It's... over...
The silhouette of the herdsman’s second son had already vanished. Beside the common land, the villagers’ murmurs grew louder, and the expressions of Steward Ifrit and Constable Espiel darkened further.
Unnoticed, the villagers began to turn their heads, gazing toward the far end of the path west of the village. Ifrit, too, rose on his toes, craning his neck again and again in anticipation.
Yet time dragged on. Even as the fourth toll from the church echoed across the fields, Ifrit’s eyes threatened to blaze with fury, but the path at the western edge of the common land remained empty. Neither the village’s oxen, nor the herdsman Brown, nor his eldest son Beck, nor his second son Green—nothing appeared, not once.
“Scoundrels! Wretches! Stupid swine! Criminals! Forever base slaves!”
Evidently, even in anger, the steward displayed the superior vocabulary befitting the village’s upper class. “What nonsense are those fools getting up to?”
“Sanchez! Sicard!” Turning to the herdsman’s younger brother and his nearest neighbor, Ifrit let out a roar that all the villagers could hear clearly: “You two, go over there now and see!”
Both men shuddered, then turned and hurried toward the west of the village.
They had barely taken a few steps when Ifrit’s voice thundered again behind them: “If you don’t come back, don’t ever bother coming back at all!”
Hearing the steward’s unconcealed rage, both Sanchez, the herdsman’s brother, and Sicard, the neighbor, froze for a moment before quickening their pace even more.
Time passed painfully slowly.
At some point, the drizzle ceased, the clouds thinned, and the sky brightened once more. The villagers waited until their eyes stung and their legs grew numb, while Ifrit, ever on his toes, seemed ready to grow taller from his constant stretching. At last, at the corner of the western path, two small figures appeared.
It was Sanchez and Sicard, the herdsman’s brother and neighbor. Both ran with long strides, but their speed was sluggish—their bodies staggered, their steps faltered, and as they neared the sacred emblem at the crossroads, Sanchez suddenly slipped and fell, sprawling into the muddy earth.
Seeing this, the herdsman’s wife, the steward, and the anxious constable rushed forward, followed by villagers who instinctively moved closer.
Before anyone reached them, Sanchez, pale and terrified, stumbled and fell again. He struggled to rise, but after barely two steps, his legs gave way and he collapsed once more into the muck. Using hands and knees, he crawled, slipping on the wet mud, desperate and disordered. Mud covered his head, face, and body, yet he could not stand upright.
As he struggled, the herdsman’s wife, the constable, and the running steward drew nearer. Sanchez became more frantic, moving wildly. After another heavy fall, the steward reached him just as Sanchez abandoned his struggle, raising his mud-streaked face, tears streaming down his cheeks. Before anyone could ask, he looked at the pale herdsman’s wife and wailed, “It’s over! Ramiel, it’s all over! Ramiel, we’re finished!”
Such cries, such despair—before Ramiel could ask, the steward’s face turned just as pale.
Without hesitation, Ifrit stepped into the filthy mud, heedless of the water soaking his robes, and bent down, grabbing Sanchez with both hands. “Over? What’s over? What happened? Tell me!”
“It’s over… all over…” Sanchez did not resist, his body swaying as he sobbed, muttering, “All over… everything is over…”
“Scoundrels! Wretches! Stupid swine!” Ifrit exploded in rage, lifting the small Sanchez out of the mud by brute force. “What happened? What is over?”
Whether from finally escaping the mud or from being choked, Sanchez’s face turned crimson. His words became clearer: “Brown is finished… Beck is finished… Green is finished… the oxen are finished… all finished! The village’s oxen are all finished! All gone!”
“What?”
---
It was as if a thunderbolt had struck. Ifrit lost his composure, his hands slackening. In the next instant, the small steward bent again, seizing Sanchez anew.
“The oxen! Finished!” Clutching Sanchez tightly, Ifrit’s face twisted with rage, his eyes blazing, and he growled, each word bitten off: “Where? Take me there!”
