Chapter 7: Quiet Before... Before What Exactly?

~ Part 3: Apple-Picking and its Consequences ~

“With material O so humble, make a pole that shan’t crumble. [Earth Pillar]”

The soil bulges under my feet and I gradually raise into the air. The circular pillar doesn’t come out very fast, unlike its offensive counterpart [Earth Spike], and its top is flat instead of…well…spiky. This makes it perfect as a platform. I leisurely avoid the branches as I move up through the foliage of the apple tree. My aim is good, and the pillar pushes me up without hitting anything. Not bad. Not bad at all. If I may say so myself…and I believe I may.

“Ya c’d’ve jest climbed, ya know?”

I look down. At the foot of the tree, and now of the pillar, stands a woman with brown hair tied in a bun and covered with a small headscarf. That’s Ingrid, whom I terrorized upon first arriving in this village—she got over it. From this height, the faintest crow’s feet I know are marking her eyes are indistinguishable. However I can clearly see her big…errmmm…Well, let’s just say you can’t really mistake her for anyone else in this village, even at a distance.

She’s a fat-titted cow.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Of course not. As long as she keeps them to herself. Those things look dangerous.

…They do seem to generate their own gravitational field.

Likewise, her accent too is unmistakable. I have no idea where it comes from, considering nobody else here sounds like a bad translation of Kansai dialect, but it’s endearing in a way. You can’t be mad at someone with that kind of accent. “It’s less tiring this way.”

“Yer lazy as a houn’dog, ain’t ya? Is ya sho yer a knight?”

“I prefer to say I’m conservative of my energy.”

“Sho'nuff yer.” She laughs. “Alright, ya reckon ya'll be able t'han'le this hyar tree alone?”

“As long as it doesn’t try to eat me.”

“It won’t. Ah tamed it fine.”

“…” I’d been only jesting. This tree is a perfectly normal apple tree, if a bit tall. At least it looks that way. Now, I’m not sure if her declaration supposed to reassure or frighten me. Trees that need to be tamed are usually less than friendly. Nevertheless, whether she was joking or not, I laugh awkwardly as she walks away.

I keep my eyes on her until she deftly jumps up another tree and disappears within its foliage. She climbs with an agility belying her age, which I assume to be around mid-to-late thirties, as well as her…err…proportions. I thought they should somehow encumber her, but obviously they don’t. The laws of physics are definitely getting breached here.

I shake my head in disbelief and start picking up the apples, beginning from the top of the tree and slowly descending.

Quickly, I fall into the easy routine of repetitive manual labour. Pick an apple. Put it in the basket. Pick an apple. Put it in the basket. Pick an apple. Eat it. You get it. Free from the task to actively control my body, my mind wanders back to the past few days I’ve spent in Kansas.

Those have been quite busy days. Not by obligation or necessity, but out of choice. Like what I’m currently doing, it has been mostly a very leisurely kind of business. Picking apple. Feeding giant worms. Sewing. Cleaning. Cooking. Those kind of things.

Are you training to be a housewife?

Would it be so bad?

I have no opinion.

In this time, I haven’t talked to Dorothy much. Not much, relatively speaking. Compared to spending all my waking moments in the company of the little girl, and gods know I didn’t sleep much during that week, to suddenly only see her in mornings and evenings, and sometimes crossing paths in between does feel like a very sharp decrease. I’m a little lonely.

It’s not because she’s angry with me or avoiding me. That little girl is busy too. For the past few days, Dorothy has been reacquainting herself with the other villagers, now that she can interact without the filters of her incomplete memories and restricted emotional range. She still suffers from unpredictable mood swings at times, laughing or crying with no rhyme or reason, but she’s really improving overall. It’s heart-warming to see.

I wonder if I’d feel the same thing for a real little sister…

I guess we’ll never find out.

Yeah… A shame Mom is a bit too old for more kids. She’s slowly reaching her fifties after all. And she has her job. Jobs in fact. Last time I checked she was splitting her time between her clinic and the psych ward of the local penitentiary.

And even if she had more kids, we’d have to wait for at least five or six years for the kid to do anything besides drooling and pooping all over the place. By then we’d have our own kids to worry about. Not to mention there’s a very likely chance for the child to be male. I don’t want a little brother. They’re messy.

