Before me stretched fields of thin wheat, and it seemed to be dawn. That day, Bradley tended the cows from early morning and in the afternoon repaired a leaky roof. The scene shifted, and on another day, they visited Lora for a check-up and dined with the family hosting them.

  In this way, I experienced the passing of time through Bradley. Gradually, I came to understand the village and Bradley and Francesca's situation.

  The village seemed to be some distance from Ravensbrook. Flowers and plants I didn't recognise grew there, and it was nestled between valleys larger than any I'd ever seen. Daylight hours were short, and when it rained, the ground remained muddy for ages. The villagers' clothing didn't seem terribly different from ours. However, they appeared to wear patched garments repaired many times over.

  Their daily lives were probably much harder than mine.

  Around midday, conversations often took place near the well in the village square.

  "More sickness. Red spots spreading across the leaves," a man sighed, sitting on the edge of the well.

  "If the land worsens any further, I won't be able to pay the rent."

  "Our village might still be better off. I heard in the neighbouring village, anyone who got sick had their land confiscated by the lord straight away," another man said, trampling mud with his patched boots.

  "Better off? Hardly!" A bearded man exclaimed, covering his face with his hands. "Who knows when our village will be next! Damn it all!" Saying this, the men looked around as if searching for something.

  Bradley would join these conversations without expressing agreement or disagreement. Sometimes I could sense his discomfort.

  The Domigan household where he was staying seemed to have more reserves than most villagers. They kept several cows and had vegetables and dried meat in their storehouse.

  I thought of myself and Alicia. When you're in the same place but your lives are so different, it creates uncomfortable feelings. Perhaps those who are more fortunate feel the same way.

  Even so, Bradley tried to participate in these gatherings as much as possible. I couldn't understand why, but it was probably for Francesca's sake.

  A full season had passed since Bradley and Francesca came to the village. One afternoon, as he approached the well to draw water, he saw men gathered there. Bradley quietly muttered "Oh no." He'd tried to time his visit to avoid them, but had unfortunately run into them. His quick movements betrayed his desire to finish drawing water and leave as soon as possible.

  "The cows hardly give any milk anymore," a thin man mumbled. His name was Jacques, I believe. I'd seen him lamenting in the same way before. Just as I thought this, it happened.

  "Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me," Jacques repeated, scraping his head against the ground and beginning to cry. The bizarre sight made Bradley stop in his tracks.

  "What's wrong?" a man at the well's edge called out to Jacques.

  "It's my grandmother. Everyone, please forgive me. It's my grandmother's fault. Last year, she died crying that she was hungry. Because I wouldn't share my bread," Jacques cried. A murmur went through the crowd. Every man looked exhausted. Some wore such ragged clothes that you could see their protruding ribs through the gaps. The poor harvest was clearly taking its toll.

  "She's holding a grudge against me. My grandmother used to tend the cows every day. She's possessed the cows to stop them giving milk. My grandmother has transformed. She's become a demon. I'm sorry, everyone. I'm truly sorry..."

  Jacques took out the cross hanging around his neck, closed his eyes and clutched it tightly.

  Seeing his gesture, Bradley seemed to feel sorry for him. The man was confused and seeing phantoms that didn't exist.

  "The dead are not demons. If properly mourned, they are called to God,"

  Bradley said to comfort him. But Jacques remained with his head bowed deeply.

  What was he apologising for? Bradley, puzzled, turned to look at the villagers. They exchanged glances as if searching for something, then made nodding gestures. But these didn't seem to be in response to Bradley's words.

  "We'll perform a supplication," a voice said from somewhere.

  "Yes," another man muttered after a pause.

  As if this were the cue they'd been waiting for, the men began to voice their agreement: "That's it," "Yes, that's right."

  "A supplication?" Bradley asked a nearby man.

  "Guest of the Domigan house. You help too. We'll do it tonight at the meeting hall. Bring an earthenware pot."

  The rituals performed that night at the meeting hall were unlike anything I had ever seen or heard of. In the dark hall with its candles extinguished, dozens of men were packed together.

