By the time I left Jareth's small animal yard behind me, the sun had climbed high in the sky.The breeze now carried the warmth of midday, mixed with the sharp scent of freshly turned soil and the work that was spreading throughout the village.
I continued my walk, heading east, beyond the central cluster of homes.According to the memories I carried, this was where the small family farming plots began.
Though I knew these places in my inherited memories, seeing them with my own eyes was different — eyes that analyzed, absorbed, and compared.
The small gardens slowly came into view.
Each family seemed to tend its own little strip of land, laid out in simple, almost improvised fashion.The planting beds were irregular, bordered by stones, branches, or even ropes tied to thin stakes driven into the ground.The plants grew in crooked rows — some too spaced, others too crowded.And yet, despite the apparent disorder, the green leaves glistened under the sun, strong and determined in their daily struggle for life.
There were carrots, turnips, some cabbage, beets, and small bushes bearing red berries and pale yellow fruits.Among the vegetables, herbs grew almost accidentally — some I recognized as medicinal, others simply as seasoning.
My knowledge from Earth weighed on my vision with every step.
With some proper crop rotation, composting, and controlled irrigation...Yields could easily double within a few years.But here, survival still outweighed efficiency.
As I approached one of the larger plots, I spotted a man bent over, working the soil with a small wooden hoe reinforced with iron.His calloused hands moved steadily, clearing the dirt around the roots.
Noticing my presence, he looked up and smiled simply.
"Good morning, Torren," he said casually.
I quickly pulled his name from my memories: Brenor, one of the village's older farmers.
"Good morning, sir Brenor."
He adjusted his straw hat and nodded toward the crops.
"The rain's been kind this month. If the weather holds, we might have a good harvest before winter."
"That's good to hear," I replied sincerely.
He returned to his work without extending the conversation.Interactions here were brief, respectful, never unnecessarily prolonged.
I moved on.
Further ahead, the small grain fields spread out.Low stalks of wheat swayed gently in the breeze, still green — the harvest was weeks away.
The planting techniques were basic.
No rotation, no real pest control, no soil studies.Everything was done exactly as the elders taught, generation after generation.
And still, nature often compensated for human shortcomings with its own resilience.
Reaching the edge of the fields, the landscape shifted.
The houses faded behind me, and the vegetation grew thicker.Small shrubs and bushes formed a natural border, where improvised fences marked what was considered "inside" and "outside" of the village.
The wooden posts supporting the fences were irregular, some already leaning.The boards were worn, and in some areas, only ropes marked the limits.
Near some of the openings, medium-sized dogs rested in the shade.Even while lying down, they remained alert, their half-closed eyes watching every movement.
They weren't war dogs — just loyal companions that guarded their owners and drove off smaller predators.
As I passed one slowly, the dog raised its head slightly, assessed me, then laid back down, calm.
A few meters ahead, the first hunting trails appeared.
They were narrow paths carved through the shrubs, thin corridors of packed earth worn by years of silent footsteps from the village hunters.
I recalled stories shared on cold nights:Men setting out together, hunting small deer, larger rabbits, wild birds, and sometimes crafting more elaborate traps.
There is food here. Not plenty, but enough.But if the village ever grows, these woods will quickly reach their limit.
I followed one of the narrow trails, not too far.
The sound of leaves swaying in the wind created a constant, almost hypnotic melody.
Tiny animal tracks marked the damp ground — rabbits, perhaps small foxes.
The trees here grew taller, their canopies forming an uneven roof of shadow and light.
Emerging from the trail, I reached the edge of a small stream.
The water flowed gently, small rocks breaking its path and creating swirling eddies.
A few men worked nearby, setting up simple fishing traps.Arrangements of stones formed makeshift dams, easing the capture of small fish.
None of them noticed me, focused on their task.
The water was crystal clear, and the reflection of the blue sky above almost hurt the eyes with its purity.
Sources of food, sources of water, small organized groups of labor…Everything works — for now.But I see how fragile it all is in the face of a harsh winter or a failed harvest.
Once again, I felt that subtle weight of responsibility rising inside me.
But I pushed the thought away.
It was still too soon.Far too soon.
I decided to return, leaving the stream and hunting paths behind.
As I walked back toward the village center, the sun began its descent, painting the sky in warm tones that signaled the end of the day.
My steps were steady.My mind, active.
With each turn of the path, the internal map of the village grew sharper in my mind.And with it, the quiet awareness that — sooner or later — I would have to decide what to do with all I saw.
But not now.
For now, I simply observed.