Now It's My Turn

It was now my turn.

"Give that woman to our village."

The village chief stepped boldly forward, his words carrying the weight of a claim. When he reached out to seize Marguerite, Kenson moved quickly to block him.

"You can't have her. This person already has an assigned village."

"What kind of nonsense is that? We're just splitting them up one by one anyway. Switching a few around in the middle shouldn't matter."

"This man is impossible! I said no."

While Kenson dealt with the chief, the merchant swiftly helped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Marguerite climb onto the wagon and raised the railing. In the blink of an eye, both merchant brothers had thick blades in their hands. They must have kept them hidden beneath the wagon.

But the village men were already gathering, axes and scythes glinting in their grips. Even Kenson, who had been trying to reason with the chief and the others, seemed to realize persuasion was futile. With a subtle wave of his hand behind his back, the merchants discreetly withdrew—the older brother toward the lone carriage, the younger toward the one pulling the wagon. They were immediately cut off by the villagers.

"Where ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠do you think you're going?"

"You lot stay out of this."

"You don't want to die over a single slave, do you?"

The carriages and wagon were completely surrounded. The small bird still perched on the railing tilted its head curiously.

"Cheep? Cheep?"

It gazed upward. Marguerite's eyes followed, drawn to the same patch of sky. The spirits that had been drifting lightly around them were now streaming in this direction. They must have sensed the threatening atmosphere. Their usual gentle forms looked somehow altered, sharper.

Several spirits flew close to Marguerite, sniffed at her, then darted away. Another would immediately take its place, doing the same. Those that caught her scent began to change in a striking way. The sparkling dust they normally scattered everywhere no longer flowed from them. Instead, the light wrapped tightly around their bodies like rigid armor.

More and more spirits donned these suits of light, and they began circling protectively around Marguerite.

Perhaps...

Maybe the fluffy spirit that had been watching over her had asked them to help. To protect her if she fell into danger. The tiny droplet it had given her might have been meant for exactly this.

"Cheep! Cheep!"

The small bird hopped down from the railing and waddled straight to Marguerite. It gave the back of her hand a few reassuring pecks, then turned around. Standing before her, it puffed out its chest and let out a loud, spirited series of cheeps and chirps. With the bird and the growing ring of spirits around her, the fear that had gripped her moments ago began to fade.

Marguerite straightened her back.

The spirits' appearances had transformed. The beings that had floated like gentle spring breezes now wore fierce expressions as they swarmed around Marguerite.

"You're making a grave mistake. If you value your lives, change your minds while you still can."

Kenson's eyes burned red as he shouted at the approaching villagers. His warning was swallowed by their mocking laughter.

"Sir Governor, just leave the woman with us and we'll cause no more trouble."

"No point in bluffing now."

"You'd best leave the cargo too."

"We're not asking for everything. A few barrels of liquor will do."

"Throw in some ham and sugar while you're at it."

What idiots. They weren't just after the woman—they wanted the merchants' goods as well.

They should be bowing in gratitude and carrying us on their shoulders, yet here they are.

Finding merchants willing to travel to such remote places had been difficult enough. These areas brought in little profit, and dealing with fools like this put lives at risk.

What will you do if I refuse to work here anymore because of you?

Kenson let out a heavy sigh. The thought of laboring day and night for these blockheads left him utterly drained.

"I warned you."

He shouted once more, but received only jeers in return. Mockery or not, he drew the sword from his belt and planted himself in front of Marguerite's wagon. It was crucial that it appear he had tried to protect her. The merchants, too, readied themselves to fight for the woman and their vehicles. At the very least, this would show they stood with her.

Still uneasy, Kenson called out to the merchants.

"Protect the women."

That was what mattered most—that it looked that way.

"We understand."

"Get on the wagon when you see an opening."

The merchants still seemed prepared to fight and flee if necessary. As long as they intended to shield the woman, that was enough for him.

People believed spirits were purely benevolent, bestowing only kindness. But Kenson knew they could be coldly indifferent, even cruel. Their way of thinking was utterly alien to humans. They might rescue a drowning squirrel without hesitation, yet watch an uninterested human burn without blinking. Some would spend days and nights showering light upon a dying patient as if in blessing, but ignore a newborn starving in a snowbank. There were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠spirits that would shove a person off a cliff for plucking a single cherished flower.