Like I said, it’s a shame.

There’s still our own kids to look forwards to.

Is that a thing to look forwards to?

I’m not sure… I don’t think we’d make a great parent.

I don’t really want kids.

No. But there would be also our girlfriend’s opinion to consider.

And that hypothetical being is yet to be found. It’s a matter of cryptozoology by this point.

Like I said, things to look forwards to.

I suppose.

With Dorothy busy terrorizing the village– Oh. Sorry. Did I say “terrorizing”? I didn’t mean to. I meant: With Dorothy busy being what every little girl raised by an axe wielding Viking dominatrix could be expected to become… in other words: a sinfully cute handful likely to burn your house down while you look upon the inferno with an endeared smile …I found myself with heaps of free time.

Also, I still haven’t gone to the Elder’s. In fact, I’ve been actively avoiding the wrinkly old man. The quest for babysitting Dorothy states that I’m likely to learn of Kansas’ so-called “secret” by meeting him and, honestly, I’m curious, but reluctant. I like Kansas. I don’t really want to know any dirty secrets they might be hiding. Like a subjectively wise god once said: Ignorance is a kiss.

I’ve a distinct hunch this secret directly relates to the power-seeking *slash* world-saving *slash* likely suicidal mission that was imposed on me by God Bob. That quest feels like a real big deal, with the Great War being involved and all. I’m not sure I want to deal with such a hassle.

…

…..

………

Pfff-Hah! Who am I kidding? What hassle? Of course I’d love to be involved in a massive conflict and mess with lost powers that might destroy the world! Who wouldn’t? I’m just not sure I want to play this game on Chaos’ terms. I’ve got this…thing about being manipulated. It irks me. I’m a free spirit. And following the god’s hints would be doing exactly that. There’s definitely something fishy about this.

Indeed. Though, really, it’s not like we have much options. Delaying our talk with the Elder won’t help either. I mean, you won’t go back into Erwyn and start looking aimlessly for an alternative to the path offered to you on a silver platter, will you? You’re far too lazy and opportunistic.

Hey!

And you won’t pass the opportunity to learn this village’s secret even if you claim otherwise.

Well… Duh. Of course not. Okay. I’ll admit I’m just procrastinating. Fun or not, saving the world–

Or help destroying it.

“…sure.”

Either way, it seems like an awful lot of work. The kind you can’t just take a break from whenever you want to. After slaving at curing a potential psychopathic serial killer, thus allowing her to become a potential much saner serial killer, I believe I deserve a little rest form doing anything physically or mentally strenuous.

Something mentally strenuous…like…being you?

Shut the *bleep* up.

For the past three days, I’ve been touring the village and helping the villagers with random things. I know it might seem counter-intuitive to do work to avoid working, but it actually makes sense. For one, doing stuff instead of other stuff you don’t really want to do is the very definition of procrastinating. For two, most chores become ridiculously easy with magic. It’s sad how so many only use spells to fight.

Bunch of morons.

It also had other benefits. Before, I’d already roughly known most of the villagers. However we’d only exchange a few words so far, because I was so single-mindedly focused on Dorothy.

I regret it now. Those Kansans are really interesting people. Of course, Dennis is a hopeless nitwit and a few are still a little suspicious of me, a feeling that is very much mutual, but most of the lot is very enjoyable to talk to.

It’s Ingrid who suggested I help her pick apples, for a pie she intends to cook this evening. I readily accepted, especially after she told me I could have some of it. I’m not a great fan of raw apples, but I’m a sucker for apple pies. I’ve high expectations for Ingrid’s pies. According to Martha, they are – I quote – “to die for.”

A recommendation I will take with all the cautiousness necessary.

Aaaaand with the new batch of antidotes I was able to prepare. I’m not the best alchemist around, but I can carry my own weight as long as I have access to the right ingredient. And— What a coincidence!—Martha just happened to possess a surprisingly well-stocked reserve of medicinal supplies related to antidotes.

What a coincidence indeed.

I avoided asking any question about the several rare poisonous herbs I found in there.

Martha didn’t mention them. I didn’t mention them.  I’m still in charge of cooking. Everyone is happy. And alive.

Things are great.