  They each held up various objects—pieces of wood about the length of an arm, rusted and battered swords, whatever they had brought. Amid the smell of excited sweat and murmurs that could have been either invocations or prayers, suddenly there came a signal from somewhere.

  The candle in the centre of the room was lit. In the centre stood a table covered with an old cloth, upon which several earthenware pots filled with white liquid had been placed. A man stepped forward and heated one of the pots over a fire. From the faint fermented aroma, I could tell it was milk.

  At another signal from the man, those around raised the implements they were holding. Then, chanting indecipherable words, they formed a circle around the pot and began to walk, turning to the left. Bradley moved cautiously through the dimly lit hall, eyes fixed on the man ahead as he attempted to match his steps.

  Now and then, a misplaced foot would land on someone's toes, or someone would tread on his heel from behind. Unlike at church, where such clumsiness would earn a sharp glance, here no one seemed to notice—their attention completely consumed by the ritual. The person walking ahead would occasionally make the sign of the cross with the wooden implement he was holding. Bradley tried to imitate this but struggled.

  After watching several times, I realised why: the crosses were being made in the opposite direction to what we know.

  As time passed, the movement of people around the pot became more orderly. At first, everyone moved chaotically, like fat rats ransacking a storehouse. But gradually, their movements transformed into something resembling a giant serpent slowly encircling its prey.

  The serpent gradually approached its prey—the earthenware pot—tightening its circle. One by one, the men arranged themselves like scales of the snake, beginning to move so close that their bodies occasionally touched.

  The spells they had been chanting individually came together like singing in church, voices uniting, timing synchronising, becoming a single piece of music. However, it was clearly different from the beauty and order of hymns. It was dark, low, eerie—like the growling of a massive creature dwelling beneath the ground.

  The ritual continued until midnight, then dispersed.

  Such rituals were often held in the village, but Bradley didn't seem to embrace them. Nevertheless, he participated in the rituals whenever possible. Later I heard that these rituals were meant to drive away "something" that was stealing the cows' milk. What was this "something"? A demon? Or perhaps a human who had made a pact with a demon? Bradley seemed curious about this but couldn't bring himself to ask anyone in the village.

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  Each time he returned from the meeting hall, he would wash his mouth and hands with water and utter apologies to God. He would take out a cross from his belongings, clutch it tightly, and mutter "Terrible superstition" while making the sign of the cross in the order a priest might.

  "I cannot afford to become the village troublemaker." He didn't appear to consult his wife about these matters.

  As winter arrived, he grew even busier. He tended the cows before the sun rose, shovelled snow until the light faded, working until he was completely exhausted.

  With work being so demanding, why didn't he complain? If it were me, I might have given up long ago and cried to Mother.

  During such times, I caught Bradley taking out a pendant from inside his clothes and gazing at it. It contained a portrait of a woman and the initial 'F'. He would occasionally glance at this pendant during work breaks.

  His beloved.

  My heart warmed at this gesture.

  Was the Domigan family unkind to Bradley, treating him badly? That didn't seem to be the case. The Domigan family was complex, with other adversaries.

  The Domigan family lived with their relatives, the Mercier family.

  The Mercier family, including Lora, had moved to this land long before the Domigan family, it seemed. Despite this, their position within the extended family was weak.

  For instance, there was this scene:

  "Hey, Lisette! What are you doing? This is my field! Why are your filthy cows in my field?" Antoine shouted, waving a hoe. As the head of the Domigan family, he was the central figure. "I've just harvested, and now it's covered in mud! Get them out of here right now!"

  "B, but sir, old Lora said to—" Lisette apologised.

  "Leave them be, Lisette! This produces better milk. We've always done it this way!" Lora called out while burning a pile of dead leaves.

  "You again, Lora. Always interfering. Listen, Lisette! There's no need to listen to that lying old hag. Get those cows out quickly."

  "The liar is you, Antoine! When your sister fell ill with fever, when your father came begging for my mother's remedies, what did we do for you? Have you forgotten?"

  Antoine threw down his hoe, grabbed a wooden stake and raised it. His wife and children, watching nearby, screamed. But Lora didn't flinch at all, glaring back at Antoine. "Violence, is it? Go ahead if you dare!"

