[1] Meeting Magic (1)
"Wah. Wah."
Vincent woke with a frown. In the silent mountain where even the birds slept, the cry of an infant rang out.
"Wah. Wah."
Even as he shook the sleep from his tousled hair and rubbed his bleary eyes, the baby's plaintive wailing continued.
"God, what have I done so wrong?"
Vincent climbed out of bed and glanced at his wife, who was still in a deep sleep. He hoped she was having a pleasant dream. If she heard this, there would be trouble.
They had been married seven years, and Vincent and Olina had no children. They had spent money to see physicians, but all they ever heard was that the cause was unknown.
"There's such a thing as sexual compatibility. It's just one of those things. Neither you nor Olina seems to have a problem, so just keep trying—often. Heh heh!"
At first Vincent had laughed it off. The doctor's prescriptions even improved their intimacy for a while.
But by their fifth year he had to admit it.
He couldn't father a child.
Olina never complained. Still, when she watched other families' children with a lonely expression, Vincent couldn't help but resent his own manhood.
"What kind of bastard—showing off like that!"
As a hunter by trade, he lived mostly in the mountains. Traps had to be checked constantly, and when tracking game for days you needed a mountain basecamp.
No one would be calling at a hunter's house at this hour. Unable to rule out thieves, Vincent grabbed a single-bladed axe and stepped outside.
"Who's there! Who's making noise in the middle of the night!"
He shouted until the mountain echoed. No answer came; his own yell returned to him as an echo.
It might have been a traveling merchant dealing in mountain specialties, but there wasn't a single torch in sight.
Vincent gripped the axe handle tighter and followed the crying sound step by step.
The sound came from the stable.
Thieves were a strong possibility. He had heard tales from the hill farmers about brigands who preyed on those who lived alone in the mountains.
"Rotten bastards! I'll chop you to pieces!"
Prepared for the worst, he flung open the stable door and swept his practiced hunter's gaze inside.
A soft nicker from the horses eased him somewhat. Animals didn't lie.
The two-horse stable was small and tidy—no place to hide—but there were no signs that anyone had entered.
"Then how could there be crying?"
He crept closer and parted the straw. A newborn, maybe a month or two old, lay crying.
Some unexplainable reverence made him hide the axe behind his back. Then feeling even that was impious, he tossed it into a corner and crawled toward the baby.
"Wah. Wah."
With rough hands he unwrapped the swaddling. Inside was a baby as lovely as a little moon—pure, knowing nothing, newly touching the world's air.
Vincent's eyes trembled. Then as if struck by lightning, his whole body shook and he couldn't hold back the surge of emotion—he bolted out of the stable.
"Who are you! Who's playing this prank? Leaving a child behind, you rotten bastard! Come out now!"
The echoes sounded like many voices speaking at once.
"Come out! Really not coming out? How could you abandon a child! You're a truly bad man, do you know that?"
He urged again, but no one answered.
"You really abandoned it! There won't be another chance! If you show your face to me later, I'll mash it into dough!"
Vincent shouted in the loudest voice of his life. He didn't want to be left with any regrets when he remembered this day in the future.
He went back into the stable. The baby, exhausted from crying, had dozed off. Vincent cradled the child with trembling hands and pressed his ear to the small chest.
A heartbeat thumped.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
Olina burst into the stable, out of breath. Vincent's shout had woken her completely.
He stared at his wife as if at a loss for words, then showed her the child asleep in his arms.
"What is that child?"
"That... seems to be our child."
* * *
Early summer, when the green was rampant.
Vincent hurried along the path beside a cold stream, humming a tune. A large deer was slung over his shoulder, but his heavy frame moved lightly.
As he neared home his steps quickened. Faces of his precious family already floated before his eyes.
"Shirone, Daddy's home!"
"Daddy!"
A twelve-year-old boy broke into a wide grin and ran to the doorway. Unlike Vincent's rough, rock-like features, Shirone had grown into a boy the gods seemed particularly fond of.
Golden hair that gleamed like threads of silk and blue eyes, a nose already well-defined despite not being fully grown—he was almost doll-like. Each time Vincent saw him, his chest swelled and his shoulders straightened.
Picking Shirone up, Vincent buried his face in the boy's nape and took a deep breath. The boy's scent washed away the weariness from the mountain journey.
"That's my son. My treasure. How have you been?"
"I've been helping Mom cook and reading a lot of books."
Books and cooking.
Vincent felt the mismatch between the two words but masked his discomfort with a broad laugh.
"You like books that much?"
"Not really... there's just not much else to do."
Seeing his son hiding his feelings like someone who'd done wrong made Vincent ache with pity and guilt.
