The Empty Mirror
Chapter 35: Debt Inheritance
"The mafia..." - I whispered, straining to assimilate the information, despite my secretive and cautious nature in the face of such dialogues.
"It's not that we were entangled with the mafia. My mother and I lived in Bafranbu with my father. I am an only descendant, and we were a relatively happy family, of middling stock in the midst of adversity.
My father was always a man who sacrificed everything for his lineage, he struggled to survive by his efforts. He was trying to enter into partnership with a company, but for that he needed relations and capital. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, but due to a series of setbacks, we got into financial difficulties and a large debt.
My mother and I, who had never worked, thanks to my father's efforts to support us, began to work whenever we had the opportunity to earn money, and we became more and more destitute.
My father was dismayed and tormented as he watched his offspring suffer from the scarcity of bread on the table, seeing all his toil and labour crumble before his eyes. In the heat of despair and helplessness, he was informed of the existence of the mafia by his so-called comrades. They suggested that the mafia could give him a loan if they would vouch for him, offering him the opportunity to pay off his debts and repay them with added interest. So he made contact and managed to get the mobsters to grant him a certain amount of resources, a chance to straighten out the situation of his offspring.
However, due to poor investment decisions and cruel fortune in an unequal social environment, my father squandered the money he had invested. On top of his previous debts and financial dilemmas, he now faced the burden of mounting debt, like a guillotine sharpening with every tick of the clock, ready to mow him down.
Not only was the debt mounting, but the problem lay with his creditor: the mafia. The pressure became unbearable and my progenitor began to sink into drink without restraint. One day, he went to drink in a nearby tavern and never returned alive. The mafia had lost faith in him to pay off his debt and shot him in the chest. Shortly afterwards, we learned that the mafia had bought the complicity of law enforcement, evading investigations into victims linked to them, such as those with outstanding debts.
We, in fact, were ignorant of everything that was going on. We never knew of my father's suffering until his last breath. We only glimpsed how his being was slowly decaying under the weight of debt and economic hardship. Even at my father's funeral procession, which was attended only by his relatives and no friends, none of whom vouched for him before the mafia, afterwards, only my mother and I were left.
It was then that my beloved, Dougal, stepped in and probed until he discovered the truth behind my father's death. He sensed that the mafia would not be content with this, but would persist until they also took our lives to pay off the debt owed. We, as his Bafranbu-based offspring, would be their next victims. Even if the mafia exerted its influence in other cities, we would be the ones they would demand payment from, since we did not hold the main status in the family, not to mention his brothers who lived on another continent and who did not even flinch at my father's tragic fate.
And so, in the silence of the night, Dougal, with the bravery of a knight-errant, dragged my mother and me out of the nails of the city, wrapped in a veil of mystery that hid our tracks. We abandoned everything we knew, our lives, and became fugitives, pursued by the might of the mafia, whose shadow loomed over the land of Bafranbu like an implacable titan. With what little we had left, packed in worn suitcases, we carried with us the flickering flame of an oil lantern, our only beacon in the darkness.
My father, now absent from this world, left an outstanding debt to the mafia, a debt they are unwilling to forget. And so, we took refuge deep in the forest, far from the clutches of civilisation, for two endless years. In this time-forgotten corner, nature welcomes us with its generous arms, providing us with sustenance and shelter in our destitution, while our tears merge with the dewdrops that bathe our cheeks, mute witnesses of our suffering - Esma tells us.
This humble hut is not mine in its own right; it belonged to my grandmother, my only link to the past, who departed this world when I was a helpless infant. I have known the bitterness of hostility and misery in the back alleys of the city, fighting every day to stay afloat, defying the odds with courage. I have no family but Esme and her mother, Hilda. For them I would give my last breath. So we cling to this shelter with fervour, warming our souls in the dim light of the fireplace I restored myself, feeding on the poached game the forest provides, like rabbits, and the herbs Esme gathers with her deft hands. We cook our hardships in a humble iron pot, and drink from the cold water of an ancient well, whose whereabouts Hilda discovered in her wanderings.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
We protect ourselves with the cold steel of a pistol, snatched from the hands of a mobster - Dougal declared solemnly, his gaze serious as steel, but his voice softened by his love for them. But fear not, young friend, I never needed to draw it. I took it only as a shield, a symbol of protection to safeguard Esme and Hilda from harm.
As I listened to the whole story, I was plunged into a profound silence, my mind overwhelmed by surprise and perplexity. Hilda, sensing my bewilderment, entered into a dialogue between us with grace and tenacity.
"We owe everything we are at this moment to your noble gesture, Dougal” - Hilda said gratefully. Thanks to your bravery, our lives still hold together. You could have fled alone with Esma, but you chose to take me with you, giving me the chance of salvation.
