The Young Daughter of the Goddess 17

For days, it hadn’t rained, and the petals of the sunflowers had shriveled and dried. The long days of October promised a bountiful harvest, which should have been welcomed, but in truth, the weather was unbearable for both people and crops. On the dirt road, heat rose as an ox-drawn cart passed by. The cart was loaded with baskets full of corn—and also carried a small child.

“You little rascal! There’s a limit to your mischief,” the farmer walking alongside the cart scolded the child with a glare and slapped the ox’s rump. Nearly four years old, Gene was squeezed between the large baskets, sitting with his lips tightly shut. His puffed-up cheeks suggested he was sulking about something.

“That little rascal won’t even say sorry after being caught red-handed,” the farmer muttered.

After walking for a while, the sound of horse hooves could be heard in the distance. Soon, the neighing of a horse followed. Gene suddenly lifted his head and shouted, “Father!”

The farmer stopped walking and turned to look, but no one was visible yet. He smacked Gene on the head. “What are you talking about? Your father isn’t around here. Are you lying now?”

Undeterred, Gene shouted again, “Father!”

Finally, a man on horseback appeared. The man was none other than Laban. Gene sprang up and leapt from the cart, and Laban dismounted his horse as well. Lifting the running Gene high into his arms, Laban’s face carried a strange shadow.

“Huh, it really is you. How did you know I was coming? Where have you been?” Laban asked, not surprised. To him, Gene recognizing the neigh and hoofbeats of his own family’s horse was only natural. But looking at Gene’s face, it seemed something was wrong. Adjusting his hat brim, Laban asked, “I had some business to attend to in the neighboring town. But what happened here?”

“Ah, this rascal secretly rode one of our foals and trampled through the cornfield. If I hadn’t caught him, he would’ve surely fallen and been trampled under the hooves. He should be grateful I saved his life!”

“No, I didn’t!” Gene, who had been burying his face in Laban’s chest, suddenly turned his head and shouted.

The farmer exploded. “Still talking back, you little rascal!”

“I didn’t fall! I didn’t!” Gene yelled again.

Laban patted the furious child and turned to the farmer. “Thank you, and I’m sorry for the trouble. I’ll compensate you for the corn.”

“Did I ask you to pay for the corn? I’m taking him to Tina to get scolded, hoping it’d make him reflect. But I doubt it’ll work. What was he thinking, riding a foal less than three months old? A three-year-old doing something like that, my goodness.”

It seemed the farmer was more shocked and angry at the thought of the child getting hurt than anything else. If a neighbor’s child got injured—or worse—while riding his horse, it would’ve been a catastrophe.

Feigning a few scolding taps on Gene’s bottom, Laban said, “I’ll take him home and talk to him properly.”

“You little rascal. At your age, you should be riding a rocking horse, not a real one. Next time, if you try something like this again, I won’t let you come near my farm. No more horse rides, got it?”

The farmer’s house had three foals, and Laban knew Gene often wandered over to see them. As the cart disappeared into the distance, Laban carried Gene onto his horse. Holding Gene close, he could feel the boy’s racing heart. It was hard to tell if it was from being scolded or fearing he was about to be punished further.

“So, how was it, riding a horse?” Laban asked.

“It was fun.”

“Not scary?”

“No.”

“Was it fast?”

“Yes.”

“Really fast?”

“Very fast.”

As Gene answered, his heartbeat grew faster. The boy wasn’t thinking about being scolded. His mind was entirely consumed by the exhilarating ride he had just experienced. Laban recalled the first time he rode a horse. He must have been about seven years old. The thrill and the wind brushing past his ears were still vivid in his memory.

That same wonder had now come to his son. As the years passed and Gene grew into a young man, how skilled would he become with horses? Perhaps he would even surpass Laban, riding ahead while Laban followed, feeling proud of him…

But then, Laban remembered the tiny head that had rolled out of the cradle. The smile that had begun to form on his lips froze. Gene wasn’t his son. His son was dead.

Gene looked up, sensing Laban’s silence. Their eyes met, and Laban forced himself to breathe deeply. “Foals are dangerous. Even though they’re small, they can be more dangerous than grown horses. Next time, ride the donkey.”

“I don’t like donkeys. I’ll ride a horse.”

“When you’re a little older.”

Would that day ever come? Laban’s head spun. On the way home, he couldn’t speak another word. His chest felt like it would burst, and the thought of vomiting lingered in his mind.

Before reaching the house, Laban set Gene down. The boy immediately ran toward the house, likely eager to tell his mother about the horse ride. From afar, Laban saw Tina through the window, preparing dinner. Her movements were as light as a dance—no, they were a dance. She twisted open a jar, spun to place it on a shelf, turned back, and swept her hair out of her face with a single, fluid motion. Though she no longer danced after settling in Piroas, her everyday gestures retained their rhythm and grace.

For a long moment, Laban watched her, entranced. Heat rose within him, and his breath caught in his throat. Summer was dying, and the season unleashed its final blaze.

Dismounting, Laban carried his small bundle of belongings into the house. Tina ran out to greet him, throwing her arms around his neck. After kissing him, she stepped back with a surprised look.

“You feel feverish.”

Laban shook his head, handed her the bundle, and stepped inside.

What followed felt like a fever dream. Tina served dinner—grilled fish and stir-fried rice—and shared stories: the neighbor’s wife had gifted them fig jam, a backyard fence had broken, and an old man who claimed to be an ex-soldier had been impressed by Gene’s athleticism. “He moves so fluidly, climbing trees and jumping around without ever stumbling or falling,” she had said. Laban murmured, “He’s been watching you all along.”

Tina paused, placing her fork down, and studied his face. “You don’t look well. You barely ate anything.”

“I’m just tired,” Laban replied, forcing a smile. He leaned back, pushing his chair away slightly.

Laban’s gaze lingered on the carved figurines atop the fireplace. Among them was a tiny wooden figure of a baby lying in a cradle. That particular carving was not his work. Iole had made it the night they discovered she was carrying their child.

The sight of the cradle brought back memories, vivid and unrelenting. The house by the lakeside stood out in his mind, clear as day. Iole had built that house with her own hands, piecing the timber together with skill and care. The house was small, consisting of just one room and a barn, but it was sturdy. It had weathered harsh winters and withstood torrential downpours without a single leak.

Every inch of the house bore Iole’s touch. The seams of the roof were perfectly aligned, and the doorframe was polished smooth. There was not a single corner that hadn’t been shaped by her dedication and precision. The house embodied her—meticulous, graceful, and resilient. It had become their sanctuary, a place where the gentle stillness of dawn by the lake felt eternal.

But the house’s end had been nothing short of a nightmare. Its peace was shattered, replaced by a scene drenched in blood.