| Chapter 1

When I was born, the world was in darkness.

The streets were filled with stench and noise. It wasn’t just the place where I was. Of course, I did sleep in a stable with horses, but I knew from the time I started walking that it wasn’t just my world that was like that.

The outside world was full of moss and filth wedged into the uneven stone floors, the strong stench of urine, and plump rats scurrying around enough to be kicked by feet.

In retrospect, it was nothing short of a miracle that I, who was left to grow up, didn’t get run over by a carriage or horse or catch a plague. In fact, my older sister, Sera, who was a year older, was hit by a carriage when she was four, and my younger brother, who was two years younger, died from a disease before he could even be named. Neither of them was buried in the ground.

My siblings, which were about six, gradually disappeared over time. My eldest brother was caught pickpocketing and had his wrist cut off on the spot, dying without receiving treatment, and my second and third sisters were sold off somewhere. By the time I was seven, there was no one left by my side.

Given such circumstances, someone might say that my stamina and luck weren’t all that bad. But no, maybe the unluckiest was me.

If I had left this cesspool before committing any sins, I might have been able to live in heaven, picking and eating fresh fruits to my heart’s content. If what the monks said was true, that is.

Dad was a gambler and not a good one. Every penny he earned from acting as a clown or jester on the streets went into taverns or gambling dens. The stable of the house where Mom worked was our home.

“Cursed human. I ruined my life meeting that scoundrel!”

Mom sometimes spat curses as if she had a sore throat, but their relationship wasn’t bad. Even though Dad didn’t come home often, when he did, he would always stick close to Mom.

When I woke up after tossing and turning in a makeshift bed made by piling up straw and covering it with a cloth full of holes, I could hear Dad’s breath as he buried his face in Mom’s skirt, panting.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Oh, Mom said her stomach hurts, so I’m treating her.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

Mom would push my face to the other side, sounding annoyed, and I would turn my back and close my eyes. Falling asleep to Mom’s sweet moans, calling Dad’s name while panting as if she was about to die, wasn’t bad.

When I turned eight, I started helping with Mom’s work. I carried buckets to fetch water from the well or fed the horses. I also cleaned the floors and did laundry. Sometimes, I hung out with other kids and shared snacks they stole from the houses they worked at.

That day, I was helping clean Mr. Cullen’s house, and it was scorching hot. Sweat seeped from my philtrum, armpits, and soles, and I was already exhausted before lunchtime.

If it was this hot, the fish we got from the owner’s house yesterday might spoil. Of course, it was already slightly spoiled, but it was still edible after a night of stomachache. But if we didn’t eat it by lunchtime today, it would be inedible even for a hungry cat.

Still, I had secretly taken a slice of lemon from Mr. Cullen’s house, so I could have a somewhat decent meal. Like nobles, perhaps.

I hurried into the stable, took out the fish, and lit a fire. While the fish was grilling, I walked to the back of the stable to wash off some sweat when I heard a strange sound.

“Oh, yes, so good! Honey!”

Hearing Mom’s cheerful voice and the slapping sound, I felt pleased and peeked over the wall.

“Dad, Mom, do you want lunch?”

Mom was leaning against the wall, bending over and sticking out her butt. And the man clinging to her from behind, unfortunately, wasn’t Dad. It was Mr. Jose, the owner, with his pants embarrassingly pulled down to his calves, exposing his fat belly.

I knew something was wrong, but Mom and Mr. Jose’s expressions were so nonchalant that I couldn’t show any reaction. Mom waved her hand at me as if I was a nuisance, and Mr. Jose growled as he boldly lifted Mom’s skirt.

Blinking, I turned away from the scene and returned to the fish. That day, I couldn’t eat the fish.

Dad came home only at night. Judging by his drunken state, it seemed to be one of the rare days he won money from gambling. Watching Mom click her tongue at Dad, who collapsed into bed reeking of cheap women’s perfume, I asked.

“Mom, why do you call the owner ‘honey’? Isn’t ‘honey’ a word you use only for Dad?”

I thought Dad was asleep. And I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know how wrong it was.