* * *

“Alright. Ah’ll be takin’ them. Ya brin’ th’ ress to th’ barn. It’s a bit away fum th’ houses, t’th’ West, as enny fool kin plainly see. Meg sh’d be thar since it’s invento’y day.”

I nod with a smile. “I’ll do that.” We are at the village gates. Ingrid is holding a small basket of apples and I myself have two larger—two larger baskets, of course. She’s the one with the large pair of… Well, you catch my drift.

“Thanks fo’ th’ he’p. Yer a fine lad, Elric. It was nice meetin’ ya. Take care of ya’seff, will ya?” She seems to hesitate, then adds with a wry smile, “Try not t’think t’bad of us later, alright? We all haf our reasons.” Leaving those inauspicious words, and me, behind, she disappears into the village.

…

……

………

Okay. What was that about?

I stand in place for a couple minutes, wondering if I should be upset at this odd piece of a sentence, and potentially start running away fast, or just ignore it. Of course, if I run, I’ll take the apples with me. And maybe the goat. Elric Walker ain’t one to leave a friend behind.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

…Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!

“…”

Eventually I shrug and walk through the open gates.

I’m not sure what these people could do to make me think badly of them anyway. I have literally no idea. The only thing that would anger me and is within their capabilities would be to harm Dorothy. And I don’t see that happening any time soon. I can’t really get a reading on Martha, but I can tell without a doubt that she cares for her daughter greatly. The whole village do in fact. She’s a bit everyone’s daughter.

The only option I can imagine is them screwing me over badly.

I guess, from Ingrid’s standpoint, something like that would lower them in my esteem. But again, they are NPCs. They can’t properly understand how little I care about my own safety as a player. Or care about much of anything within the game really, except for my own fun. I suspect they might be overestimating my morals too.

Most of the villagers have been kind to me during my stay. I like these people. So even if they suddenly stab me in the back, I won’t think any less of them. I won’t feel betrayed, because I have no expectations in the first place, unless they steal or hurt something or someone important to me, but that list is rather short. Really, I wouldn’t mind. Several of my best friends have killed me more than one.

It’s better to keep anger and disdain for those who deserve it. Use a feeling with parsimony, and it becomes all the more powerful when you unleash it. …And we need better friends.

A small smile plays on my lips as I traverse the village central plaza—the only plaza really. I can see the large warehouse standing some distance outside the village but still within the magical fence enclosure. I angle my steps in that direction.

“Sir Elric, wait!”

I stop in my tracks. A large thirty-something man with black hair and beard is approaching with confident strides. His beige shirt stretches over the prominent muscles of his chest and, given the circumference of his biceps, I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of his punches. Were this real life, I would have no doubt tried to avoid such a man, but this is Untold Tales, and I’m as much of a muscular Apollo as any other. More than most even, though not this guy.

I instantaneously recognize him as Dennis’ older brother, Marcus. My smile remains in place. Unlike his brother, I kind of like Marcus. Those siblings are truly like night and day. Dennis is a whiny coward with an inferiority complex and grudge against everyone, while his brother looks like he could beat a hydra with his pinkie, but would first try to befriend it and come to a peaceful resolution.

Well. At least he looks like he would. I still haven’t forgotten he is the one who ordered to holy-nuke me without bothering to wake up the napping man in charge. I may forgive, but I never forget. Almost never. Usually not. Sometimes. Every now and then. What was I saying again?

“Can I help you?” I ask. I’m polite, but not overly friendly. I don’t know him that well after all.

He stops in front of me. His gaze drops briefly on the two baskets of apples I’m carrying, before returning to my face. “No, thank you. I only saw you and realized I still hadn’t properly apologized for the way we…err…” He pauses awkwardly. “For how we welcomed you. Visitors aren’t exactly common lately and we jumped to conclusions. I’m really sorry about that. I also wanted to thank you for what you’ve done for Dorothy. You had no reason to help, yet you did. It means a lot. Thank you.”

He starts bowing, but I stop him with a shrug. I’d have waved, but my hands are occupied. And waving with your foot just looks silly. “There’s no need to thank me. I did it because I wanted to.”