“It’s over… all over…”
Sanchez’s clarity faded quickly, unable to respond to the steward’s demands. His eyes glazed, his upper body pulled up by Ifrit, his legs limp on the ground, mouth opening and closing, uttering only broken murmurs: “Over… over…”
“Criminal! Forever base slave!”
With a furious toss, Ifrit hurled Sanchez back into the mud, then turned, his fiery gaze falling on the trembling, pallid Sicard, the herdsman’s neighbor. “Where? Take me there!”
“This… this way…”
Sicard, shivering, pointed west, and Ifrit seized his shoulder, dragging the unfortunate man along at a furious pace.
Constable Espiel followed close behind, disappearing around the bend.
With both steward and constable gone and the village’s oxen missing from the summer labor, the villagers gathered, bewildered, not knowing what to do. Families close to the herdsman huddled near his wife and Sanchez, their faces anxious. Soon, the villagers saw unmistakable horror and confusion etched on their faces.
---
A dozen minutes later, Constable Espiel returned, gathering dozens of strong villagers and leading them hastily westward.
Beside the hillside, Ifrit’s face was drained of all color, and his steps were stumbling as he headed toward the center of the village, toward his own home.
---
Half an hour later.
The village messenger, riding the steward’s mount—the only scrawny horse in the village—raced past the crowd at a speed none had ever seen, galloping toward the lord’s castle.
---
An hour later.
The common land was in an uproar.
From the village’s west to the roadside trees, the bushes, grass, and mud were stained with blood.
On either side of the path, over thirty wounded oxen milled restlessly, their mournful lowing echoing. Around them, the family members of every ox owner cursed and wept, their cries louder still.
Farther off, five or six oxen, too injured to move, had been carried by panting villagers and laid in hastily gathered hay. They convulsed and breathed heavily, and each spasm or gasp drew anguished cries from dozens of villagers, their wails growing ever more desperate.
---
Even farther, three men lay helpless in the mud.
On the left was Brown, his neck entwined with vines, fallen and blocked by stones and thorns, trampled by nearly ten ox hooves, his body battered and bloody.
In the middle was Beck, who had kicked aside branches, only for a large stone to fall from above, striking his shoulder and twisting his right arm grotesquely.
On the right was Green, who, crossing the slope, stepped on a slick patch of leaves, fell and grabbed a handful of rotten mud, inexplicably tumbling into the ravine, his left leg stripped to bare bone.
---
Two hours later.
The common land had grown much quieter.
The thirty-odd oxen able to walk had been returned to their homes, while the five or six too injured to move were loaded onto carts and taken to their wooden huts.
Ifrit, who had returned in haste to arrange everything, still staggered with every step.
With the oxen returned or carried away, and the villagers tending to them, fewer than half remained.
That day’s summer plowing finally began, with the last dozen healthy oxen yoked to three large plows. Drivers and handlers watched over each ox, advancing carefully.
The work was less than half what it usually was, and though the villagers should have found it easy, not one felt cheerful. All who remained worked listlessly, swinging their tools absent-mindedly.
Beside the common land, Steward Ifrit and Constable Espiel had no energy to rebuke the blatant idleness before them. Instead, they kept glancing toward the village, their eyes sometimes sweeping over the mud where the three herdsmen still lay, only Ramiel sobbing quietly nearby. Whenever their gaze met the three, their eyes, like the villagers’, burned with endless rage and fierce resentment.
---
Five hours later.
As evening approached and the sky dimmed, the summer labor ended, yet beside the common land, the steward and constable, lips cracked and fists white from clenching, remained silent.
---
Six and a half hours later.
Night had fallen completely; the time for ending the summer labor had long passed. The villagers, their work finished, and the unmoved steward and constable suddenly heard a series of urgent hoofbeats.
From the east, toward the lord’s castle, four tall black figures rounded a bend. The sound of hooves grew louder, the silhouettes clearer, and as they sped past the shadows of several large trees, four tall horses appeared, ridden by the grim-faced agricultural officer and three attendants, entering the villagers’ sight.