At the very least, I didn’t expect Dad, who couldn’t even hold himself up, to jump up and slap Mom across the face. Nor did I expect Mom, who had fallen to the floor, to swing the rake used for gathering horse feed at him, or for Dad to fall and hit his head on the stone floor after being struck on the back of the head with the rake handle.

Dad, who dyed the stone floor red with blood, never woke up again. Mr. Jose covered the funeral costs, and Dad disappeared into smoke like my eldest brother and other siblings.

A while later, when I turned eleven, I went to Mrs. Almon’s house.

* * *

Because I suddenly boarded the carriage wearing only the clothes I had on, without any luggage, I didn’t think it would be a complete farewell to Mom. Since she waved her hands nonchalantly as she always did, I thought I was just going to work.

Later, when I found out that Mom sold me for 10 peder, I cried for about a day. And then I thought.

Shouldn’t that 10 peder be mine?

With that money, I could buy a nice set of clothes and eat real pork roast instead of a greasy one that only smelled good, and still have money left.

So I thought that someday, when I had a day off and saved enough money for a carriage ride back, I would go to Mom and get that money. But that was truly a naive thought.

Because a devil lived in Mrs. Almon’s house.

A devil that couldn’t eat, dress, or sleep without me.

“A devil can be recognized from afar by its malice. The stinging smell of sulfur is a sign that it has come from hell, and its dark face and long tongue are traces of its failed attempt to mimic humans. Only those who have constantly cultivated their minds will have the eyes to recognize and avoid it.”

You could see one or two monks saying such things when you went to the market. According to that saying, Mrs. Almon’s mother, Mrs. Vino, was indeed a devil. So clearly that even without much cultivation, you could recognize it immediately.

Her wrinkled face, covered in spots, was dark, with a mass of frizzy white hair let loose. Her tongue, usually sticking out of her mouth, looked even longer, and she always drooled from her lips.

And the smell.

I didn’t know what sulfur smelled like, but if it was a sign of coming from hell, I was sure it must be this smell. Mrs. Vino was undoubtedly a devil.

“What should I do if I find a devil?”

Once, I grabbed a monk and asked, and he laughed heartily, stroking his white beard.

“A devil is not easily seen with a child’s eyes. You don’t need to worry about that, child.”

“But if I really find one, will you take care of it, Sir Monk? Can you shove it back into hell?”

Seeing something in my persistent eyes blocking his way, he slowly knelt on one knee. His forehead, covered with a rough brown cloth weathered by wind and sand, gleamed.

“What bad thing did the devil do to you?”

“It throws poop.”

It was true. Mrs. Vino, when I was changing her clothes and gagged, pooped right there and threw it at me, letting out an unintelligible but surely cursed scream.

It wasn’t just once or twice. I could barely endure it because I was used to horse dung, but when I saw her rubbing it on her clothes, I had no choice but to flee from the room.

Because she tried to hug me.

But when Mrs. Almon saw the scene, she got angry, hit me about ten times, and made me skip dinner. I had to lie face down in the attic, trying not to hurt my swollen butt, and think of a way to overcome the current situation. There was a way.

I started changing Mrs. Vino’s clothes with a solemn expression after applying kerosene oil to my nostrils. Of course, it was a pretty good idea, but it wasn’t a perfect solution.

When I didn’t gag, Mrs. Vino, who missed the signal, couldn’t relieve herself for several days. Then one day, her face turned purple, and she struggled until she eventually had a major accident right in front of Mrs. Almon, who was tidying up the bedding.

That devil was quite clever. She clearly knew that all her wrongdoings would be blamed on me.

“A devil is not something that throws poop at you. It’s something that dirties your soul.”

I frowned at the monk’s words.

What does it mean for a soul to be dirty? That’s something to worry about after death, and I was only concerned about my face and body getting dirty right now. Washing my only set of clothes every day was inconvenient and tiring in many ways…

“You are the only one who can protect your soul. I will bless you.”

The monk lightly touched one of my shoulders and made the sign of the cross. Through this, I realized a not-so-surprising fact: the monk could not save me from the devil.