The truth was, Vincent knew. The miracle of a child he'd found in the stable was unusually bright.
Olina could read a little, but she was, after all, a hunter's wife. Still, Shirone had picked up what little he'd been taught, then, by his own effort, had reached the point of reading books alone.
That made Vincent's chest hurt even more.
A hunter's child couldn't study.
Herbalists' children became herbalists, hunters' children became hunters—that was the way to scrape by.
Even the humblest trade had secrets and know-how you couldn't pass on empty-handed. All a poor man like Vincent could pass to his son was the skill of hunting.
But he couldn't bring himself to say it. Twelve years old was far too young to tell the world's unfairness.
"Well done. Whatever you do, you must learn to succeed. When I go to the city this time I'll buy you books."
"It's okay. You've already bought a lot for me. And honestly, they didn't have much in them."
Vincent chuckled at his son's boast. He couldn't afford useful practical books; he bought discarded noble books from antique shops for next to nothing. He doubted they were exactly at the boy's level.
His son worrying about the household before himself made Vincent's heart both swell and break.
"All right! How about this—want to go chop wood with me? Learning's important, but a man needs strength. Today I'll teach you how to fell trees."
"Wow! Will you give me an axe then?"
"Heh heh! Of course! Today we'll burn through the mountain's trees together!"
Vincent presented Shirone with an axe as if he'd been waiting to do so. It was a bit pricey for their household, but far more useful than a book. An axe could earn money.
Truthfully, Vincent hoped his son would become a hunter. But Shirone was small for his age and didn't look suited to harsh labor. That was why he wanted to build up his strength now.
'His face has an air of refinement and his mind is sharp. Could he be the child of a noble?' Vincent hastily pushed the thought away. Whenever he thought that way he felt guilty—as if he'd been given more than his due.
'Shirone is my child. Not some foundling from the stable, but my blood.'
Resolute, Vincent took his son's hand and left the house.
Their logging area was a kilometer from the cabin.
There were many hunters nearby, and to work outside your allotted area could start fights—sometimes even blade fights.
"Watch me first, then follow closely."
Vincent spat into his palm and then began chopping with a relieved vigor. After a few resounding blows the straight tree groaned and fell.
The number of swings it took measured a woodcutter's skill. Vincent wasn't a professional woodcutter, but he felled the tree in ten strikes, which was impressive enough.
"You strike the same spot several times, then make the tree tip. Once it leans the weight will tear it down. Can you do that?"
"Yes, I'll try."
Vincent picked a tree Shirone could manage. Facing it, Shirone spat into his hand just like his father had. Even from a single demonstration his stance, grip, and palm-rubbing habit were uncannily identical.
Vincent smiled, thinking his son clever.
But when Shirone swung the axe his form was awkward.
This wasn't a task for head alone. It required strength and endurance. The axe was heavy, and to swing it with enough force to cleave required solid muscles.
Vincent had brought him here because Shirone was smaller than boys his age.
If Shirone could not be a scholar, then at least acquire strength. No woman would marry a man who couldn't earn a living.
"Hng! Hng!"
Shirone gritted his teeth and swung. But each strike landed in a different place.
Unable to watch, Vincent began to coach him.
"Don't use all your strength. Ease off a little and focus on accuracy."
Shirone absorbed the advice quickly. But then his swings were too weak to show any sign of splitting the wood.
Was my son really this weak?
Vincent felt a little downcast.
"Huff. It's tiring."
"It's okay, Shirone. No, sorry. To be honest, I know this isn't really the kind of work that suits you. But a hunter's child... it's unavoidable..."
He choked up, unable to finish. What parent wants to tell their child a cruel reality?
"You're really smart. Smarter than Baron, the herbalist's son, and Stella, the fruit seller's daughter. Don't be discouraged by your lack of strength. My selfishness—"
Tears gathered at Vincent's eyes from sorrow. Shirone, however, didn't seem to notice; he tugged at his father's sleeve and asked,
"Dad, how can I chop a tree well?"
Vincent felt a little embarrassed.
But the embarrassment passed quickly; seeing Shirone's interest sparked a rush of pride.
"You really want to learn this?"
"Yes, teach me. It's fun."
His son's words restored his courage. Vincent squared his shoulders and examined the notch Shirone had made.
"Look at this notch. Strength comes with age, but you don't need enormous force. What matters is technique. I told you to hit the same place, but twisting the angle a little will give a lot more leverage."
"Ah, I see."
Vincent peered closely at the notch his son had made. He was surprised. The boy had struck almost exactly the same spot each time—remarkable for a beginner.
At this rate, unless one was unusually strong, bringing down a tree would be hard for most.