Plowing Ox

"Father, I would like to ask you to teach me how to heal a cow’s wound..."

Even if a bolt of lightning had suddenly crashed through the church doors, or if young Los had asked to borrow a plough ox while also seeking exemption from the summer labor, it still wouldn’t have shocked Father Playa more than this.

Heal a cow’s wound... heal a cow’s wound...

"Heal a cow’s wound!"

The priest’s eyes widened involuntarily. It took him a long moment before he found his voice. "Los, what are you thinking? Heal a cow’s wound? Me? Am I a priest or a cow doctor?"

"But..." Los asked timidly, "when the villagers fall ill, don’t they always come to you for help?"

"That’s for people!" Playa, uncharacteristically, raised his voice. "Healing people and healing cows, how could they be the same?"

"Well... well..." Los lifted his head cautiously. "Shouldn’t it be the same? They’re both wounded, both bleeding, both unable to move..."

"Ha, it should be the same?... Just because it looks the same, does that make it so? Yes, they’re both wounded, both bleeding, both immobilized... But... but... hmm... both wounded, both bleeding... both wounded... both bleeding..."

Suddenly, a thought struck Playa. His expression grew solemn. "Andrei, fetch the third scroll of parchment from my chest in my room."

Deep in thought, Playa didn’t notice that as Andrei turned away, young Los clenched his fist tightly.

Andrei slipped out the side door and soon returned to the pulpit, carrying in his arms a bundle of parchment scrolls.

Clearly, these scrolls had been carefully preserved—just a glance at the thick layer of dust and the tightly pressed pages told anyone that these had not seen sunlight for two or three years.

Clearing his throat, Playa discreetly brushed off the dust and quickly opened the first page.

At the same time, Los—more accurately, Wu Qingchen—shifted his stance imperceptibly, positioning himself so both the Earth base’s cameras and his own eyes could see clearly.

Having lived in this medieval world for nearly a month, Wu Qingchen was now fluent in the spoken language, but still almost entirely illiterate. Yet this didn’t prevent him from reading along as the priest slowly leafed through the scroll.

For the parchment was illustrated.

Crude, simple sketches, with human figures drawn in wild distortion and objects rendered as utter abstractions, lacking all artistic skill.

Wu Qingchen stared intently at the scroll, mind racing, mobilizing every neuron linked to "imagination," "association," and "guesswork," blending observation and deduction in his desperate attempt to interpret these almost exorcistic images.

From his earlier exchange with the priest—or rather, from his subtle guidance—Wu Qingchen was now certain that this parchment was a medical text of the medieval church.

Perhaps because it was so unfamiliar, the priest turned the pages slowly. Standing nearby, eyes fixed on the crude illustrations, Wu Qingchen’s jaw slowly dropped in awe.

My God! The mystique of the Middle Ages truly knows no bounds—even medicine here is so outlandish...

He forced his eyes wider, as if only by doing so could he express his amazement.

On these parchments, vague and abstract as the images were, the medical categories of this world were laid out with surprising clarity:

Drowning cases, vomiting cases, coma cases, bedridden cases, writhing cases...

Wu Qingchen had to admit, for a book of such "divine" caliber to have lain at the bottom of a chest for three years was a stroke of immense luck for the village of Eclie.

Page by page, Playa finally paused. On the right side of the open parchment, Wu Qingchen saw a crude drawing of a bleeding human figure.

"Ah, here it is..." Nodding, Playa smoothed the parchment and read the page carefully.

Minutes passed. After reading the last line, Playa frowned and slowly raised his head.

"Los, it won’t work. Even if both are wounded, bleeding, and immobilized... treating people and treating cows is very different..."

He shook his head. "And even if it were the same... I’m afraid you couldn’t learn it. The method is difficult, and most importantly, we lack the most crucial..."

"Father..." Wu Qingchen looked up, clenching his fist slightly, his eyes glistening with a practiced sheen of mist.

