drifting points of consciousness.
Among those endlessly flickering stars stood the scarecrow. At the sudden appearance of an unexpected visitor, it seemed startled. It stumbled backward two steps and turned sideways as though attempting to avoid her scrutiny.
Within the sleeve hanging loosely at her side, Lucita silently formed a thread of mental intent and extended it toward the scarecrow. A moment later, feeling the familiar vibration that returned along the thread, her eyes brightened slightly: This was a mind body.
She stepped forward and asked again: "Who... are you?"
After a long silence, Lucita heard the same rough, elderly voice: "Child... you can see me?"
The scarecrow possessed no features, and Lucita could not tell where the voice originated, but it matched the throaty, slightly coarse voice she had heard earlier. It even carried the faint cadence of a working-class Viktorian accent.
Lucita nodded, her gaze intent: "It's hard to imagine a drifting soul existing in a place like this."
"A soul... oh, one could say so." The scarecrow gave a ruminative laugh: "Then I suppose I am a soul."
Oh? Lucita raised an eyebrow, but did not press further. Instead, she held out her hand with lively curiosity: "I'm Lucita. And your name?"
"My name... ah." The scarecrow seemed to think for a moment, then gave a tentative answer: "Jorrona."
"Jorrona." Lucita repeated the name.
"You mentioned you could... see my life cycle?" She ventured the question: "May I ask why?"
Jorrona was neither as straightforward as Violet nor as guileless as Delphine. She answered in a gentle voice: "Then may I ask why you can see me, child?"
Lucita's eyes — usually so forthright, so sincere, so deceptively open — met their match: "All right, as an exchange, of course."
And so Jorrona answered: "I was born with the ability to see the life cycles of living things. You are different from everyone else. The humans I have observed live no more than seventy years, at most. But your lifespan is long. Very long. Are you human?"
Lucita had barely managed two vague, evasive sentences before Jorrona had already circled back to the heart of the matter.
Lucita privately grumbled at this, her competitive streak roused — she was certainly not going to be drawn out so easily — and countered: "Born with such sight? Then when were you yourself born?"
The words were barely out before Lucita realized she had said too much.
By refusing to answer whether she was human, had she not effectively confirmed Jorrona's suspicion?
Jorrona smiled knowingly. Noticing the trace of irritation on Lucita's face, she softened her voice: "All right, all right. Let me think, child."
Her voice grew faint and a little distant, as though she had sunk into memory: "I think that was also an autumn..."
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