Chapter 358: The Boy on the Broomstick

The truck's bumpy ride along the dirt road gradually smoothed out, and in the distance, a pointed ancient castle appeared within Hoffa's sight. However, the truck did not get too close to the castle; instead, it stopped about half a mile away.

Hoffa followed behind Susanna as they jumped off the truck. Some farmwomen grabbed pitchforks and began working, unloading wheat and hay from the truck. The afternoon sunlight bathed them in a golden glow.

Susanna led Hoffa and the young girl through a patch of oleander and onto a grassy field where several small wooden cottages stood in neat rows, looking quite modest.

"My sister stays here during the harvest season. If you'd prefer, I can call her out," Susanna said, pointing to one of the cottages, from whose chimney a thin wisp of smoke was rising.

"I don't mind at all. Thank you, Susanna. But perhaps it would be better if we spoke in a quieter setting."

After saying this, the young girl shot Hoffa a warning look, making her intention unmistakably clear. Then, holding the pocket watch, she stepped forward and knocked on the wooden door. Before long, someone inside invited her in.

Hoffa stood outside, gazing at the wooden cottage with some confusion. "Why don't you live by the river? Wouldn't that be more convenient?" he asked.

Susanna lowered her head, her voice tinged with sadness. "If we stayed in the village, there wouldn't be enough hands to work, and the money we earned wouldn't be enough to pay for Arthur's schooling. You know, schools charge a fortune these days."

She kicked a pebble on the ground and hesitated before continuing, "Most of the people old enough to work have gone to Sheffield or other cities where they can find jobs. My sister and I both work as housekeepers there—you know, doing chores for wealthy families."

From Susanna's words, Hoffa sensed a weight, something heavy and unspoken. It was a feeling he had never truly experienced before, but now, in this moment, it was starkly clear, leaving him at a loss for words.

But Susanna didn't dwell on the sadness for long. She nudged Hoffa's foot playfully and laughed. "You're really lucky. If we weren't back for the harvest, you never would have found us."

Hoffa chuckled. "Honestly, I thought I wouldn't. But she noticed tire tracks on the ground and figured you must all be here. That's how I found you."

Susanna giggled. "No wonder! Your girlfriend is really sharp."

Hoffa was taken aback. "What? Girlfriend? Do you mean a female friend, or that kind of relationship?"

"What else would I mean?" Susanna asked, raising her eyebrows. She made a gesture with her thumbs, indicating something intimate. "Of course, I meant that kind of relationship."

A chill ran down Hoffa's spine, from his head to his toes. He waved his hands frantically. "No, no, no, absolutely not! She and I are not like that."

"Then what exactly is your relationship?" Susanna asked curiously. "You're not siblings, are you?"

"Of course not! She has a younger brother. I'm just…"

Hoffa trailed off. His tongue twisted, his mind grew muddled, and suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed at his skull. Unlike before, this pain wasn't a sudden, overwhelming blow but a slow, dull knife cutting into him bit by bit. It grew heavier, pressing him down onto an invisible slab, slicing into him over and over. His face turned pale, and he bit his lip, clenching his fists tightly.

Unaware of Hoffa's torment, Susanna continued chatting beside him. "You know, there aren't many men left around here anymore. My sister is actually lucky—at least my brother-in-law left her a child before he went off. A lot of girls reach marriageable age and have no one to marry. Even in Sheffield, women outnumber men. If this war drags on, who knows what will happen?"

Hoffa's headache worsened. Even a simple conversation felt unbearably heavy, as if his lips were weighed down by lead. He could barely make out what Susanna was saying.

"What… are you talking about…?" he mumbled.

"Is it the same in London?"

"I… don't… know… I… I… didn't stay in London for long…" Hoffa stammered.

"If you don't have anywhere to go, why not stay here?" Susanna suddenly asked.

Despite the excruciating pain, Hoffa was stunned and looked at her in surprise.

Just then, muffled sobs echoed from inside the cottage.

Hearing the crying, Susanna grew anxious. "I'm sorry, I have to go comfort my sister," she said.

She disappeared into the cottage. Hoffa should have gone in with her, but the unbearable pain kept him frozen in place. Unable to endure it, he staggered toward a beech tree in the field and pressed his head against the rough bark, hoping to alleviate his suffering. But the effort was in vain.

Susanna's simple question had dragged him into an abyss, and the searing pain severed his connection to his memories. It was as if only by keeping him in this state of forgetfulness could he continue to exist.

With no other option, Hoffa slumped against the beech tree, burying his fingers in his hair. He clenched his teeth and groaned, "God… what have I done to deserve this…?"

At that moment, the sound of children laughing and playing echoed from the distance. A group of kids, around ten years old, emerged from the bushes, chasing and teasing each other.

One boy stood out among them. While the others ran on foot, he was riding a tattered old broomstick, happily leading the group while laughing.