The effect was immediate; the priest sighed softly, his tone gentle. "It’s not that I’m unwilling to teach you, Los. I’ll read it to you, and you’ll understand..."

"'The lamb, wounded and bleeding, must be cleansed of the sins of its soul and the corrupt flesh of its wounds...'

'The lamb, wounded and bleeding, must rid itself of ill repute, confess past sins, and let out its tainted black blood...'

'The lamb, wounded and bleeding, must repent past sins, scald itself with boiling water, and purify its worldly soul...'

'The lamb, wounded and bleeding, must draw close to the Lord’s glory, praise His grace, and give thanks for the herbs He has created...'

'...Do you understand?'"

"I do!" Wu Qingchen nodded vigorously. "Confess, praise, give thanks... and also remove the corrupt flesh, let out the black blood, cleanse the soul, and thank the herbs!"

"Exactly! But it’s a cow that’s wounded—how is it supposed to confess, praise, or give thanks?"

"Father, you once taught me that all things in this world are the Lord’s creation... Cows are His creatures too, so surely they love the Lord as well..."

"Ah... of course, of course..." Playa nodded quickly. "I mean, yes, cows love the Lord too... but you still need to remove corrupt flesh, let out the filthy blood, scald the worldly soul, and—most important of all—the medicine the Lord has created..."

Wu Qingchen feigned doubt. "...But the cow’s wound isn’t growing rotten flesh, only red blood is coming out, and boiling water is easy enough... as for herbs..."

"Child... herbs are very expensive, you have to buy them from the parish. Besides, I’ve never heard of herbs for treating a cow’s wounds..."

"Herbs..."

Wu Qingchen furrowed his brow. "...Herbs... herbs... Father, what are herbs?"

"Herbs? They’re the plants used for healing wounds... specifically, some look like grass, some like leaves..."

"For healing wounds... for healing wounds... like grass... like leaves... Father, do you mean the kind of grasses and leaves that wild animals in the forest chew when they’re hurt? I remember seeing them lick those when I was little..."

"Ah!"

---

Playa suddenly lifted his head, eyes fixed and mind racing.

After a long while, he finally looked down at Wu Qingchen’s face, filled with hope and anxiety, and nodded very slowly. "That’s right, those are herbs. Los, you’re a very clever child..."

"This method—maybe you really can try it..."

"Thank you, Father!"

Wu Qingchen flashed another half-hour-practiced look of delight.

"Yes... go search for herbs, and bring them back to show me," Playa said, waving his hand gently.

Young Los’s light-footed figure had already left the church. By the altar, Playa remained standing, brow deeply furrowed, lost in thought.

Perhaps... there really are healing herbs to be found in the forest?

Perhaps... healing a cow is really the same as healing a villager?

Perhaps... this method might truly cure the plough ox?

Perhaps... if one truly becomes a priest, one’s family need not pay any extra price at all?

Standing by the altar, Playa’s mind churned, thoughts leaping from forest herbs to the cow’s condition to the parish deacon, never settling, a vague sense growing that this matter was far from finished.

Yet, no matter how his thoughts wandered, not even in the priest’s subconscious did the faintest suspicion toward young Los arise.

This was only natural—inside the church, Wu Qingchen had spoken no more than a dozen lines to Playa, taking barely a quarter of an hour; on Earth, he had drilled with hundreds of trainers, rehearsed dozens of plans, and spent a full four hours.

That day, whether painstakingly leaving muddy footprints, pausing to clean himself in the rain outside the church, or standing perfectly composed before the altar to calmly recount his family’s troubles...

Nearly every word, every movement, every expression was the result of millions of staff members’ painstaking effort, all based on thorough analysis and careful deduction of Playa’s character, environment, habits, and reactions.

The plan was seamless, each step leading to the next, with the priest guided to take every crucial action himself, leaving no trace of suspicion toward Wu Qingchen.

Millions versus one.

There wasn’t even a struggle—the priest had lost utterly.