  Antoine's face turned redder by the second.

  "You fraudulent wretch who can't even repay borrowed money!" With that, he struck Lora in the face with the stake. Bradley and others rushed to intervene, frantically trying to calm the situation.

  "It's our field! Why should we let someone else's cows walk on it? If you want money so badly, go find work elsewhere!"

  Even while being restrained by Bradley and the sons, Antoine continued hurling abuse until the end. Lora, bleeding from her forehead, was protected by the women. Fortunately, she didn't appear to be seriously injured.

  Antoine was later fined a substantial amount.

  The scene changed again. The vegetation looked different. Perhaps several months had passed.

  Bradley awoke to Francesca's soft sobbing.

  "Are you feeling unwell?" Bradley asked with concern.

  "No," she whispered, taking his hand and pressing it against her abdomen.

  "Feel."

  Under his palm, there was a slight movement. Like the flutter of butterfly wings. He gasped.

  "Is this...?"

  "Yes," she said, her voice filled with wonder. "Our..."

  The scene flowed past like a momentary breeze.

  When Bradley returned from gathering firewood, the village was in an uproar. People had gathered around the well, murmurs of confusion and anxiety spreading.

  "What curse is this! That's the second cow this year!"

  "One calf born with deformed limbs, one cow that's stopped giving milk. And it was the best milk cow in the village! Damn it all!"

  "Same here."

  "Pay taxes to the lord? Don't make me laugh!"

  "What's going on this year? It's so cold we can't sleep without a fire. And it's already July! The wheat isn't growing at all!"

  "It's abnormal."

  "This has never happened before."

  "The rituals aren't working," someone muttered. "We've offered prayers to the spirits many times."

  Everyone fell silent. No, that wasn't quite right. Bradley noticed that they were casting glances around as if searching for something. There it was again. That same look. What were they looking for?

  "It's obvious. It's being stolen."

  The crowd immediately agreed, as if they had been waiting for someone to say it.

  "Thief!"

  "Give back our cows!"

  The previous hushed murmurs instantly vanished. Instead, ear-splitting angry voices rose from all directions. Like dry kindling thrown into a fire, flames of rage flared up rapidly. Grown men, losing control in anger. And with frightening speed. Stealing? Cows' milk? Who would do such a thing and how, and why? I couldn't even begin to imagine. Why did no one among this crowd raise an objection? I found it utterly perplexing.

  Perhaps Bradley felt the same. He scanned the square repeatedly, perhaps searching for an ally. From the shadows of houses, women peered out anxiously. Children clutched at their mothers' skirt hems. Their eyes showed a cloudiness resembling fear. Eventually, Bradley spotted a familiar face near the centre of the crowd. It was Antoine Domigan. His expression was unreadable. He simply stared at a point in the air, saying nothing.

  The scene shifted. Time moved forward. I realised Bradley was now at the Domigan family's manor. There was a knocking at the door.

  "At this hour?" Antoine's eldest son muttered. The sons of the Domigan family and their wives and children were gathered at the manor.

  Antoine greeted the visitors. They wore plain clothes, like town officials. Three strangers, speaking in hushed tones. Watching the movements of the tall man's expressionless lips. What did he say? "Accusation," it seemed to me.

  Antoine addressed the relatives gathered in the hall.

  "The judge requires testimony."

  He moved aside like one raising a curtain to reveal guests. The tallest of the strangers straightened his chest. He was a slender man clutching a ledger to his chest.

  "What is this about?" Antoine's eldest son demanded.

  "Do you have a warrant?" the second son asked.

  "Interrogation? This is madness!" the eldest son's wife shrieked.

  "There's no need to fear! It will be over quickly," Antoine barked. The room immediately fell quiet. With the dignified manner of a patriarch and the voice of a master concerned for his family, he instructed his eldest son.

  "Fetch Lora," he commanded. "There's nothing to worry about—merely a false accusation."

  Then, angling his body so only his family could see, his lips curled into a smile that resembled a wound more than an expression of joy.