I’m already anticipating how I’ll refuse if he insists on repaying me. People do that sometimes. But he just nods seriously, as if to say he perfectly understands my point of view. It’s refreshing. Some people just can’t accept I’m not expecting a reward or their gratitude. Like I said, I’m free spirit. I don’t spit on some gains, especially free food, but fun is a sufficient reward in itself.

And, truly, if we want anything, we’ll just take it.

That too.

Marcus glances again at the apples. “Is Ingrid back?”

“Yes. She should be back home. I’m bringing these to the warehouse.”

He sends me a look I’m not sure how to interpret. “You went apple-picking with her?”

“Yes?” Unless you refer to the theft of iPhones, then no.

His frown deepens, then he stares at me. I’m suddenly reminded of the one time I wrestled a minotaur. Not a calm fellow. “Only the two of you? Alone?” Marcus nearly growls.

I take a step back at the same time as he takes one forwards.

“Wow! Calm down. I wouldn’t think of doing anything to her.”

Possessive much?

Wrong choice of words apparently. His expression only darkens and he snarls. “WHAT?! Are you saying she’s not the most beautiful woman there is?!” He stomps another angry step forwards and I find myself backed up against a house. Surprisingly, carrying two large baskets full of apples somehow impedes my movement. Who’d have guessed?

“Nonono. Of course Ingrid is a beautiful woman.”

“SO YOU THINK OF DOING SOMETHING TO HER!!”

Jesus! He’s not possessive. He’s got a damn split personality!

He’s crazy.

I’m stuck in an awkward situation where I don’t want to drop my apples, but the usually calm Mark is throwing a fit and looks about to slam me in the face.

Then!

Suddenly!

A ladle.

*CRACK*

…I know. I wasn’t expecting this either.

The utensil flies through the air and knocks the shouting man in the temple. Hard. I hear a crack, probably his skull. The burly villager’s feet leave the ground and he is propelled over several feet before tumbling down heavily in the dirt. He doesn’t get back up.

Is he dead?

The sound of the ladle hitting the ground echoes loudly in the stunned silence that follows. Then I hear a familiar accent.

“Thet dadburn fool. Nevah got th' galls t'propose t'me, yet goes off yappin' at enny man thet looks at me sideways.” Ingrid appears from the corner of a house, mumbling to herself, and casually picks up the kitchen tool. I can only stare, still trying to process what just happened.

The busty woman turns to me and I stiffen on instinct.

Don’t move! Its vision is based on movement. And don’t look at her breasts.

They can sense your fear.

“So'ry about thet, lad. Cuss it all t' tarnation, I'll take this hyar idiot wif me. Mebbe it's time ah take thin's into mah own han's. I'll nevah be be done waitin' eff'n ah leave it t'thet diferer. He sh'd knows time is precious. Especially now. See ya.”

And she leaves, again, dragging an unconscious Mark by a feet, his head bouncing against every bump on the uneven ground.

…

……

………

What is wrong with the women in this village?

Want to reconsider running away now?

* * *

In the end, I still didn’t run.

I reach the barn without any other incident. As I’ve been told, it is a bit in retreat from the rest of the village, surrounded by an empty lot of land. Which is great as it provides me with a clear view of my surroundings and ample time to dodge any homing ladle that might come flying my way.

I never expected to think those words one day. I guess one truly never ceases to learn.

Setting the baskets on the ground, I knock at the large door. If Ingrid is right, Meg should be inside, inventorying the stocks. I don’t want to startle her by barging in suddenly.

A loud surprised yelp informs me I made the right decision. Sounds of shuffling and hushed voices reaches me through small gaps in the walls.

Yep. Voices. Plural. How interesting. What is it that a young unmarried woman could be doing in a secluded barn with another person? Fufufufu. Did young dim-witted Dennis finally succeeded in wooing his lady love? Or maybe it was the lady in question who clubbed him over the head with a rolling pin and dragged him into a shadowy place to get down to business. Apparently it seems to be the tradition around these parts.

I kind of like it.

“Who is it?” comes a call I recognise as Meg’s.

“It’s Elric. Ingrid asked me to deposit some apples in storage. But I can leave them in front of the door if you’d like.” See, I can be a gentleman.

At first, there is no answer. After a short wait, I turn around and start walking away. I haven’t taken two steps that I hear the sound of a heavy door creaking open behind me.