Leaning against the tree, Hoffa, his face as pale as a sheet, silently watched the children playing. They were fighting over a ball.

The ball soared through the air and landed on the grass not far from the beech tree. The boy on the broomstick ran over to retrieve it but stopped when he noticed Hoffa slumped beneath the tree.

After a moment, the other children also gathered around, keeping their distance as they observed Hoffa curiously.

Hoffa, lost in pain, remained silent. He prayed that no one would disturb him—he had no desire to speak to anyone right now.

But fate had other plans.

The boy on the broomstick hopped off, holding the broom in one hand and the ball in the other. He approached Hoffa, peering at him with curiosity.

"You don't look so good," the boy said. "Sir, your face is absolutely terrible."

Hoffa forced a weak smile, sighing internally.

"Did you eat something bad?" the boy asked.

The boy asked, "It hurts a lot when I have diarrhea too."

It's more than just diarrhea, Hoffa thought. He probably had his brains leaking out.

At that moment, seeing that nothing serious had happened, the other children gathered their courage and approached. When they saw Hoffa's pale face, they started chattering all at once.

"This gentleman is injured," a little boy said.

"Or maybe he's sick," a little girl added.

"What do you do when someone is sick? Should we take him to a doctor?"

"But there's no doctor here!"

"Who says there's no doctor? Arthur, didn't you brag that you're a doctor?"

"I wasn't bragging!" The boy holding a broom huffed angrily. "Did you forget? I was the one who cured your little goat!"

"Oh, please! My mom said you just got lucky!"

"Your mom is wrong!"

"No, she's not!"

"Yes, she is!"

"No, she's not!"

"Alright, alright! Stop arguing!" a little girl interrupted. "Arthur, it's time to prove whether you were bragging or not. If you can heal this gentleman, then we'll know you're telling the truth."

The boy named Arthur stubbornly threw his broom and ball to a nearby boy, pointed at his companions, and declared, "I'll show you all today that I'm not bragging!"

With that, he reached out to pull Hoffa up from the ground. Hoffa's head was already throbbing unbearably, and the noise from this group of children made it even worse.

"Please, kids, just let me sit here for a while," he pleaded.

"No way! You're too sick! I'm taking you for treatment!"

The boy's tone was serious.

Hoffa was at a loss for words. What was going on? Why did people always want to play doctor with him wherever he went?

A group of children pushed and pulled at him, dragging him up from beneath the beech tree. His body was so wracked with pain that he had almost lost all feeling. Half-conscious, he let the children lead him forward as if under some strange spell.

They staggered toward a small thicket, where a simple stone stove had been built, with a pile of firewood on the ground. As they arrived, the once-laughing boys and girls suddenly became solemn, as if the stove held some mystical authority.

The boy holding Hoffa let go and began giving orders to the others. Some ran off to pick leaves, some gathered berries, and some even dug up mud.

Meanwhile, Hoffa slumped onto the grass, watching the children bustle around him.

Before long, the gatherers returned with their supplies.

Arthur lit a small fire. He placed the leaves on a stone slab and ground them up with another stone. Then, with great enthusiasm, he added berries and mud to the mix. After he finished, he set the stone slab over the fire to heat it. Once it was done, he pulled out a rusty can from who-knows-where and carefully scraped the steaming, mushy concoction into it.

Finally, he held the can with both hands and presented it to Hoffa. "Sir, drink this. It'll cure your illness."

He was so serious that Hoffa was taken aback.

"What... is this?"

He pointed at the muddy, leafy sludge inside the can.

"It's medicine," Arthur said.

His companions giggled.

But Arthur didn't laugh. Instead, he leaned close to Hoffa's ear and whispered, "This is a magic potion. It can cure anything."

Magic.

Hoffa's eyes widened. Ignoring his headache, he grabbed the boy's shoulders and asked loudly, "Have you seen magic before?"

Arthur quickly covered Hoffa's mouth and whispered mysteriously, "Shh! If you say it out loud, the magic won't work, sir!"

Hoffa tensed and fell silent.

"Drink up, sir," Arthur urged.

Hoffa swallowed hard. Then, under the hopeful gazes of the children, he lifted the can to his lips and pretended to take a sip. As he lowered it, he saw seven or eight pairs of bright, eager eyes staring at him—eyes that sparkled like little stars, full of anticipation.

"Well? Do you feel any better?" the boy asked.

His headache hadn't improved, but Hoffa slowly nodded.

"Much better," he said. "Thank you so much."

"Yay!"

His words sent the children into a frenzy of excitement.

"I told you it would work!" Arthur pumped his fist triumphantly.

The other children gathered around him, cheering as if they had discovered some hidden treasure.

Hoffa wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, but watching the children's joyous celebration, he felt as if his headache had indeed eased—if only a little.

(End of Chapter)

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