---

Forty-four: The Plough Ox (Part Two)

"Dong... dong... dong..."

From afar, the faint peal of the village bell drifted over.

"Father..." Idra looked back once more.

"I know... I know..."

Pressing his back, numb past pain, old William straightened with difficulty. "Ah, the second bell already..."

His voice was heavy, and as he spoke he slowly turned his head, gaze sweeping over the half-ploughed field that remained, his weary eyes filled with unspeakable worry.

"Should we... just... work a little longer?"

At the head of the plough cart, Idra, caked in mud, leaned on the shaft, gasping heavily, his words coming in broken fragments, almost unintelligible, yet his face was taut with anxiety, his arms trembling as he summoned his last strength to continue.

"Work a little longer..." Shaking his head, William looked from their own field to the other side, where another plough cart was already crawling along, and beside it two hunched figures, slogging so low they seemed about to collapse into the muddy water.

He sighed, put down the crossbar, and pulled Idra up. "Let’s go home. Let’s go home."

The second bell had ended. Lifting the plough cart, the weary William family hurried down the village path, occasionally passing other villagers as exhausted and harried as themselves.

"William! William!"

At the third bend by the village gate, a shout came from behind.

They turned, and down the lane came Richard and old Holt, waving and jogging over.

"Holt, what’s wrong?" William motioned for his family to slow and went to meet them.

"Wil... William..." Gasping, Holt panted, "...How... how did the ploughing go this morning?"

"What could I do?" William forced a grim smile. "Not even half done. I truly don’t know what to do... sigh..."

"You’ve only yourself to blame!" Holt’s voice rose. "William, I heard you went round borrowing plough carts last night—why didn’t you come to me or Richard?"

"The road’s too far... couldn’t see at night..."

"Ha, too far..." Holt snorted, but his face was unsmiling. Pointing at the plough cart Grace and Jacqueline were lifting: "Richard, look here—turns out your house is further from mine than the Thorlds at the east end of the village!"

"Enough, enough, let’s not talk about it..." William forced another weak smile. "Truth is, last night I did pass both your homes—but how could I borrow your carts? Aren’t your families in the same boat? Today’s ploughing, can’t do without the cart... If I took it, how would you do your own work? Besides... I did borrow one in the end, didn’t I?"

"Borrowed it... borrowed it... well, best not to borrow, less trouble for everyone!"

Holt spat. "Nobody’s borrowing plough carts—just as well! At dawn, Richard and I rushed to the fields. The rain was just right, the earth and stones turned easy under the blade, and before the bell even tolled, we’d finished all three fields’ work! Tomorrow I don’t even know what we’ll do..."

"What? Three fields?"

Hearing Holt had finished two days’ work in one, William showed not the slightest envy; instead, his eyes widened in shock and worry.

As if oblivious, Holt turned to Richard. "You know, Richard, finishing so early isn’t good either... Now I’m worried—tomorrow my cow will just sit around eating fodder, not working at all, and that’s not right..."

Old Holt grinned sheepishly and nodded, saying nothing.

"Ha, here’s an idea..." As if only now recalling William’s presence, Holt turned to him. "I heard someone’s cow got hurt yesterday, so they only managed half a field today... Poor fellow..."

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "How about this—come by early tomorrow, take our cows out for a walk?"

"Eh?" William’s mouth fell open.

"So you’re tempted? It’s settled then!" Holt laughed, turning away. "...Just be sure they get enough fodder—if they lose even a little weight, you’ll pay in meat!"

"Holt... I... I..." William’s voice faltered.

Richard, who’d been silent, patted William’s shoulder. "...Use my cow tomorrow. Holt’s worked his too hard today, better go easy."

"Richard... I... I..." William’s voice began to tremble.

With another heavy pat on the shoulder, Richard too turned and left.

It was only then William noticed—despite the downpour, both Holt and Richard were spattered with mud from head to toe, and compared with usual, Holt’s back was more bent, Richard’s cough more severe; they trudged away so slowly their feet barely left the ground.