“Sir Elric! Wait!” In the crack of the door appears a very dishevelled Meg. Her face is flushed. Her raven black way hairs are in disarray, with stalks of hay stuck in her curls. Her clothes hang askew on her slender frame, as if she’d just thrown them back on in haste.

Well, the ‘as if’ is a bit superfluous.

I meet her green gaze and she smiles shyly. I reply with a good natured half-smile of my own. She blushes and lowers her eyes.

“Please come in. I can’t ask you to go back after coming all this way.”

I try to wave her off. “It’s really no bother. There’s less than a minute walk to the houses after all.” Not even going into the territory of ‘coming all this way’, it was barely a detour from the gate to Martha’s home.

“No, I insist. Please come in.” She glances at the apples. “I wouldn’t be able to lift all of this by myself. I could really use your help.”

By yourself, uh? Even if it were true, I’d beg to differ.

“Are you sure?”

She only nods silently, not meeting my gaze. After a short deliberation with myself, I shrug and pick up the two baskets. Meg moves aside and I step into the dark barn. “Where should I put the–” The end of my question gets stuck in my throat when I notice the topless girl sprawled on a blanket between two haystacks.

That… my slow brain articulates, is not Dennis.

I’ve seen the girl before, of course. Kansas is too small to miss anyone. But I can’t seem to recall her name. Berenice? Beatrice? I think she’s a seamstress.

My stare eventually raises from bare breasts to brown eyes, only to discover a wicked knowing grin plastered on her face. I pick up my jaw from the floor and look back at Meg, but any witted comment I might have thought of immediately dies before crossing my lips.

The black-haired girl’s dress lays in a heap around her feet. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Not an ounce of her previous shyness can be seen on her pretty face, whose expression mirrors that of the other girl. “Oh. I’m sorry, sir. Let me amend my statement. We could really use your help.”

I swallow and she licks her lips hungrily.

…

Uh oh.

* * *

Well, that was fun.

I feel violated.

Oh, come on, what kind of spineless bastard complains after getting pounced by two sex-hungry kittens. Aaahhhh~ You really can’t underestimates those village girl types. None of the timidity of those sheltered princesses, I tell you. It’s refreshing in a very uncultured way.

I can’t get married anymore.

Oh, stop whining.

I have been touched in places I swore myself I would never, never be touched again!

*shivers*

Yeah… Well, see it as closure.

That’s the problem. I’m not sure that place will ever close properly again.

…

……

……..Nothing a health potion can’t fix.

Sometimes I hate VR.

Marching slightly bowlegged and with the lost gaze of someone who’d seen Hell—or remembered it—I make my way back from the Barn of Horrors to the House of Silent Doom, a.k.a. Martha’s home. Strange how a place that saw me nearly die in several occasions suddenly feels like the safest haven in this insane place.

That feeling last for the whole two seconds that it takes me to cross the door and find myself face to face with the mistress of the house, sitting on a chair and polishing a huge axe with a loving smile on her lips.

“Hiiiiii!”

The female lumberjack of the Great Frozen Tundra of Siberia lifts her head at my squeak, her smile immediately dropping to her usual neutral face. “Welcome back, sir.”

“…I-I-I’m ba-back.”

She tilts her head, in a gesture that might have looked cute despite her age, if there had been even the tiniest hint of warmth in her ice-blue eyes. “Are you alright, sir?”

“Ye-yes. Just a little sore.” God, why did I just say that?!

She set her axe down on the table and raises to her feet. “I have a lotion–”

“NothankyouverymuchbutImalittletiredIllgotakeanapseeyoulater!!” Faster than I thought myself capable off, I cross the room and slam the door of my closet behind me. Leaning back against the wooden panel, I slide to the ground and land harshly on my butt. I immediately jump back up with a yelp.

I collapse prone on my thin mattress and cry myself to sleep.

I have been soiled.

Stop being such a drama queen.

Why me?

Because you’re you.

▲ ▼ ▲ ▼

Logging out for a few minutes helps me regain some balance.

I still must have looked a bit distraught, because Dorothy asks me if I’m feeling alright as soon as I step into the main room. I know this child is annoyingly perceptive, so just brushing her concern off with a “I’m fine” won’t do. I can’t very well tell the truth either, so I find myself suddenly forced to compose a quick and convincing excuse ad lib.