Some were merciful, others merciless. Some adored humans, others despised them. Each was unique. The one constant was their generosity toward those they favored. Unbound by human laws, spirits acted on every whim.

But a whole flock of them—not one or two—now moved to harm a human they clearly cherished?

Kenson had no idea what might unfold. He swallowed hard as he watched the encircling villagers.

"Stand down. You can't seriously be risking your lives over one woman?" the chief said, shifting his axe to his other hand.

Kenson eyed the axe’s gleaming blue edge and wondered, If that blade strikes me here, will the spirits help… or not?

Spirits thought in strange ways. They all appeared furious, but not on his or the merchants’ behalf. Their anger was entirely for Marguerite—because she felt fear. They might watch him and the merchants get hacked apart without a flicker of concern. After all, Kenson was not beloved by the spirits. He wasn’t hated, but to them he was no more significant than a roadside pebble.

He backed up until he was pressed against the wagon and asked, "Miss Marguerite, are you all right?"

"Yes, I’m fine. Please be careful. All of you merchants, please take care as well."

Hearing the worry in her gentle voice, he glanced sideways at the spirits. Several fluttered their wings and drifted toward him—spirits wrapped in brilliant light. Up close, their wings vibrated so rapidly they hummed. The light itself felt sharp, like icicles hanging in midwinter.

They’re incredibly angry.

Yet that sharpness was not aimed at him. The spirits hovered near the merchants as well. It seemed he and the traders had been counted among Marguerite’s allies. As relief washed over him, a villager near the wagon spat loudly toward it. The glob struck the side, and Marguerite flinched. The man laughed at her reaction.

"Heh heh, just marking my territory in advance. She really is a beauty."

The instant the words left his mouth, several spirits shot toward him as if the laughter itself were an attack. They had looked like icicles and proved just as sharp. As they brushed past, cuts bloomed across his skin.

"Gah! What—what is this?!"

The man flailed wildly at empty air, but it did no good. Every limb he raised to defend himself split open with a wet sound, blood pouring freely. Face, arms, legs, head, torso—nowhere was spared. In seconds his entire body was drenched crimson. There wasn’t a single patch of skin left untouched.

To the villagers it would have looked as though the man had suddenly begun bleeding from nothing. Someone screamed “Curse!” and fled like a startled grasshopper. But more spirits joined the assault, slicing at the men closest to Marguerite first. Screams and blood filled the air.

"Good heavens," Kenson muttered. He had witnessed many horrors, but never anything like this. That woman Marguerite was loved by the spirits beyond measure.

When his gaze shifted to her, he noticed Anne cowering in the corner. Several spirits had gathered before her, staring intently.

Ah…

He had known someone pushed Marguerite when she fell from the wagon, but he hadn’t seen who. Now he understood.

It was her.

A bitter taste rose in Kenson’s mouth.

Good heavens.

Whether the words came from Marguerite, Kenson, the merchants, or the priests, no one could say. Everyone stood frozen, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mouths agape at the sudden carnage. The once-arrogant village men were now fleeing in every direction. A few lay on the ground, shrieking as the spirits tore at them. The beings that had once resembled floating flower seeds now swarmed like enraged hornets.

Even knowing their fury was on her behalf, Marguerite felt a flicker of fear. The priests who had clung to her earlier now shrank into the corners to avoid her. Inside the cramped wagon, only the space around Marguerite remained eerily empty.

The merchants seemed unable to comprehend what was happening. They glanced frantically between her and the blood-soaked men, edging slightly away from the wagon. Only Kenson remained rooted in place.

Once no villagers stood near the wagon, the spirits’ glowing armor began to dissolve. Light once again spilled softly in every direction, and the spirits fluttered about as if they had forgotten their rage entirely. Several drifted to Marguerite, sniffing her with evident satisfaction before flying away. Another would take its place, do the same, and depart content.

It had to be because of that droplet.

What on earth was it?

Now, more than ever, she burned with curiosity about its true nature.

Deciding the situation had ended, Kenson strode forward. He grabbed the groaning chief by the collar and hauled him upright.

"Give me the seal."

"…Ugh… ughhh…"

When the chief failed to answer, Kenson rummaged through his clothes and seized the seal. The wounded man tried to snatch it back with bloodied hands, then, unable to grip it, clung desperately to Kenson’s leg.

Kenson shoved him off roughly and shouted so everyone could hear.

