Chapter 1: Orbis Alius

Chapter 1: Orbis Alius

Water drizzled from the metal cans that Lansius carried with the help of a wooden pole. As he passed, the soil around the green vegetable patches grew darker. A strong earthy scent rose as the ground received more moisture.

Despite having done this dozens of times, he couldn’t help but think that he could’ve done it faster if he had sneakers or boots. Alas, all he got was a sad-looking medieval leather shoe with hardened soles.

"Lans, are your legs getting wobbly already?" Marc teased from the well.

Lansius chuckled and returned to the well for a refill, but suddenly lunged his wooden pole at Marc.

"Hah!" Marc parried with his pitchfork and launched a counter sweep.

Lansius blocked it, and the two engaged in a friendly spar, with Marc easily blocking and dodging Lansius' slow swings, taunting him all the while.

After a few more attempts, Lansius finally threw his arms up. "No more... hard to breathe."

Marc didn't even break a sweat; Lansius' attacks only managed to mess up his disheveled short brown hair. Having been trained to wield a polearm, a simple pitchfork posed no challenge for him. "Seems like the master soldier wannabe has poor stamina," he taunted with a smirk.

"Quiet, you," Lansius chuckled breathlessly.

Marc picked up the wooden pole, refilled the metal cans, and continued to water their family plot. Slowly but surely, he covered all their spring vegetables. Their livelihood depended on it.

Unlike the previous year, Lansius could now help with the work. However, he could only do so much before becoming sluggish and exhausted. Nonetheless, he found satisfaction in knowing that he wasn't a freeloader anymore.

"Marc, is there - no other work?" he asked in broken language as they cleaned up.

Marc grinned. "Easier work for you, bro?"

Lansius could only nod. He had yet to master the language well enough to argue.

"Still won't do the wool shop?"

Oof, anything but that...

Lansius shook his head.

Marc snickered. "You can't cook, can't do carpentry, and can't write. So either the wool shop or the tannery."

The thought of working in the tannery made Lansius' stomach churn. Tanneries used urine and manure to treat leather, and even blood, brains, and other animal waste in their process.

"Well, at least you're a freeman," Marc said to cheer him up.

"Freeman?" Lansius learned a new word and sort of guessed its meaning.

"Yeah, unlike us, you can go wherever you want and find work elsewhere."

Lansius furrowed his brows. "You - not free?"

"Well, we could be if we paid our debts. The land, the house, and the tools are provided by the Lord. But we needed money to fix things, buy clothes, or build new fences," Marc explained.

Lansius grew worried. This was the first time he'd heard about this problem.

"No worries. It's only a small sum," Marc reassured him. "But at this rate..."

Lansius followed Marc's gaze and understood the situation. They were planting on not even a quarter of the allotted land. Moreover, the yield was small, and vegetables held little value.

"Oi, don't give me that look," Marc said. "It's true that we're in debt, but we're not planning to move, so it's fine."

"You like it here?" Lansius asked, looking at the vast green meadows.

"Yep, father brought us here when we were little. It's far from the capital, but much safer from war," Marc said, recalling a fond memory of his late father.

The wind blew softly, causing their loose, off-white tunics to flutter, offering a soothing sensation. As spring neared its end, the breeze carried a distinctive fragrance and a touch of aridity.

"Marc! Lans!" a little girl called from outside the field.

"Tanya, why are you here?" Marc, the girl's brother, asked.

Tanya grinned from ear to ear and announced, "Mother bought meat from the market."

"Whoops, gotta go." Marc quickly gathered his tools and sprinted home.

"Aiyo," Lansius protested. He lacked the stamina to chase after Marc, so he took his time cleaning up. His stomach growled at the thought of the missed opportunity. Meat was a rare treat. When Mother Arryn bought some, it was usually just bones for broth, with very little actual meat.

By the time Lansius finished, the sun had turned completely orange, sitting low on the horizon. As he walked home, he spotted Tanya waiting behind the wooden fence. Her golden hair shone brightly against the backdrop of the sunset. She was the only blonde in the village, as the rest, including her brother and mother, had brown hair.

