Tacit Understanding and Secret Signals

To be able to observe up close, and even personally participate in some of the ox-healing secrets…

Dean had never so cherished the moments of labor. He wished, if only he could, to control even the slightest twitch of his eyelids, lest he miss a single detail.

Unnoticed, only the last few cowsheds remained to be cleaned.

As he slowly stepped into another cowshed, Dean reached out to the working oxen. Compared to when he started, the movement of his arm had imperceptibly slowed; likewise, no one noticed that as he led the oxen out, his footsteps had also grown subtly more deliberate.

By eking out these precious moments through careful effort, and during the brief intervals while the serfs cleaned two sheds, Dean pushed his memory to the limit, recalling every detail of the previous cleaning, then immediately comparing these details with what was about to happen in the next:

First, move the hay—correct. Next, weed out the grass—correct. Then, burn the thorns—correct. Chase away the bedbugs—correct. Fill the rat holes—correct…

Watching the serfs proceed, their steps matching each detail he’d memorized, and as the work drew to an end, Dean felt not relief but an increasing unease:

Had he truly memorized anything in this short span? Even if he remembered now, would he still recall tonight? Or tomorrow? And if so, what about a month from now? Several months? Even years ahead?

For someone like himself, not even an apprentice, to be included in the secret work of healing oxen—was this merely a careless lapse from Idra, not realizing its importance?

Or perhaps Loss hadn’t had the chance to warn him, inadvertently revealing these secrets?

Would the fact that he was secretly learning be discovered tonight, and would he then be beaten by Loss’s family and driven from the village, never to touch the art of ox-healing again?

No, this was not the time for wild imaginings!

Even if he were beaten, even if he never again had a chance to learn, what he had seen and learned this very moment—the methods that restored exhausted summer oxen to their full vigor—made every hardship spent in Acrey Village worthwhile!

“Oh… is it finished already?” A somewhat familiar voice sounded beside him.

Dean jerked his head around. Unnoticed, Pamela had come to stand next to him.

Wasn’t Pamela, the messenger of Acrey Village, supposed to be inside helping Idra?

Dean’s doubts slipped out: “You… why are you out here? When did you come out?”

“I’ve been out for a while now… I even called out to you,” Pamela winked and gestured to the cowshed with a smile. “But no matter how many times I called, you didn’t seem to hear—just focused on staring in, trying to watch!”

“What! I didn’t—” Dean’s face flushed instantly. “I wasn’t! I wasn’t spying… no, I mean—it wasn’t on purpose!”

“All right, all right, you didn’t mean to,” Pamela patted his shoulder, calming him. “Here, this is the messenger from Oray Village, also quite a runner… and this is Elmo Gent, Oray’s young oxherd. I just brought your fellow helper from the village gate!”

Only then did Dean notice that two others stood beside Pamela.

He could hardly be blamed for not noticing—the two were all but invisible. From the moment they approached, they neither saw Dean nor smelled the cowshed nor heard any conversation. Their entire attention was utterly absorbed in the nearly finished shed before them, and especially on the freshly washed, energetic oxen inside.

Dean suddenly realized Pamela hadn’t lied—when she passed him earlier, he must have been just as lost in awe.

With the two messengers and oxherds from different villages gazing longingly, the last cowshed was finally cleaned.

Idra, after much shouting and calling, could at last relax a little. He grabbed a wooden bowl of water and asked Pamela to tell Dean and Elmo to lead the serfs in gathering the hay spread outside.

This was precisely Dean and Elmo’s specialty. The two young oxherds perked up, sorting and bundling the dried grass with the serfs according to freshness.

Halfway through this work, another group came to the livestock shed, greeting Idra and the others resting inside.

“Father…” “William…” “Jacqueline…” “Grace…” “Pamela…” “Loss…”

At the final name, Dean and Elmo, busy sorting hay, immediately looked up.

“Ah, Master!”

In the next instant, the two young oxherds hastily snatched off their hats, bowed deeply, and fixed their eyes on their toes.

Laughter rippled around them, Pamela’s voice the loudest. After her laughter, she called out, “Raise your heads, this is Loss, the ‘master’ you two made the journey over mountains to help!”

From the tone of Pamela’s introduction and the laughter of the others, it was clear this was no jest. Dean slowly raised his eyes, sneaking a glance at the young man before him.

This was Loss—the true oxherd for whom they’d come to work. He was meticulously clean: hood, cloak, wooden shoes, each garment neat and tidy. Such cleanliness and order made it easy to overlook the worn fabric and countless patches, leaving only a striking impression of dignity.

Just as Dean’s father had heard from the priest, Loss was no more than thirteen or fourteen—the awkward age when a boy eats the most, hungers the fastest, yet does the least work.

At Floran Village, Dean had seen many such unfortunate children: always hungry, their faces yellowed or even pale.

But Loss was entirely different—his cheeks were rosy, his forehead shone, his skin radiated health, as if he feasted every day.

Loss was not tall—the one trait he shared with those pitiful children in Dean’s memory—but his compact frame was sturdy. His slightly too-small robe clung tight, outlining well-developed muscles beneath.

Most striking of all, amid the crowd of bent, stooped, and crooked villagers, Loss stood straight, dignified, healthy, and robust, his bright eyes fixed unwaveringly on the foreign helpers, making him appear taller and more imposing than he was.