Under the Oak Tree - Chapter 200

Chapter 200: Side Story Chapter 6

As Riftan turned to glare at his mother’s headstone, a calloused hand landed on his trembling shoulder.

“We should head back.”

Riftan looked up into his stepfather’s forlorn eyes before lowering his gaze, defeated.

It was expected that he would return to the smithy right after the funeral. There would be no moment of reprieve granted to process his grief. After all, the death of one lowly peasant woman was not enough to gain anyone’s sympathy.

It was not uncommon for the poor to be struck down in droves during a plague. If the deceased also happened to be a foreigner who had never quite managed to fit into society, their death did not even come up as a topic of conversation.

This came as a relief for Riftan. The last thing he wanted was empty words of consolation. In fact, he never wished to recall that horrific night ever again.

He kept busy to stave off all the swirling thoughts. The vigor with which he threw himself into his work seemed to be a desperate attempt to bring his mind to a standstill. He hammered until his shoulders screamed in agony, and he only dragged himself home when he had nothing more left to give.

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As he approached the shack, however, his legs felt as though they were rooted to the ground. He paused at the door before finally managing to clutch the handle with a shaking hand. The stifling midsummer air filled his lungs with an unpleasant humidity.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he swung open the door. A stale stench wafted over him. The room was illuminated red by the sunset, and he passed a doleful gaze over it. Though they had scrubbed the floor last tonight, the peculiar smell lingered.

He stood at the entrance and rubbed his mouth with trembling fingers. Then, grabbing the pail by the door, he headed for the stream. He hauled the sloshing pail back to the shack and upended it. Not caring that his trousers would get soaked, he got on his knees and began scrubbing the dark stain that marred the wooden floor.

He did not know how long he cleaned, but he only stopped when his chafed hand brushed against a wilted flower petal. Riftan stared at it for a while before turning slowly to the withered wreath in the corner.

A few shriveled-up flowers fluttered off as Riftan picked it up. As he began to gather the buds one by one, he felt wet drops land on the back of his hand. It took him a second to realize that they were tears. Bewildered at his emotions, he swiped his cheek with his fist. He did not know why he was crying, only that he was ashamed of it.

He placed the wreath in a small basket before lying face down on the bed. It did not even occur to him to change out of his soiled clothes.

Even then, he could still see her hanging from the ceiling, her face wavering like a ghost. A shadowy form dangled above him. There was no escape. Riftan pulled the blanket over his head and curled into a ball.

That night, his stepfather stumbled home completely inebriated. Awakened by the rattling, Riftan looked over to see a dark figure teetering toward the bed. His stepfather sank onto the hay and stared at the floorboards for a long time. His gruff voice finally broke the heavy silence.

“I don’t want you to make yourself miserable as she did.”

Riftan slowly blinked into the dark. When his stepfather spoke again, his voice sounded choked with tears.

“A grub should keep to the ground. Looking higher will only bring misfortune.”

Riftan did not reply.

“Did she think people would feel for her?” his stepfather continued. “As if they’d care about a dead grub in the dirt… They’d trample it as they passed. No one gives a damn, I tell you. No one. So you mustn’t be like her. Don’t choose misery and let it end with that.”

Riftan quietly watched his stepfather’s shaking shoulders before looking at the dark ceiling.

He could see his mother’s sorrowful face hovering in the air – the foolish woman who would wake at dawn to comb her long, enviable locks before climbing the hilltop to await a man who would never return. She had even cruelly ended her own life for him. And still, after all that, his stepfather could not bring himself to resent such a woman.

Riftan swore that he would never cry again. He had no more tears left to shed for her. For as long as he lived, he would never forgive her for what she had done. These were his last thoughts before he closed his eyes for the night.

***

The days that followed found Riftan going through the motions of work, then home. Although he was constantly on the brink of collapse due to taxing himself without proper meals or rest, he preferred it to being idle. Having no energy left to think was the only way he could fall asleep.

It appeared that he was driving himself too hard even by the smithy’s standards.

One day, the blacksmith said brusquely, “I don’t want you here tomorrow. We’re drowning in work, and I won’t have you disrupting things by fainting on the job. Just rest for the day, and come back when you don’t look so terrible.”

Riftan’s lips twisted into a bitter smile, and he mused that he really must look dreadful. The blacksmith previously never had qualms about ordering him about like a slave. Though Riftan obediently put down his tools, he had no intention of going back home.

He aimlessly wandered the forest for a while before stopping by a spring to wash his soot-covered hands and feet. Afterward, he settled on a tree stump and listened to the serene birdcalls ringing out above him.

He stared up at the thick canopy for a long time. Then, leaping to his feet, he began to walk with no particular destination in mind. An inexplicable force seemed to urge him on, and he only stopped once he reached the castle’s annex.