"Even worthless dogs like you are protected by contract, so I cannot act freely. However, whether or not the chief’s seal is provided is entirely within my authority."

The men who had fled to a distance turned to look. Kenson raised his voice even louder.

"You dared attack an official and merchants? From now on, try managing without the chief’s seal. Documents lacking a seal will not be recognized, so forget about entering any city. Without proper identification, you will rot in this village for the rest of your lives."

The distant men shuffled closer in panic.

"T-that’s too harsh, sir."

"We were wrong—please forgive us!"

"This is unfair!"

Kenson roared back. "Unfair? You still haven’t learned your lesson. Would you like to experience what ‘unfair’ truly means? From now on you will receive nothing beyond what is written in the contract. No women, either."

At those words the villagers began emerging from hiding. Some begged for mercy, others complained it was too severe, all of them shouting at once. Kenson swept his gaze over them before calling out again.

"But I will give you one final woman. This is truly the last."

He walked back to the wagon, dragged Anne from the corner, and pulled her out.

"What are you doing?! I’m not meant for this village! I have another assignment. The priest for this village is that woman over there!"

"Shut your mouth!"

Kenson glared at her. "You pushed her, didn’t you?"

"…What are you saying? She simply fell. I didn’t—"

As Anne made excuses, the priest originally assigned to this village trembled and spoke up.

"I-I saw it. I clearly saw Anne push Miss Marguerite."

"Don’t lie!" Anne screamed, but Kenson was already dragging her before the chief.

"She’s perfect for this village, so I leave her with you."

Anne tried to run back to the wagon, but a man nearby seized her. Ignoring her cries, Kenson returned to the merchants, looking exhausted.

"Let’s only unload what belongs here. Just the items listed in the contract."

As the merchants hurried to set down sacks of flour, the spirits surrounding Marguerite withdrew in unison.

Ah, this is…

Marguerite looked up. The fluffy spirit was racing toward her at full speed. It paused mid-flight, tilting its head.

"Pii?"

It examined the fallen men one by one, tilting its head again in confusion, then chirped as if asking why they were lying there. One of the merchants, still holding a sack, muttered under his breath.

"…N-no way… is that a spirit…?"

The fluffy spirit’s light flickered in and out of visibility, but today it shone clearly. After studying the injured men a moment longer, it flew to Marguerite with another curious tilt of its head.

"Pipit!"

For some reason it clenched its tiny fists and thrust them skyward. Every merchant and priest turned to stare at Marguerite.

Someone whispered, "…The one loved by the spirits…"

The priests who had kept their distance now stayed away for an entirely different reason—not fear, but awe.

After leaving that place, they stopped at a village every day or two. Each time a priest disembarked, yet none of them cried. The first village had been so traumatic that the rest seemed bearable by comparison. Instead, before getting off, each priest would bow to Marguerite and murmur softly.

"Spirit…"

The rest of their words were usually requests for a blessing or a plea to be watched over. Each time, the fluffy spirit would tilt its head in puzzlement, approach with a cheerful “pipit,” and shower them with brilliant light. It looked exactly like bestowing a blessing, and Marguerite’s heart swelled with emotion every time.

She prayed the priests would find even a little more happiness, that they would reach even slightly better people. In her heart, she wished it for them with all her might.

The very last priest to disembark was the woman who had taken Anne’s place—the one originally meant for the first village. Before stepping down, she clasped Marguerite’s hand tightly and bowed her head. Marguerite saw guilt written across her face.

She knew the woman had not seen Anne push her. At the time, her gaze had been fixed on the village men instead.

"Be happy," Marguerite said, still holding her hand. "It’s all right now. Please be happy."

When she repeated it, the priest nodded through a flood of tears.

"Pipi?"

The fluffy spirit perched atop their joined hands and scattered light. It seemed the priest could see it too.

"The spirit is…"

Seeing those tear-filled eyes widen in wonder, Marguerite spoke once more.

The fluffy spirit echoed her with a bright “pipipi,” and the priest stepped down from the wagon smiling through her tears.

Now only Marguerite remained inside.

Now it’s my turn.

The village she was heading to was the one closest to the border, she had been told. Anxiety tightened her fist, but the fluffy spirit twirled happily in the air. The small bird waddled in circles alongside it.

"Pipit!"

Inside the rattling wagon, the spirit raised both tiny fists high toward the sky.