"It could not have been otherwise” - Dougal replied solemnly. Esma would never have found comfort in leaving her own mother behind. And I, for one, lack the courage to leave her to her fate. I feel rather a sincere affection for her.
"In this age and in this collectivity, you become a fugitive from integrity" - Esma lamented with regret. The decree in the cities is under the yoke of the mafia, and even if we worked tirelessly until the end of our days, until death, we could never repay the debt imposed on us.
The luminescence of the lamp seemed to fade slowly, as if its brightness was fading in time with the conversation, so I questioned Esma curiously: Why do you keep the oil lamp on? Isn't the light radiating from the fireplace enough? You could save the lamp for emergencies.
Esma replied with a touch of melancholy: It's not out of necessity or whim, but because I'm fond of it. Sometimes I like to keep it on during dinner, even if the fire already lights up the room. It's not something I do every day, only on select occasions like today. I do it in memory of my father. When I was a child, I used to watch him from the doorway of his small studio, busy at work and trying to provide for his family. I remember how he did his accounts, facing debts under the flickering of this lamp. At the time, he was unaware of the suffering that gripped his spirit. That is why I keep it. It reminds me of my father's presence, illuminating his face with a glimmer of hope in his life.
"I am deeply sorry for what happened..." - I murmured under the weight of grief.
Esma replied with composure: "Don't worry. By the way, I would like you to rest in my bed tonight. Modest though it is, it will allow you to regain your strength. And you, Dougal, I will not allow you to give up your rest for me. You are a man and you need rest after your hard days of hunting in the forest. As for you, Giselle, you will share your bed with my mother. I wish to spare her any discomfort because of her age. I trust you will not mind this discomfort. I will make myself comfortable on the floor with some sheets," he concluded with a subtle smile.
Dougal didn't like the idea of resting on a bed while his beloved lay on the floor, but at Esma's firmness, he resigned himself and retired to sleep. Hilda put out the lamp and carefully secured the door, then extinguished the fire. We lay in bed together. Dougal and Esme soon drifted off to sleep, after receiving my words of thanks for the food and for sheltering me. Hilda took a little longer to drift off to sleep, while I remained awake.
Still, I sensed Dougal's vigilance, even in his sleep. Meanwhile, I held the snowy-bladed knife between my hands and belly in a misplaced paranoia, remembering how long it had been since I'd lain in a bed. Although uncomfortable, it felt cosy at the time, unlike a sarcophagus. It could have been several months since I had arrived at the castle and been imprisoned in the forest under the rule of Ace of Wands.
At dawn's dawn, in the morning freshness that slipped through the slits of the skimpy covering that veiled my figure, like fleeting petals, we stood and resumed our dialogue. "Is not this modest abode on the edge of the forest?" - I inquired with curiosity dancing in my eyes, suspecting that my conjecture about the shanty's proximity to the confines of the forest was vanishing, evidenced by Dougal and Hilda's words.
"No, you could actually say it's in the heart of the forest rather than on the edge” - replied Dougal. I can't tell you why, but I have memories of my childhood here with my grandmother. I don't know if it was she who erected this humble abode, or if it was the fruit of another longing, or how it came about. I only keep in my memory the moments I shared with my grandmother in times gone by. After her departure, I returned to take care of my family.
"And the equipment... did you make it yourself?" - I asked, my eyes scanning the surroundings, while Dougal continued: Yes, I made it and assembled it. When we arrived, we went into the forest almost at nightfall, in total blackness except for the faint light of the lantern. We brought with us some essential possessions, such as lamp oil and tools, with which I forged the furniture.
They are not remarkable works, but I worked for years with a skilled carpenter. They are made from fallen tree trunks, like the many that lie scattered in the forest, seeming to lean on themselves in a gesture of resignation. The mattresses were made from old cloth, straw and mostly dry leaves. In addition, I tried to mend the hut's chimney to the best of my ability; it barely serves its purpose. The roof is patched with leaves, wood and branches rather than the age-old rotten thatch.
My eyes scanned the surroundings and settled on the pieces of bread wrapped in a brownish cloth. Without mediating my question, Hilda at my side set about dispelling my doubts: Mob harassment hasn't stopped Dougal from venturing out of the woods. In fact, he left these bowery almost half a year ago now. Considering that we've been here almost two years, he has left on multiple occasions, mostly to the outskirts of the aforementioned town.
Their quest focused on items such as cloth for their bedding, straw and bread, which, because of their longevity, we zealously treasure as a last resort. Hence we don't consume them as often; we mainly feed on what nature's forest offers us. On his last foray, he even stumbled across a bottle of liquor that still awaits uncorking.