Chapter 6

For now, I’ll set aside the matter of magic and talk about this village.

In one word, this village is an isolated island on land.

You can’t approach it except by boat.

And even then, because of the shallows and reefs, only small boats can do it.

There’s a small river flowing into the middle of the beach, with shallow sands all around.

The rocky area on the south side has considerable depth at high tide, but hidden rocks underwater make it extremely dangerous for large ships to approach.

Behind us, sheer cliffs rise steeply, surrounding the entire village.

The area that can be called the village is just the narrow land between the sea and those cliffs.

There, we have small fields made by bringing in soil from outside, and our settlement.

The villagers total around 50 people, consisting of 10 families and their children.

Excluding the guild members, the oldest villager is 30.

From that, it’s clear: the villagers are planned immigrants brought from elsewhere.

Ten young couples were recruited from poor farming villages and moved here.

For over a decade now.

The villagers make their living by supplying smoked and salted fish to the military.

Whether it’s important as a port for military ships, or strategically vital to have citizens here, anyway, by the country’s decision, we live here.

The village life is like this.

The men, as soon as the sky lightens, stand in the sea before the sun rises.

Seaweed thrives in the shallow waters, becoming habitats for small fish.

They spear the larger fish that come to prey on those small ones.

The women go to the fields to grow beans, potatoes, and seasonal vegetables.

Apparently, wheat doesn’t grow, perhaps because the soil is poor or due to the salt carried by the wind.

By noon, both fishing and field work end.

Everyone processes the caught fish together.

They gut the fish, fillet them into three pieces, remove small bones, cut into thin strips, soak in seawater overnight to bleed them and infuse salt at the same time.

The strips prepared the same way the previous day are hung on ropes stretched between poles to dry.

The dried fish is moved to the smoking hut and smoked.

The finished smoked fish is packed into barrels along with salt.

This is the village’s product delivered to the military ships.

While making this, they also extract fish oil.

Boiling the heads and other offal in a large pot makes oil float to the surface.

Scooping that becomes oil for lighting.

After scooping the oil, what’s left becomes everyone’s meal.

Adding shellfish the children gathered or potatoes harvested from the fields and boiling together makes a tide stew full of the sea’s umami.

“Ah, delicious.

Summer stew is the best!”

Summer stew has lots of shellfish and tomatoes, and the tomato’s acidity soaks into sweat-drenched bodies.

However, in winter, the fish are fatty, making the soup itself rich and delicious.

Flattened and dried sweet potatoes absorb the soup, soften, and melt, making the soup even thicker.

That’s delicious too.

“Winter stew is delicious too!”

So this comeback is the standard conversation.

We always have the same talks.

“In the outskirts of the capital, they apparently draw blood fighting over potato scraps.

We’re happy to share plenty of fish among everyone.”

“Though there’s no meat.”

“No wine or ale either.”

“If you say that, there’s no bread either.”

“No perfume or makeup.”

“No dance parties either.”

“If it’s dancing, I’ll show you!”

Surrounding the fire and food like this, the day ends with smiles.

The leftover stew is divided for each family’s dinner and the next day’s breakfast, and some is given to the guild members too.

New guild members at first dislike the sea cucumbers in the stew, but soon get used to it and say how chewy and delicious they are.

Many guild members have come and gone, but all left reluctantly.

They unanimously say there’s no village as happy as this one.

Not wealthy, but far from war, and no hunger.

When full, before sunset, we clean up the pots and fishing tools and return home.

Because the west side is sheer cliffs, when the sun tilts, the whole village falls into shadow.

It gets dark early.

Houses have stone walls, wooden floors, and thatched roofs.

There are windows for light, but no glass.

Just wooden shutters that push up.

In the center of the house is the irori hearth, and we sleep around it.

Burning pine needles in the hearth produces smoke that keeps bugs away.

We lay fur provided by the country on the floor and cover with blankets in winter.

Several times a month, the children take turns having sleepovers at each family’s house.

Until recently, I thought it was for the children’s enjoyment.

But now, with previous life’s knowledge, I understand.

It was for the “adults'” enjoyment.

Today, Sion and his little sister are coming to sleep over.

But whether to tell him that shocking fact is a dilemma.