To finish two days’ work in one, they were left this exhausted—what of the cows, the family’s most precious beasts, who should be cherished above all, yet would be lent out tomorrow...

Suddenly, William’s eyes blurred with tears.

By the time they reached their wooden cottage, the rain had eased.

Receiving such unexpected help from Holt and Richard, William felt his steps lighten, a smile flickering at his lips as he pondered tomorrow’s work.

But crossing the threshold, William’s footsteps stiffened, his smile vanished, and thoughts of "tomorrow," "work," and "planning" scattered to nothing.

It was a long time before, mind blank, William suddenly dashed into the cottage.

At that moment, his anguished roar rang out: "Stop!"

Outside the cottage, the other three burst into a run.

Rushing in, they were met with a shocking sight.

On the right, a great fire blazed in the mud, over which a pot boiled, sending up clouds of steam. On the surface floated leaves, roots, clumps of mud—an assortment of all sorts.

Nearby, young Los held a wooden bowl full of cloudy liquid in his left hand, and in his right, a wadded, wet tuft of grass which he was smearing onto the cow.

The cow, center of everyone’s gaze, was already covered in multicolored fluids, with bits of leaves and grass seeds stuck around the wound. The muddy ground was slick with wet stains, and the air was pungent with strange smells.

"Los! Are you mad?" William’s voice thundered through the cottage.

"I..."

But his words were drowned by William’s fury: "What are you trying to do? When it rains, you want to go under the tree; after the tree you go to the church; then you don’t come home; I tell you to stay here, and you still... What are you trying to do?"

"I..."

"Do you mean for your brother and me to be beasts of burden forever?"

"I..."

"Are you even aware of what you’re doing?"

"I... I know... I’m healing the cow..."

"Healing the cow! Who told you you could do that?"

"I... I... It was... the priest told me..."

"The priest heals cows! The priest!... Priest? You said the priest?"

William’s voice dropped. At that moment, Idra, who had rushed to the cow, suddenly grabbed William’s robe. His voice, full of joy and surprise, broke through: "Father! Father! Come look! The cow’s stopped bleeding!"

"What!"

Forgetting the chair and shovel by the door, William lunged over, knocking over furniture in his haste, and pressed up to the cow.

"Ah... it really isn’t bleeding... and look, here, here! The swelling’s gone! This bit too!"

No further explanation was needed. The entire family crowded around, and the cottage was filled with the sounds of furniture toppling, bowls clattering, and excited, joyful, incredulous exclamations.

After a long time, having checked the cow’s healed wounds and still unable to believe it, William finally turned, voice trembling, to young Los, who still held the bowl and grass. "...Los... you... the cow means so much to us... you... I..."

"Father, I know." Los smiled, as if the shouting and rage had been mere illusions.

For some reason, seeing his son’s calm, William’s lips quivered even more.

Fortunately, Idra turned back. "Los, did the priest teach you all this?"

"Yes, after morning prayers I asked, and he taught me."

"All this..." Idra gestured at the fire, the pot, the cow’s wounds, astonished. "You did all this today?"

"No... I just did it now. This morning I went looking..." Los pointed at the pot. "For these herbs. It was really hard..."

Hard? It was a miracle!

All eyes turned to the pot. Just a glance at the variety of leaves, stalks, and roots was enough to tell how much effort it had taken to gather them all.

And all this, on a day of torrential rain.

"Los..." Slowly, William walked over, reaching to ruffle Los’s hair, but paused, then gently settled his hand on his son’s shoulder. "My boy, you’ve worked hard..."

Los—Wu Qingchen—nodded lightly.

It really had been hard work.

Misunderstandings, guilt, and—most importantly—gratitude could greatly strengthen bonds of affection.

Arranging every chair, table, shovel, bowl, fire, pot, and basket in the cottage, as the trainers had instructed, to subtly influence his family’s perceptions and ensure safety and the best escape routes had taken no small effort.

It really had been hard work.