Chapter 2: Grandma Said She Was Not Afraid of Death, But She Did Not Know I Was Afraid

Chapter 27: Grandma Said She Was Not Afraid of Death, But She Did Not Know I Was Afraid

“Time to eat grass~”

A childish boy’s voice echoed across the small courtyard, and from the wooden hut walked out a middle-aged couple:

“What’s going on?”

Seeing the little girl squatting beside the cowshed, holding forage and trying to put it into her mouth, the woman quickly rushed forward and snatched it away: “Eh! Just three days without food and you’re already eating cattle fodder.”

‘I... I’m hungry, Aunt, please let me eat it.’

“This cow belongs to the noble master. If it starves, can you afford to compensate with your worthless life? Besides, this cow eats so it can plow the fields. What use are you?”

‘Aunt, my stomach hurts...’

“Enough, enough. There are still some dirty clothes inside. Take them and wash them.”

Struggling to carry a bucket almost half her height, the girl shuffled toward the house, occasionally glancing at the road ahead, careful not to spill the river water inside.

When her flushed face finally pushed through the doorway with the bucket, she immediately saw her younger brother playing with her wooden basin of water, holding the grasshopper toy Grandma had made for her, soaking it.

She quickly set down the bucket, leaned against it for strength, then rushed over to her brother: “Give it back to sister, please.”

Her brother shook his head immediately: “No!”

The girl pleaded: “If it gets wet, it’ll be ruined!”

“I said no!”

The boy slapped her hand away.

The girl, fearing to make him cry and bring down Aunt’s beating, could only say:

“Sister will let you ride on her back like a big horse. Just give it back, alright?”

“Okay!”

“Giddy-up!”

Lying prone on the muddy ground, carrying her brother as she crawled on her knees, she struggled forward.

Every now and then the boy clamped his legs, squeezing her stomach.

Already hungry, she now felt sharper, wrenching stomach pains, her vision darkening, her limbs weakening.

“Giddy-up! Go! Why aren’t you moving? Giddy-up!”

An old voice sounded at the doorway: “You wicked child, what are you doing?!”

Suddenly the girl felt her body lighten, and she sat slanting onto the ground.

Looking up, she saw with joy the gray-haired old woman.

Grandma picked up the boy and set him aside, pulled the grasshopper from his hand and returned it to the girl, then stormed angrily into the house.

“Mother? Ah!”

A sharp slap resounded, followed by Grandma’s scolding:

“The eldest’s family met with disaster in the war, leaving only this little one alive. I said I’d raise her, but you claim food isn’t enough.

Fine! I’ll go! I’ll reclaim land myself. Give her my share of grain.”

“You promised me well enough. This is how you keep children? Is this how you, as her aunt, take care of her?”

“Mother, why hit me? When did I not give her food? A girl who eats and does no work—isn’t that just freeloading?”

“Why should she work? Have I not worked enough? Which of your fields hasn’t my strength been spent on? Don’t spout nonsense. Whether the child has eaten or not, I, this old woman, can tell at a glance.”

“Mother, lower your voice! Don’t let the neighbors hear...”

“Oh, so you’re afraid others will hear? If you’re afraid, then don’t do it! Your brother was not unkind to you in life. To treat his child like this—have you no conscience? Eh?”

“Fine! Fine! If you won’t raise her, I will! And I’ll take my share of grain I grew. From now on, our families are cut apart.”

With agile steps, Grandma rushed into the kitchen.

Soon came sounds of rummaging.

The girl saw her Aunt dash in barefoot, trying to stop her, then came two more sharp slaps and a woman’s crying:

“Husband! Husband! Your mother is going to beat me to death!”

The man stood helplessly at the doorway, thinking, What do you want me to do? Fight my own mother?

He waved his hand: “Let Mother take it. She knows what she’s doing. Come back.”

Not long after, Grandma came out with half a sack of grain on her back.

Facing the gathering villagers, she raised her voice:

“You all see! Today I’m taking this girl, and their family’s half-sack of grain. From now on, we’re strangers. Bear witness for me, everyone.”

She then walked to the girl, pulled her up: “Child, Grandma will take you. Grandma will raise you.”

The girl tightly clutched her grandmother’s rough hand, following her strength out the door.

In the girl’s eyes, her small-statured Grandma appeared tall and mighty.

They arrived at her new home—a tiny hut, but neatly kept, with a small field behind it.

Grandma said most of the field was barren, no one wanted it, so she claimed it, building the hut there to tend it.

Grandma cooked a pot of thick porridge.

The girl ate her first full meal since losing her parents.

At night, nestled warm in Grandma’s arms, she touched her full belly, closed her eyes in contentment, and slept.

Afterward, though she never again ate her fill through the winter, Grandma took her every day to dig wild greens and roots.

She always had something to eat.

Thus Grandma carried her through the hardest winter.

In spring they sowed and worked the field with smiles on their faces.

