Helping with Adventurer Party Management - Chapter 157

After asking the church priest to introduce us to someone in need, we’re led to a tenant farmer’s home on the outskirts of the village. 

Leading the group is the priest, followed by me, Sara, our escort Kiriku, and the three deacons, making a party of seven. Sara also brings along the donkey she used on the way to the village.

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The small hut was located on the edge of the village.

The small hut sits on the village’s edge. It might have once been called a house, but now its stone walls are crumbling, patched with mud bricks. The slanted roof is propped up with wooden supports to keep it from collapsing. The thatched roof is half-rotted and overgrown with grass. It’s a wonder it isn’t classified as a ruin.

“The family here helps with the fields to make a living, but the husband was injured last autumn,” the priest explains. “He couldn’t work during the peak harvest season. With his wife and two children to support, they’ve been in quite a predicament. I’ve done what I can to help, but… since both the husband and wife came from outside the village, they don’t have family here to assist them.” With that, the priest calls into the house from the entrance. “It’s me. There are people here who would like to hear your story.”

A middle-aged woman with a somewhat hesitant demeanor steps out. “Um, Priest, how can I help you?”

Her voice is surprisingly young. It’s possible that her dirty, malnourished appearance makes her look older than she actually is.

“The young deacons from the church would like to hear your story. Could you cooperate for a moment?”

“Ah… but my husband is out in the fields…” she replies, glancing back into the darkened room.

“If it’s just the children, I’ll look after them!” Sara calls out. “Hey, kids, come out here! Will you help me with cooking? I’ve got some meat too!”

“Really!?”

“Yay!”

At Sara’s call, two small figures dart out from their mother’s arms.

“Um… but we don’t have the fee for the firewood…” the mother hesitates.

“I’ve brought the firewood and fetched the water, so it’s fine. This is a thank-you for sharing your story,” Sara replies with a smile, her arms surrounded by the dirty but lively children.

In the village, firewood isn’t free. The area where one can safely gather firewood in the forest is limited, and there are those who make a living as woodcutters, so you can’t just cut down trees on a whim. The right to cut wood is controlled by the church that manages the land. Water is also a shared resource from a communal well, but fetching it is labor-intensive, and carrying heavy water jugs is burdensome.

Sara, with her background as a farmer’s daughter, pays attention to these details. She’s also reassuring with her adept care of the young siblings. Right now, she’s unloading the firewood from the donkey, setting up an improvised hearth, and using a wooden comb to pick lice from the children’s hair one by one.

These are things I can’t do.

The deacons, visibly shaken by the extent of the farmers’ poverty, have completely recoiled, so I take on the task of interviewing the farmer’s wife.

She looks middle-aged but claims to be just over twenty. Given that the children appear to be about five or six years old, she’s quite a young mother. In rural areas of this world, early marriage isn’t uncommon.

She explains that in her previous village, her parents opposed her marriage, so she moved here where her husband had come as a tenant laborer. Since then, they’ve been growing wheat on a rented field in the village and making a living by helping with other fields during busy seasons.

Last autumn, a magic wolf wandered near the village, and while working in the hidden fields outside, her husband was injured in his left arm. This caused their livelihood to collapse.

The autumn harvest, being the most profitable time of year, was missed due to his injury. Though his arm has somewhat healed, their lost income has not returned.

This leaves them in a dire situation.

“And yet the church does nothing?” Deacon Clement asks vehemently, despite the church priest standing nearby.

The farmer’s wife looks to the priest for a cue, and when the priest slowly nods, she begins to speak. “Since my husband was injured outside the village, we didn’t receive any aid from the village. If he had been injured while protecting the village fields, it might have been different. But because it happened outside the village enclosure, that seems to be the reason. The priest felt sorry for us and granted us the right to collect leftover grain and clean the tax storage warehouse.”

The priest explains the rural customs to us, who are unfamiliar with them. “The right to collect leftover grain means that after harvesting a wheat field, any grains that fall and are left behind can be collected and kept by the person who finds them. In the tax storage warehouse, grains sometimes spill when transferring from the scales to the bags. Cleaning this up allows one to collect those spilled grains. If villagers pity them, they might intentionally leave more leftover grain or spill more from the scales.”

Listening to this, I’m impressed by how even in such primitive conditions, there’s a form of welfare being provided. What could otherwise lead to disputes over property rights from farming is being transformed into community support.

“…Even so, the income is still insufficient. This year, we might have to sell one of the children. I hope things improve next year…” the farmer’s wife says, looking down.

The deacons fall silent, speechless.

The sounds of children’s voices, exuberant as they enjoy the meal Sara prepared, seem particularly loud.