The Rainy Season Begins
Patrick’s current status? A criminal. His sentence? Exile. And what exactly was exile supposed to mean? Wasn’t it meant to be a lonely, impoverished existence in some remote backwater, cut off from family and friends, never allowed to leave the village for the rest of your life? Yet somehow, Patrick found himself surrounded by people every single day, living in a whirlwind of activity—except for the one rule that he could never set foot off the island.
If a mage who had trained at the Magic Tower in the imperial capital were suddenly dumped in a place like this, wouldn’t he be expected to fall into despair and waste away? Patrick despaired every day too, of course, but his frustrations were of an entirely different sort. Not the grand melancholy of an intellectual cast out from the center of power, but things like: Why are Halmae’s tomatoes big and perfectly sweet while mine look like cherries?
Because of that, the first week of the rainy season—when the fiercest storms were said to rage—had convinced him that no one would visit. The quiet emptiness of solitude. The sheer boredom of having nothing to do.
“……Jackpot?”
Yet the reality of exile didn’t depress him in the slightest. Does this mean I can finally sleep in? That brainless rooster won’t crow if the sun doesn’t rise, right? The thought was embarrassingly simple, but it sent a thrill through his heart.
Patrick had always been lazy by nature, the sort who loved doing nothing most of all. In his previous life he had buried that instinct just to survive, working himself to death. Death by overwork, my ass. Ugh. He had sworn never to live that way again and had even pictured a decent future right after receiving his exile sentence. Reality, however, had crushed those dreams without mercy.
The rooster that crowed before dawn. The ducks that joined in like backup singers. The moment he tried to enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee after waking, the entire village would barge in: “This hurts,” “I’ve got a problem,” “Could you read this for me?” It had only taken one season for the people of Dunbrook Island to treat the exiled mage like some kind of resident counselor.
If they came empty-handed I’d have locked the door. Fortunately, the villagers had at least a shred of conscience and always brought a loaf of bread or two, so Patrick’s mornings started early whether he liked it or not.
Once the adults left for work like the tide going out, the children would arrive. Even though he was a half-baked teacher who tossed out sloppy assignments, the clever ones would patch up the holes and hand in perfect answers. After lunch with the kids and a short nap, endless fieldwork awaited him. It was only a single small plot, yet the work never seemed to end.
“I really should’ve listened to the Village Chief and planted just three or four kinds. Getting greedy only made everything worse.”
He knew exactly why his field was so much busier than everyone else’s. In his eagerness to live out his farming fantasy, he had planted every crop he could get his hands on—dozens of varieties with different planting and harvest times, plus medicinal herbs from the mountain. Of course he was overwhelmed.
“Anyway, I’m free for a whole week.”
In an instant, the sound of rain became the perfect ASMR. He took his time grinding coffee beans. No one’s interrupting, so of course it grinds nicely. See? It wasn’t my fault before. He was simply used to the chaos, yet he attached far too much meaning to this rare moment of peace.
The coffee turned out better than ever—deep aroma, rich flavor, even a natural crema. “Mmm—!”
Channeling a coffee commercial, he dragged a table over to the window and lifted his cup. It wasn’t some fancy porcelain, but what mattered was the feeling. At this rate I could pass for a CF model, right? He caught his reflection in the mirror across the room and felt satisfied.
One of the things he had forgotten because it seemed useless: Patrick was actually quite good-looking. Maybe the villagers’ natural fondness for him came from his appearance rather than his un-mage-like attitude. In this era, the ideal handsome man was a sturdy knight with a solid build. But tastes varied. There was always demand for the delicate, almost fragile type—the kind who looked like he might collapse if you poked him too hard.
“Maybe I should paint a self-portrait. It’d be a crime to let this face go unrecorded.”
Just as his narcissism was reaching dangerous levels, a sound scratched at his nerves.
Shhhhhh—Tap, tap—Shhhhhhhh—Tap, tap—
Between the pounding rain came an odd, irregular noise.