"Tanya, why didn't you go with Marc?" he asked, trying to recall his vocabulary.

"I'd rather walk home with you," she replied with a grin, revealing her missing tooth.

***

The wet season arrived, and drizzle fell almost every day. Winter was still a month away, but the chill in the air was enough to penetrate one's bones.

“Gah,” Lansius panted as they endured the cold, light rain.

“A bit more, keep it up,” Marc encouraged him.

The two were carrying firewood for the village chief. Marc carried a stack of wood on each shoulder, while Lansius managed only one.

“I-is there no other job?” Lansius asked. His shoulder ached and his hips burned.

“Heh, you’re still asking about that?” Marc teased.

Lansius exhaled deeply.

Easy for him to say. I don’t want muscle-head's jobs.

Unfortunately, most jobs were manual labor. While there were some other trades, they were typically passed down from father to son and too small-scale to require additional help.

“Move it fast, lads. It’s getting wet,” urged the old man in dry, thick clothes as soon as he saw them approaching. In contrast, the two youngsters wore only two layers of coarse garments.

The two quickened their pace and hurriedly entered an old but sturdy-looking wooden shed. The place belonged to the village chief, who was wealthy enough to have a separate shed for storing firewood.

Both carefully dropped their stacks of wood on the floor and panted heavily. They had jogged to avoid getting wet but still ended up drenched.

“Took you too long,” the chief complained as he fretted about the firewood getting wet. Nothing surprising there - he was known to be rude, senile, and cheap. Marc only took the job because the chief’s wife always shared some food.

But before they could claim their reward...

“Hey, where are you two going? Stack them first, neatly,” he ordered.

Marc and Lansius groaned but turned around and stacked the firewood as requested. Unlike the small branches they used in their home, the ones they stacked were thick logs that were properly dried. These logs were smokeless and burned longer.

When the two were done, the chief scratched his head, seemingly puzzled.

“What’s the matter?” Lansius asked while rubbing his hands for warmth.

“Tsk- it’s nothing. I just forgot to count them before stacking. Now it’s hard to count.”

“The logs? Why, it’s thirty-six,” Lansius answered flatly.

The chief immediately looked at Lansius with doubt. Even Marc, who was busy cleaning his clothes from wood chips, watched with suspicion.

Hold on, why give me the look?

“I-it’s only six and six...” Lansius explained while searching his vocabulary for the exact word for multiply. He couldn’t find it and started to realize what went wrong.

"You can multiply without using a table?" Marc asked in disbelief.

"Y-yes," Lansius replied, realizing that in this era, people relied on multiplication tables for calculations. The use of numerals similar to Roman numerals made calculation even more challenging.

They can't multiply..? But of course! They have no formal education... This might be my way out. To think it's math and not something groundbreaking like making gunpowder or antibiotics.

Marc looked ecstatic, but the chief wasn't convinced. Even he, along with most merchants and several farmers, knew how to calculate without using a table. So he challenged, "Try to calculate how many legs three horses have. You can use—"

“Twelve,” Lansius blurted out without trying.

His answer startled the old man. “Eleven plus seven?”

“Eighteen.”

The old man continued to furrow his brows. “How about, if five goat each give birth to three baby goat, how many total baby goat are there?"

“Fifteen baby goat,” Lansius answered with a grin.

The chief was furiously engaged in finger-counting. In this method, each finger represented up to four units, corresponding to its three joints and the fingertip. He used his thumb as a pointer to keep track. With this technique, using all eight fingers, he could easily calculate up to 32 units—sufficient to count the days of a month.

When he arrived at the same result, he became slightly frustrated. He had always prided himself on being the cleverest one in the village, but this was his limit. Now, after witnessing Lansius calculate without needing a table or fingers, he was taken aback.

"Young man, have you regained your memory? Are you perhaps an apprentice to a merchant?" The old man's tone was less rude than usual.

Lansius shivered, not from the cold, but from the realization that this could be his ticket out.

***