7 — Chapter 7

Five hours had passed since the sun had set and the moon had risen. The night sky was pitch black, no trace of light breaking through. Thick clouds smothered the moon, swallowing the world in darkness.

The whole village lay in shadow—except for one house, which glowed as if waiting for someone. The chief of Benjamin Village sat awake through the night, eyes wide open.

Though the fire inside his home kept the room bright, his heart was weighed down in gloom. Kark had not returned.

Late in the evening, he had told the villagers, and together they scoured the mountain, but no trace of Kark could be found. The search grew harder as night dragged on, and in the end, they were forced to return.

“Sigh…”

At his old age, he had taken Kark in. He knew he was growing weaker, and so he had wanted Kark to grow strong. If he coddled the child too much, Kark would lose independence—and when he himself passed away, Kark would be left defenseless.

So he had made Kark work, had pushed him to gain experience. Even sending him to gather herbs had been part of that. But now it had led to this.

The chief blamed himself.

“If only I hadn’t sent him to gather herbs…”

As the hours crawled by, his guilt only deepened. Morning came unbearably slow.

Before the dawn dew had even fallen from the leaves, the chief stepped outside. Already, the village men had gathered in small groups. In a small village, bonds between neighbors ran deep.

“Let’s go, Chief.”

“Yes, let’s.”

He hadn’t slept a wink, yet his eyes were resolute.

Though the days were hot, the early morning air was chilly. Together, they cut through the cold as they reached the foot of Rocky Mountain.

As always, Valrof—the man who slapped Kark’s back every morning—took command.

“Just like yesterday, we’ll resume the search. If you find any sign, signal immediately.”

The people split up and began to climb the mountain. The villagers of Benjamin knew Rocky Mountain well. Some even gathered herbs there themselves.

And the chief, though old, had once been an herb gatherer. Among all the villagers, none knew the mountain better than he.

“What’s going on?”

Herb gatherers rarely came this early, but now and then some did. As the chief traced Kark’s possible path, he ran into one such gatherer.

He quickly explained the situation. The gatherer’s eyes widened.

“Such a thing…”

Among herb gatherers, bonds ran strong—they were comrades who braved the same mountain. The news of Kark’s disappearance was not something he could dismiss.

“I’ll help too.”

Rolling up his sleeves without hesitation, the gatherer spread word to others nearby. Soon, the number of searchers scouring Rocky Mountain doubled.

“Thank you… truly, thank you.”

The chief bowed his head again and again in gratitude.

“No need. This is something we all must do!”

The search effort grew more fervent.

The sun climbed high, and with it came the heat. But the searchers were beginning to tire. By the afternoon, some had stopped to rest, while others still combed the ground and trees at a slower pace. But most of them were no experts. They were simply hoping to spot something, anything.

The herb gatherers, however, were different. For them, the mountain was a companion, even a comrade. It spoke to them through its traces, offering information to those who knew how to read it. The weather was clear, so even footprints from three days ago still lingered. That made Kark’s tracks easy to find—small prints, unmistakably belonging to a child.

The gatherers followed the trail until they discovered what seemed to be the last place Kark had stayed.

“We found it!”

The shout echoed across Rocky Mountain.

“They found something!”

“They found it!”

Hope spread like wildfire across the faces of those passing the message.

The chief heard it and ran with all his might. His old body moved with strength beyond its usual limits.

“Where is it?!”

“Near the clearing at the peak of Rocky Mountain!”

The chief pushed himself even harder.

“The Totoro tree…”

His eyes fell on it at once. Beneath the tree was a cliff, and beyond that, the Desert of Death—one of the continent’s most notorious forbidden lands. Right past Rocky Mountain lay that deadly desert.

“Kark…”

“Chief…”

The people gathered around him, but he hardly noticed.

“Kark must have… suffered some kind of accident…”

The chief laid a hand against the Totoro tree, inspecting it closely. His gaze sharpened as he examined the marks left behind.

The bark bore scratches. The two branches—there were only two—were slightly twisted, as though pressed by an external force.

“Yes… for you, the tree must have seemed too tall. So you climbed it, struggling onto that branch, teetering on the edge…”

The branches drooped limply toward the ground. From the thick trunk stretched a branch pointing west, its bark cracked like parched earth in drought. The spot where the fruit had once hung was already dead in color. A clear sign that the Totoro fruit had been taken.

Now that trace would spread like poison, and within two years the tree would wither and die.

“…So you plucked it. You took the Totoro fruit… Yes, Kark. If it were you, I knew you could claim it. Hohoho…”

The chief bent his knees. His wrinkled hand brushed across the earth. The ground was slightly pressed in, and shards of bark lay scattered around. Straightening again, he inspected the branches. One patch was scraped raw, exposing the wood beneath.

Tracing the signs, he muttered,

“You lost your footing and fell.”

Kark must have slipped, crashing down onto the ground and leaving that dent in the soil. The branch had scraped against him, and its fragments had broken off. The entire sequence of events replayed clearly in the chief’s mind.

He stepped forward.

“Ch-Chief! That’s dangerous!”

The villagers cried out in alarm, but he didn’t hear them. He stood at the edge of the cliff, eyes fixed downward.

The trees jutting from the cliffside were broken, as though they had softened Kark’s fall.

“……”

In silence, his gaze stretched past them to the desert. The wavering heat haze told of its deadly breath.

The desert moved. On days of sandstorms, its very terrain shifted. Enter it without preparation, and you were as good as dead.

“What sort of fate forces you into such a cruel life…”

The chief knew Kark’s story, for he had heard it directly. Born in the slums, aided by the two uncles Jack and Neef, only to be driven out when the slums were cleared. Then Jack and Neef sacrificed their lives to save Kark. That was how they had met.

Even while living together, he often felt a strange distance—as though Kark were beside him, yet not truly there. As though the child could leave at any time, and it wouldn’t be strange.

Everyone, at some point, thinks about parting. They know happiness and sorrow come hand in hand. The chief was no different. He had felt happiness living with Kark, and so naturally he had also imagined parting with them.

The most realistic kind of parting was his own death. Death was the flow of nature; he could accept such a farewell. But he had also considered other possibilities. Yet none of those thoughts brought him grief. He hadn’t understood why then—he thought it was because no parting seemed realistic. Only now did he realize the truth.

A long life teaches you to see what is invisible. It teaches that some things cannot be held, no matter how you reach. It was the wisdom age granted him, urging him to face reality.

But even so, the chief’s eyes trembled endlessly.

“Chief…”

Only then did the voices of the people reach him. He turned, finding countless eyes watching him.

No one could bring themselves to speak. The fall was obvious. And below lay the desert. If it had been water, they could have followed the river downstream, but the Desert of Death allowed no pursuit.

Yet the chief could not believe that Kark’s life had ended here. For there was no crushing grief in his chest, no devastation of loss.

When you lose someone close, the weight is unbearable. But he did not feel that. And so he took it as proof—proof that Kark still lived.

“…Let’s go back.”

His voice was firm, but his eyes turned again toward the desert.

Valrof looked at his back, his own bearded face tight with unease.

“Chief…”

The chief spoke the words no one else dared to say.

“That child is alive. And one day, he will find his way back to me.”

His chest felt hollow, but his conviction rang clear.