“Is that rain dripping from the eaves?”
Impossible. Luca had fixed the roof in exchange for literacy lessons; it shouldn’t be leaking anymore. Patrick tilted his head. Tap, tap— The sound continued. The windows were closed—how could the dripping be so clear? Even if the world’s soundproofing was terrible, surely it couldn’t cut through the rain like that…?
“Nah, no way.”
No matter how unlucky he was, the roof couldn’t start leaking again exactly on the first day of the rainy season, right? He tried to stay rational, but chose to look away from the truth. Denial was always easier than acceptance.
Pretending not to notice, he raised his cup for another sip—then Luca’s warning from last month floated back to him.
The older man had come to repair the leak and left him with a serious caution: the roof was patched for now, but there were rotten beams that couldn’t be fixed with temporary measures. He had insisted Patrick tell the Village Chief to replace them before the rainy season started. Patrick had asked if it was really necessary. Luca had guessed the chance of a real problem was about thirty percent—but once it started leaking, there would be no saving it.
Patrick was a rational man. Thirty percent chance of trouble, seventy percent chance of nothing… obviously bet on nothing! A perfectly logical decision based on probability. Whether it had been wise was another matter.
The fragile roof, matching its fragile owner, had beaten the thirty-percent odds. Tap— tap— tap— tap—Plip-plop—Plip, plop—
Soon after he noticed, the sound grew ominous. He had never heard leaking this bad before. Previously, a few bowls would have been enough even if it rained all day. This time it felt like more than a simple drip.
Come on, it won’t actually collapse… right?
Staring anxiously at the ceiling, Patrick made a decision. Maybe it was lucky that trouble had struck on the very first day of his week-long vacation.
“Yeah! If it had happened in the middle of the week, what would I have done? Better to fix it today and rest properly starting tomorrow!”
His naturally optimistic personality kept him from sinking into gloom, even if optimism didn’t always lead to good outcomes.
“Luca made it look pretty easy. I can handle this myself!”
The kind older man had even pointed out exactly which part of the roof was the problem. Patrick roughly remembered the spot. There were plenty of spare planks in the shed, and he had tools he’d traded for soap. If you’re a real country person, you fix your own house with your own hands.
Think about it—calling in a professional for home repairs just wasn’t very “natural living.” Even if the paper doors tore, the stone walls crumbled, or the whole side of the house fell in, a true naturalist would laugh, mix mud, shave wood, and fix it himself!
Determined to live up to that ideal, Patrick set up a ladder in the middle of the storm and climbed onto the roof.
Whoosh—Shhhhhhhh—
“Whoa, damn. This is basically a typhoon, isn’t it?”
He regretted it the moment he reached the top. His paper-thin body swayed wildly in the gusts, and the wind-driven rain made it hard to keep his eyes open. Still, he refused to let a dream vacation be ruined. Crawling on all fours across the slick roof, he searched for the rotten section Luca had warned him about.
“Agh, what kind of rain hurts when it hits you?!”
He shouted complaints at the top of his lungs, but the storm swallowed every word before it could even reach the chicken coop. A sudden chill ran down his spine as he realized that if he fell, no one would even know.
Should I just run to the Village Chief’s house…?
It was the obvious choice any normal person would have made from the start. But Patrick’s mind, no longer operating within normal bounds, went straight to his bed—the one that took up more than half his bedroom. If he went to the chief’s house now he could enjoy a comfortable week, but he would have to say goodbye to his precious, undisturbed bed.
So there was only one option left.
“Why! Won’t! It! Come! Off! Hngh—!”
He finally found the rotten plank and heaved with everything he had. Half-rotted and no longer serving its purpose, the wood still refused to budge no matter how hard he pulled.
“I’m still… a former… army… soldier… who served… his full term—!”
Crack!
At that exact moment, as he wrestled the plank like he was pulling up a radish, ignoring the pouring rain—
“……Huh?”
Why were ominous premonitions never wrong?
Patrick and the rotten plank flew into the air together.