The garden was in full bloom. Riftan held his breath as he spotted the girl in her usual corner. Despite the sweltering summer heat, she sat hunched as though she were freezing. It reminded Riftan of when he had laid curled under his blanket. She looked so cold and alone that he wanted to go over and lend her his warmth.

Out of nowhere, a sense of dread barreled into him and made him slowly back away. A cold sweat began to trickle down his back despite the scorching sun. He hurried out of the garden as if fleeing from something, but the strange apprehension did not dissipate even as he left the castle.

He raced down the verdant hill and stopped beside a fast-flowing stream. The water sparkled silver under the dazzling sunlight. Blue and white pebbles like the ones he used to dig for glistened beneath the current.

Riftan rummaged in his pocket for the shoddily made horseshoe crown. Had he truly been intending to give such a pathetic gift to the duke’s daughter?

He flung the iron circlet away, and it tumbled through the air before plunging into the water. With that, he fled the scene as though attempting to outrun his muddled thoughts. He once again had no idea where he was headed.

The shack no longer provided any respite. All he could see was his mother dangling from the ceiling. The only things his home offered now were nights plagued by bad dreams, his stepfather’s lifeless face, endless labor, inescapable poverty, and infinite solitude.

Riftan scrubbed his face with his rough hands. He did not think he could live such an empty existence for the rest of his life, but neither did he want to consume himself with unrealistic hopes. Seeking solace in an unattainable person was also not an option. He wanted to escape to someplace far, far away.

Someplace far…

The gray ramparts beyond the hill enclosed the vast estate. Serfs were no different from livestock kept in an enclosure, destined to die in the pen in which they were born. Riftan clenched his fist.

With his mind made up, he sprinted to the shack. Stepping into the dark structure only strengthened his resolve to run away. He threw all his belongings and a few provisions into a worn bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Just as he was about to cross the threshold, his stepfather’s face flashed before him. Sudden indecision made him groan and slump against the doorframe. He felt like a helpless calf being led to slaughter. There was no way he could keep living like this, waiting for death to claim him. It had been his own stepfather who had told him not to choose misery, had it not?

Clenching his jaw, Riftan rose to his feet. He placed the four silver coins he had received from the knight on the table. He was acutely aware of the fact that the money would not go far.

After a moment of hesitation, he pried the gems off the hilt of his dagger and placed them beside the coins. Then, before his resolve could waver, he hurried out of the shack. A mixture of guilt and liberation flooded him. Like a beast freed from a trap, he fled as fast as he could.

He was drenched in sweat by the time he passed the vast wheat fields. Reaching the small market, he bought a bundle of herbs.

The length of the journey ahead was unfathomable. He wanted to get himself a horse, but that would require at least six silver coins. He briefly considered stealing one before dismissing the idea. If he were caught, losing a hand would be the least of his worries.

Moreover, the sentries would no doubt apprehend him if he tried to leave the castle on horseback in his current shabby state. If by some chance he did manage to leave on a stolen steed, someone might recognize him and demand recompense from his stepfather.

After mulling the matter over, Riftan decided to head to the biggest inn in the village. As he was loitering nearby, he noticed three covered wagons and six horses lined in front of the building.

A man who appeared to be a merchant walked out of the inn and began to dispense instructions to the group of mercenaries trailing him. Hidden in the shadows of a nearby alley, Riftan watched as they began loading luggage onto the wagons.

When they were ready to depart, the mercenaries mounted the horses in unison. One of them raised his hand, and the wagons began to roll forward. Riftan made certain that everyone in the party was looking ahead before leaping onto the last wagon.

The compartment was packed with hay and water for the horses, and Riftan squeezed himself between two bales. He curled into a ball as they began to pick up speed. Pulling his hood down to cover his face, Riftan peeked out through the leather covering. Soon, they cleared the castle grounds and began rolling across the vast plains.

A cold shiver coursed through Riftan. He had done it. Despite the proof before his eyes, he could hardly believe it. After all those years of thinking that leaving the duchy was impossible, it had turned out to be the easiest thing in the world.

He leaned his face against his knees and wondered how his stepfather would react to finding him gone. Would he be relieved at finally being rid of a nuisance? Or would he be devastated at yet another betrayal, this time by the boy he considered his son? Riftan bit his lip.

Would the girl notice his disappearance? He could not shake off the image of her sitting alone in the garden. How would she ease her loneliness now?

Stop thinking about her.

No doubt it would be easy enough for her to acquire another hunting dog, or perhaps even a foal. And when her infant sibling was older, she would likely be too busy to feel lonely. She would soon forget about the scrawny blacksmith’s apprentice who had rescued her and the wreath she had made to thank him.

Riftan reached into his bag and touched the withered wreath. Plucking off the dried flowers, he scattered them through the open covering of the wagon. His stepfather’s words rang in his ears.

A grub should keep to the ground.

I will never look up, Riftan swore to himself. Ever.