Our village isn't anything special. Altogether, there are maybe ten households—fewer than ten people if you only count the ones who actually show their faces. Too few to even bother giving the place a proper name. Still, travelers passing through insist on calling it the Novice Village.
The old chief was always rooted to his spot beneath the banyan tree, rain or shine, summer or winter, never once stepping away. I've never seen him eat. He's got a son and a daughter-in-law at home, but neither of them ever calls him back inside. They just watch him stand out there, getting drenched or frozen, while they stay warm and dry indoors. His son is always pacing at the doorway, like a restless chicken that doesn't know when to roost. His daughter-in-law is always in the kitchen, cooking at all hours—even in the middle of the night.
If you ask me, the whole family's a bit… off.
Every so often, people—always strangers—would visit the chief. Their comings and goings were strange. No set time, no warning. Sometimes they arrived in swarms, like a sudden flock of migrating geese, and then disappeared again. They all wore clothes that looked almost identical, as if issued by the same mysterious tailor. I've always wanted to ask where they got them—and whether they'd give me a set, too.
Whenever these outsiders approached, the chief would hand out the same job: "Head to the back mountain. Bring me five wild boars and five wolves."
From what I could tell, he paid them ten copper coins apiece. That's when the questions started piling up in my head. The back mountain isn't that big—where were all these boars and wolves coming from? I've never once heard a wolf howl in my life. And where did the chief get the money? Ten coppers each—ten people means half a silver ingot gone in a flash. I've counted. Some days he pays out several silver ingots before sundown. The man must be loaded.
Then it hit me: I've never seen a single boar or wolf carcass brought back. Not one. Which could only mean one thing—he was secretly selling them off and pocketing the profits. That crafty old man. Sitting there with pockets so stuffed they're practically dripping silver, and yet he won't spend a coin to fix the road—or my roof, which still leaks every time it rains.
If I had that kind of money, I wouldn't be half as stingy as he is.