Chapter 10 — Stones, a Stubborn Ox, and the Illusion of Safety

Alex was already dragging the first boulder toward the shaky wooden section in the gap when the sun rose high and began to bake. His body hummed after yesterday's manure and the yoke: his shoulders ached, his palms burned with fresh blisters, and the clean puncture from the stiletto on his thin shirt stood out every time the fabric tightened just below his rib. The mark was foreign—only on the cloth—but it served as a reminder that entry into this community had come at a high price. Holger silently pointed a finger at the pile of stones by the wall, then at the sunken section—the gesture was clear. Alex smirked inwardly: here it was—defense preparations. An image flashed in his mind: he would now demonstrate tactical wonders, arrange everything perfectly, and earn an approving nod from the locals. Reality quickly put him back in his place: there was no relief in his muscles—only a crunch in his lower back as he crouched for the next stone. The boulder proved heavy, rough, and cold to the touch. Alex grunted, gripped it more comfortably, and hauled it, feeling every step echo in his knees and back. This was simply heavy, grueling work—the only currency he could use to buy himself a place by this fire.

Dust rose with every step, clogging his nose and making his eyes water. He set the boulder at the base of the wall, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and allowed himself a second of respite. The air held the thick scent of damp earth, old manure from beyond the fence, and a slight bitterness from distant stove smoke. Holger walked past without looking, but nodded toward the next stone—meaning, don't linger. Alex sighed and reached for it. The weight dug into his palms, the blisters throbbed more sharply, but he gritted his teeth and moved. Every step resonated in his knees, his chest, and his aching shoulders. He was hauling his third boulder when he decided to clarify yesterday's conversation at the well. The forest threat gave him no peace: too many gestures, too few details.

Alex set the stone down, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dirty sleeve, and approached Bram, who was working nearby. The boy shot him a quick glance but didn't pull away. Alex raised his hands, trying to depict horns—a deer or something larger?—then bared his teeth and growled, mimicking a pack. His hands fluttered, showing a crowd: many, coming. Bram stared at him as if he were looking at a madman. Nearby, a couple of men paused; one even snorted. Bram exhaled irritably, pointed toward the forest beyond the walls, made a truly terrifying face—brows down, eyes bulging—and suddenly crouched, pointing to the ground at the base of the wall. His fingers moved: down-up, as if something were digging or crawling through. Alex blinked, assembling the puzzle. Forest creatures. There are many of them. And they don't climb through the gap; they tunnel under or crawl in from below. The gestures were too specific, too alarming. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

Bram repeated the finger movement once more, then slapped his palm against the ground and pointed to the gap, as if hammering the thought home: it's weak here. One of the men nearby muttered something short, almost laughing, but without malice—just a typical village jab. Alex nodded, trying to save face, though his cheeks burned. He returned to the stones, but now every boulder seemed a bit heavier. The wind brought the scent of fresh grass and something metallic from beyond the walls—perhaps from the smithy. His hands ached, but he continued: lift, carry, place. Every time a stone settled into place, he instinctively checked how tightly it sat. No hints. Just hands, a back, and stubbornness.

A large draft ox was brought to the stone pile—to move a particularly stubborn boulder that wouldn't budge even for three men. The animal braced itself with all four hooves, lowed low and nervously, its eyes rolling. The harness straps creaked; the ox lunged to the side, threatening to smash the wooden fence by the compost pile. A local boy, very young, swung a whip—the leather whistled through the air. Alex instinctively threw himself between the ox and the boy. A tail lashed his shoulder, a hot bellow hit his ears, and the smell of the animal's sweat and fear struck his nose. The boy froze with the whip mid-swing; Bram cursed something short. Alex stood with his arms spread, heart pounding. A comical contrast: he, splattered with mud after a whole day, against half a ton of panicking meat.

He spoke softly, almost soothingly, though he knew the language was foreign. His voice came out steady and low, without sharp notes. The ox jerked its head but didn't lunge again. Alex took a step to the side, slowly, without sudden movements, continuing to speak in the same tone. The animal's eyes were huge, moist, with white rims of fear. He looked closer—and there it was: a harness strap had worn down to a shine and was digging deep into its armpit, chafing the skin; a hind hoof was caught in roots hidden by mud, meaning every jerk only intensified the pain.

Alex crouched down and, carefully, without sudden movements, freed the hoof from the earthen trap. The mud squelched, and the root slipped out with a wet crack. The ox exhaled loudly, its ears twitching. Then Alex reached for the cart, tore an old work rag from the side—coarse, smelling of hay and sweat—and wrapped it around the worn strap to soften the friction. His fingers worked carefully, ensuring the cloth lay flat without folds. The ox snorted, its nostrils flaring, but a tremor passed through its hide, and it suddenly calmed down. When the boy cautiously pulled the lead, the animal stepped forward steadily, without panic, and the heavy boulder finally shifted. The cart wheels creaked, and the ground sank under the hooves.

The locals looked at him with slight surprise—nothing more. No one clapped or cheered. Bram simply shrugged, as if to say "strange, but it works," and returned to his stones. One of the men even gave a short nod before turning away. Alex stood, wiping his hands on his trousers, and for the first time that day, felt that he had truly become a part of this yard. His habit of defusing conflicts worked better here than anywhere before: the problem was physical and solved simply. No magic. He just noticed the pain and removed it.

Work resumed. Alex took up the strap again beside the ox, helping the animal pull a particularly stubborn piece. The strap dug into his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt damp with sweat. Ilsa, who had approached with water for everyone, stopped. She saw him wince. Silently, without unnecessary gestures, the woman handed him not a mug, but a long, clean linen bandage. She pointed first to his shoulder under the strap, then to the ox's harness: put this here, check there. Practical. Without excess emotion. Alex took the cloth, his fingers trembling slightly. A lump suddenly formed in his throat. He nodded, feeling this simple action resonate within him more strongly than any praise: he wasn't being pitied. He was being taken into account.

The bandage was soft, slightly cool to the touch. Alex first checked the ox's harness and adjusted it where the cart rag had already shifted. The animal snorted but remained calm. Then he folded the linen cloth into several layers and placed it under his own strap on his shoulder without removing his shirt. The pressure immediately became more bearable. Ilsa waited until he finished, gave a short nod, and moved on with her bucket. No smile, no extra words—just a job done.

Evening fell. Alex sat by the wooden section, having already tucked the linen bandage under his strap and the old cart rag under the ox's chafed harness. His eyes scanned the fresh reinforcement—and caught something. The stones were laid such that from the outside, they formed quite convenient steps. If whatever crawls out of the forest—and Bram's gestures yesterday hinted at "many" and "bottom-up"—knows how to climb, then this bastion wouldn't protect; it would only help them climb higher. Alex frowned, feeling a chill run down his spine. He wanted this wooden section to hold. He truly wanted it. And that thought was heavier than any fatigue after the day.

He ran his palm over the rough surface of the top stone, feeling the dust embed itself into his fresh blisters. The wind brought the smell of smoke from the chimneys and a distant, low sound from the thicket—as if something large had sighed beneath the roots. Alex shuddered but didn't look away. His trial period now rested not only on his hands but on this gap in the wall. The sun was already dipping toward the horizon, painting the treetops copper, while shadows stretched in long strips across the yard. Bram was somewhere to the side stacking the last stones; Ilsa was carrying away empty buckets. All of them—ordinary people, occupied with ordinary work before something that was closing in. Alex swallowed. He stood up, brushed off his trousers, and looked at the wooden section no longer as a job to be finished, but as a boundary that he very much did not want to lose.