Though it was land nobody wanted, it gave them food to live.

“Little one’s shoes don’t fit. When wheat ripens, Grandma will trade copper coins to buy you new ones.”

Hearing Grandma’s words, the little one instinctively glanced at her own tattered shoes full of holes, shrinking her feet shyly.

But the rough ground scraping her soles made her stop.

She looked at Grandma’s bare feet, then lowered her head and whispered while scrubbing the pot: “Grandma, I still have shoes. Buy shoes for you first.”

Grandma, mending clothes on the bed, laughed with a face full of wrinkles: “My little one is thoughtful. But Grandma doesn’t need them. Grandma has shoes—you’re too small to see them.”

Watching the wheat grow each day, the little one thought, such days were already happiness.

But Heaven gave no such blessing.

That spring, rain rarely fell.

Grandma’s smile faded daily, becoming solemn.

One day, standing at the field’s edge, Grandma sighed at the withering wheat: “Little one, Heaven has closed our path.”

They cut the green wheat.

The girl sadly picked kernels while Grandma cooked them into cakes, even making cakes out of stalks and leaves.

Grandma shaved off her long hair, dressed her in rags, and packed a bundle to leave the hut.

“Grandma, where are we going?” the little one asked, clutching her bundle.

“Ah, to the Marquis’s land. Drought is coming! Here, eat a green cake first. Don’t eat too much—it’ll swell your belly. On the way, we’ll dig what we can.”

The little one did not know drought, but she knew: where Grandma went, she went.

They walked, scavenged, even when armored men searched their bundle, finding only bark and green cakes to throw away.

Grandma only bowed in thanks, whispering:

“From now on, when you see nobles, don’t speak, don’t look up. Do whatever they say. In their eyes, our lives are worth less than cattle. Obey, and you will live, understand?”

Green along the roadside turned yellow, water scarcer, fellow travelers more numerous.

At last, the little one understood drought.

She did not know how long they walked.

Their bundles were emptied and discarded, but Grandma secretly stuffed one green cake into her arms.

They rested less and less, almost always walking.

Often she remembered being carried on Grandma’s back.

At last, by a great city gate, Grandma leaned against the wall with her, falling asleep.

An armored young man came, not to drive them away, but to hand her a water skin:

“Kid, take it. Give your grandma a drink.”

She carefully fed Grandma, then softly returned it: “Thank you, brother.”

The youth blinked, then pushed it back: “Finish it first, then give it to me.”

Remembering Grandma’s warning, she obediently drank it all, licking her lips before returning it.

Only then did he take it.

After a few steps, he hesitated, pulled half a bun from his chest, and pressed it into her hand before leaving.

She and Grandma stayed outside for days.

More people gathered.

Every day Grandma held her tight, refusing to let go.

Her belly ached, but she dared not say—every time she did, Grandma gave her food, though she never saw Grandma eat.

Then one day, many carts arrived.

Food scents drifted, stirring the silent crowd into uproar.

Cool water fell on her head as Grandma’s hoarse voice cried:

“They came! Truly came! This old woman was right—my little one is saved.”

The crowd surged to the carts.

Grandma, clutching her, was pushed out and away.

“Line up! Children and women first! Anyone causing trouble will get nothing! Don’t rush—there’s enough for everyone!”

She saw an ugly uncle shouting from a stage.

Suddenly the crushing suffocation eased.

Through mist she saw the great cauldrons, smelled the food.

In the haze she even glimpsed the Goddess Grandma spoke of.

Grandma pulled her forward.

Soon Grandma received food, blew it cool, fed it to her.

One sip warmed her belly, easing the pain.

Later, the Goddess spoke words she did not understand.

But soon they were housed.

No longer did they sleep in corners.

There was water, food, no more hunger.

A beautiful sister led her into a big house, telling her she would study there.

If she obeyed, she would eat, no need to labor.

There she saw the Goddess again.

She answered Her question, and the Goddess touched her hand, saying She would be her sister.

Everything grew better, but Grandma no longer ate, not even the delicious meat she brought back for her.

Many came to the house, then left.

The little one held Grandma’s hand tightly as Grandma said:

“I’ve lived long enough. Your dead Grandpa never once tasted meat. I have. Time to find your parents and sister.”

“Little one will have someone to care for her. I’m not afraid of death.”

Grandma said she was not afraid of death, but she did not know—I was afraid...

Betty looked at the small mound before her, pulled a yellowed grasshopper from her chest and placed it in the fire: “Grandma, little one grew up safely. From now on, there will never again be unwanted children in this country.”

Standing, brushing dust from her knees, she took her army cap, set it on her head, and glanced one last time at the wheat-covered grave before turning away.

It had taken her ten years to return.

Everything had changed.

But Grandma still had her own land—land no one could ever take back.

“Where have you been?”

Amidst the crowd surveying the village, Mitia saw Betty return and asked casually.

Betty smiled: “Sister, it’s nothing. I was just looking around.”