That explanation turns out to be one of the most nerve-wrecking experiences in my life… Especially with Mistress Martha sitting close by and very ostensibly sharpening yet another axe. Just how many does the woman have? I was gone for at least an hour IGT and she’s still at it.

Also, this one sharpy thingy verges more on the weapon of mass-slaughter than on the lumber-jacking tool. The bone-chilling grating of the whetstone against polished metal punctuates every single one of my sentences with dreadful exactitude, causing my stomach to drop more and more each passing second. I’m afraid she might have heard about my most unorthodox bedtime stories. I’ll take a leap and guess she disapproves.

Once Dorothy is finally reassured of my health, I excuse myself and leave the house, trying not to appear in too much of a hurry. I cross the village, waving at people as I go. I duck behind a wall when I spot Meg and her “friend” laughing at a window, which earns me a few raised eyebrows and suspicious glances to which I reply with an awkward smile.

Unwilling to brave the main street and pass in front of that window, I take a detour to Lagerfeld’s house. I am in need for some cloth—to repair a glider that got damaged under mysterious circumstances—and the taciturn man in charge of raising Kansas’s giant silk worms is the only one I can think of to provide me some.

For a worm breeder, Lagerfeld is far from a social butterfly. In fact, he’s quite the introvert. But he really loves his “babies”, like he calls the humongous larvae under his care. My experience with slug tamers provided us with some common ground and I’d hit it off relatively well with the man. He readily accepts my request and even refuses my offer of payment. I don’t insist too much—I’m not that kind of hypocrite—and leave with his promise the cloth would be ready by tomorrow morning.

I spent the rest of the day idly, helping out in the fields while cautiously avoiding Martha, Meg, and What-her-name the seamstress. I also keep an eye out for any ladle…I mean Ingrid, but she’s nowhere to be found. Neither is Marcus now that I think about it.

Images of shallow graves and bloodied kitchen implements float in my mind, but I ignore them. It’s really not my problem.

The evening eventually comes around and I’m forced to face the tyrannical North Axe Goddess. Melkior, aka Melk or “Villager 1” from the gate fiasco, and his wife Delia invited us both to their house for dinner, along with Dorothy of course. On the way to their house, it feels rather odd to walk in the street beside Martha with the little girl between us holding onto our hands. We probably look like a couple with kid.

Talk about a dysfunctional family.

Tell me about it…

Unexpectedly, the meal is turning out a very pleasant affair. Melkior and Delia are proving to be exceedingly warm hosts and Martha hasn’t mentioned this morning incident in any way—and I suspect she knows more than she lets on. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she knows of my every move. But so far she’s been her usual deadpan silent self.

Some might have considered her lack of participation to the conversation rude, but neither of the elderly couple seems to mind. They’re used to it I suppose. I think I also detect an undercurrent of respect in the way they treat her. Small things like serving her first and waiting for her to start eating before touching their own food. Although I might be overthinking things. I’m curious, but I know better than ask. I am very attached to my neck and I’d like for that attachment to remain literal for as long as possible.

Thad said however, had the Ice Queen suddenly transformed into the most voluble woman under the Heavens, I still doubt she’d have managed to get a word in edgeways with Dorothy and Delia uninterruptedly gossiping like old washerwomen. Even I—and by the gods am I the less chatty man in either world—could barely hear myself thinking over their chatter, never mind talking. In the face of female garrulousness, I have been reduced to the state of intrigued onlooker, quietly eating the delicious chicken soup and occasionally exchanging sympathetic glances with Melkior, who could only sigh with practised resignation. Marriage is tough, uh.

At the first civil opportunity, we both courageous males heroically flee the dining room. We retreat to the porch and Melkior produces a pipe, which we share under the moonlight and the green glow of the mountain. Nobody will ever catch me dead with a smoke anywhere near my mouth in real life, but I indulge from time to time in VR. Also, I have absolutely no idea what the man put in that pipe, but the winged pink kangaroo smoking with us agrees in Japanese that it ain’t no freakin’ tobacco.

All things considered, it wasn’t such a bad day.

* * * * *