Today I Turn Two Hundred

Today I turned two hundred. With that, I had finally earned the right to leave this stifling house. Two hundred years had passed since Mother's overprotectiveness had kept me from ever seeing the light of the outside world. I had not set foot beyond these walls once since my reincarnation, and all I knew of the place I had been born into was that it was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a fantasy world of swords and magic.

At first I had taken it for the Middle Ages, but the moment I saw Mother wield magic, I understood what this world truly was. From that day on she taught me all sorts of things—magic, potion-making, and the rest—and she taught me how to survive on my own.

I studied the girl reflected in the mirror. She had the soft, unlined face of a girl of about twenty. Her eyes were a deep navy, like a black sea: mysterious, and fierce enough to swallow anything whole. Skin gone white from never seeing the sun only made her more alluring, and hair as jet-black as a torn piece of the night sky fell to her waist, lending her a further beauty. A pointed black witch's hat, rounded through the crown, and a long-sleeved witch's dress announced exactly what she was.

I might look like that, but in truth I was a two-hundred-year-old witch. The clothes were a gift Mother had given me to mark my hundredth year, and in the hundred years since I had worn nothing else. I was fond enough of them to lay preservation magic on the cloth and wear them again and again.

The room held all manner of things: a picture I had drawn of Mother and me, the first hair-growing potion I had ever made, the scribbles I had left on the walls as a child. Whatever I meant to keep, I tucked into the subspace I had conjured with magic.

The pillow, I'll take that... candy too... razors... no hair grows on this body, so I can leave those... the potions, I'll pack.

Turning old memories over, I wandered the house until I came to Mother's room. The door was shut fast. After childhood I had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠never gone into her room, nor into the cellar. At first it was because I had been afraid—afraid of the sight of Mother making soup out of people. Once she had let me see that, she never made soup from people again. Now it was only an old memory I missed.

Mother, who had watched over me, was gone, and now that I had reached two hundred I could finally step outside.

"Mom, I kept my promise. I really did try so hard."

I said it alone in a house that held no one but me. Anyone else would have thought me mad, but to me it was a meaningful thing in its own way: the superstition that if you pour your longing into the belongings of those you remember and cherish, you might meet them again someday. That, too, was a superstition Mother had told me.

I passed her room and came out to the entryway. The shoe cabinet displayed shoes of every color—pumps and crakows, pattens, chopines, boots, the sorts of footwear one would have seen in a medieval age. All of them were Mother's. There were no shoes of mine. I had never had a reason to go outside, so shoes had been unnecessary.

"Do I just... put on whatever?"

While I was looking them over, a cabinet tucked into the corner opened, and a pair of black turnshoes came flying at me. They sailed over as if magic itself had been laid on them, and inside them lay a note. The handwriting was Mother's.

...Why would she write something like this. As if we were never going to see each other again.

Plip. A drop of water struck the note—a tear from my eye. It was not sadness. I was not moved, either. I just wanted to cry a little.

Mother must still be alive. Somewhere out there, alive, watching over me. So someday we would meet again.

I wiped the corners of my eyes and slipped the note into subspace. The turnshoes still floating before me, as if their duty were done, drifted slowly down to the floor and fitted themselves onto my feet. They fit perfectly.

How much had Mother known?

"Haa..."

I drew a long breath and looked at the door before me. It was old wood, but Mother's magic had kept it firmly shut. In the year I turned one hundred and fifty I could have broken through it whenever I liked, yet I had endured for the sake of my promise to her. Now the time had come.

I turned and looked back through the house—two hundred years of memories packed into those rooms. Had it always been this large? When I first saw it, it had seemed ordinary enough, but now that I was leaving, it looked different. The railing my first spell had shattered, the teacups we had drunk from, Mother's portrait, even the cellar door piled with dust. I supposed it really was time to go.

I smiled faintly, took the handle of the old door, and pushed. With a creak it opened easily, as if the condition had been fulfilled the moment I turned two hundred.

What greeted me was a dense forest and warm sunlight—light so bright it made my eyes narrow just to look at it, and the sound of birds singing. It was the first sunlight I had seen since being reincarnated.

"It's warm."

I had not known sunlight could be this warm. I breathed in, then out, and the clear air through my nose lifted my mood still higher. The birdsong reached me like a beautiful melody.

Mother's house had been hidden deep in the forest, as if to tell the world that no one was to come looking. The moment I stepped fully outside, the house vanished. A barrier spell—a kind of ward that only Mother and I could pass. I had only just learned that myself. I ought to mark the place with magic; I did not know when I would return. After carving the house's location into the world with mana, I began to look around the forest.

What would a forest hold? This is a fantasy world, so monsters? Animals, too, I suppose. Should I try the mushrooms? A witch is close to living forever, so it ought to be fine, right? They say bears tear people apart—is that true? Anything will do. So long as I can fight it or study it, anything. Should I raise a disciple while I'm at it? There would be a certain pleasure ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in working them to the bone.

I walked through the trees, happily turning the thoughts over. A deer drank at a stream. A squirrel went by with its cheeks stuffed full of acorns.

Looks delicious...

I was not saying that about the squirrel. The acorns had only briefly reminded me of the acorn jelly I used to eat in my previous life. Come to think of it, those memories were growing faint. I could not even recall my name from back then anymore.

My name now was La Mer Noire et Bleue—a name I myself sometimes mixed up, the one Mother had given me. She said it meant the black and blue sea, a name she had made while recalling a landscape that had struck her deeply in the days when she traveled the world. It was long, so I shortened it to Noir, but it carried a meaning of its own, and I kept it dear. I had no surname, yet the name looked like a noble's.

Lost ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in one thought after another, I followed the direction the birds flew and wandered the forest this way and that, and when my legs ached I rested with my back against a tree. I walked plenty, but I never met enemies—no bandits, no monsters—as if someone had already seen to it.

Mother's consideration, perhaps. Then there's nothing left for me to see here.

I sighed inwardly and drew a broom from subspace. It was a broom granted magic, one that could actually fly, and its name, no less, was Broom Flying in the Sky. I had made it when I was ten, laying flight magic on a broom that had been lying around the house. I could still see, clear as day, how even Mother had been a little startled; she had not known I could use magic from so young an age.

I mounted it, settling my hips against the shaft. There was also the method of riding astride and clamping it between the thighs, but if I did that it crept, little by little, into the cleft only a woman has, and that was rather uncomfortable. It was an inconvenience I had never known as a man.

"All right, let's go, Broom Flying in the Sky!"

The moment I gave the signal, the broom lifted with a buoyant rise and in an instant climbed high enough for me to look down on the forest.

This isn't a forest. It's a jungle, isn't it? Why is it so enormous?

Marveling at the size of it, I considered where to go. Somewhere crowded? Poison for a shut-in like me, so that was out. Somewhere quiet? I was sick of quiet by now, so that was out too. If it was neither, then I simply did not have to choose a destination at all. I carried out the thought exactly as it had come to me: the life of a traveler and a wanderer with nowhere in particular to be. I preferred staying in one place, but for someone like me—neither one thing nor the other—it was a fitting road.

Where would be good for a start... The capital. The capital would be good.

I wanted to take in the capital of a fantasy world with my own eyes. If something happened there, that might be entertaining in its own way. Holding that expectation close, I flew toward the capital.