novelSusiti Chapter 169 The Invisible Wall
Chapter 169 The Invisible Wall
The wheels rolled, raising clouds of dust.
After several days of arduous travel, the aid convoy bearing the royal crest finally arrived in Larissa, the capital of Thessaly.
The scene that greeted them was warm and grand.
Led by the head of the De La Garcees family, the largest landowner in the area, all the gentry and celebrities of the city gathered at the city gate, dressed in their most respectable attire.
"Welcome! Welcome to Her Highness the Crown Princess's special envoys!"
Chief Deragases, a stout, oily-faced old man, warmly shook the hand of the aid team leader—an old army doctor who had fought in the War of Independence.
"Her Highness the Crown Princess's kindness is like sweet rain, showering all of Thessaly! On behalf of all the farmers who live in peace and prosperity in this land, we extend our highest respect to Her Highness!"
His voice was loud and clear, filled with gratitude.
That evening, a grand welcome banquet was held at the De La Garcez family estate.
The long dining table was covered with a snow-white tablecloth and was filled with a whole roasted lamb, sizzling with oil, wine imported from France, and a variety of exquisite desserts.
The landlords and gentry took turns toasting the members of the aid team, their mouths full of praise.
"Our Thessaly has been a land of plenty since ancient times. The farmers here may be poor, but they are all content and grateful to us, the landowners."
"Yes, yes, our relationship with our tenants is like that of family. We are happy when they have a good harvest. We do our best to help them when they are in trouble."
"Envoys, please rest assured that we will fully support your medical and educational efforts! We will provide funding and personnel as needed!"
Inside the banquet hall, glasses clinked and laughter filled the air.
In the mouths of these gentry, the Thessaly Plain was simply a harmonious, peaceful, and happy paradise.
However, when the aid team finally left the city's hustle and bustle and ventured into the scattered villages, they were met with a different, hellish scene.
The first village.
Before the convoy even got close, a stench of excrement, rotting hay, and the sour smell unique to poverty filled their nostrils.
Looking around, the village was lifeless.
The so-called houses were mostly mud-brick structures made of mud and dry straw, leaning precariously as if a strong wind could blow them down. The walls were covered with black mold.
At the village entrance, several ragged children were squatting on the ground, poking at a pile of cow dung with sticks, their eyes vacant and numb.
Upon seeing the magnificent carriage bearing the royal crest approaching, the few villagers still outside the village scatter like startled rabbits.
Their faces showed no trace of joy or curiosity.
Only fear.
A deep-seated fear of everything foreign.
They all dropped what they were doing, silently retreated into their dilapidated houses, and then slammed the door shut with a bang—a door pieced together from a few rotten planks.
The entire village turned into a ghost village the moment the aid team arrived.
The head of the aid team, veteran military doctor Corettis, frowned deeply. He and a young doctor knocked on a door.
The person who opened the door was a middle-aged man. He was hunched over, his eyes darting around, and he didn't dare to look them in the eye.
Inside the room, the light was dim, and a violent coughing sound could be heard.
The young doctor peeked out and saw an emaciated old man lying on the ground covered with hay. With each cough, it looked as if he was about to cough up his lungs.
"Sir, you are very ill." The young doctor immediately opened his medical kit. "I'm a doctor, let me take a look at you."
Just as he was about to step forward, the middle-aged man suddenly blocked his way like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
"No...no need!" the man waved his hands in alarm. "Thank you for your kindness! We...we can't afford medical treatment!"
"It's free!" the doctor exclaimed urgently. "This is a great favor from Her Highness the Crown Princess; she won't accept a single penny!"
The man's body trembled even more violently.
His lips trembled as he spoke in a low, almost pleading voice:
"Sir, please, let's go!"
"If we accept your treatment, the landlord's steward will think we're hiding money. After the autumn harvest, he'll... he'll charge us an extra 'gratitude tax'..."
"At that time, our whole family won't even have enough wheat bran to get through the winter!"
The young doctor's hand froze in mid-air.
He looked at the face twisted with fear and despair before him, and at the dying old man in the corner of the room. A chill ran from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
That very night, the first investigation report, stained with blood and tears, was sent to Athens through secret channels.
The aid team soon discovered that there was an invisible wall between them and the villagers.
This wall is made up of countless eyes and ears of the landlord class.
They were the stewards who rode tall horses and patrolled the fields.
They were private armed groups carrying scimitars, loitering around the village entrance.
They were the "village informants" who were bribed by the landlords to monitor their neighbors' every move.
Like a pack of jackals, they monitored the aid team's every move and issued a stern warning to all the villagers:
You are not allowed to speak to the people from Athens.
You are not allowed to accept anything from them.
Anyone who dares to violate this rule will have their land rent doubled this year.
One of the teachers in the aid team was a young man full of ideals. He didn't believe in superstitions and cleared out a space in an abandoned Orthodox church in the village. He lit a few oil lamps and started a night school, hoping to teach the village children to read.
On the first night, seven or eight brave children came.
The next morning, all the doors and windows of the church were smashed to pieces. Glass shards and wood chips were scattered all over the floor.
The landlord's steward, a man with triangular eyes, was passing by with several thugs.
He walked up to the distraught teacher, a forced smile on his face.
"Oh, sir, you are such a kind person. It's a pity that the farmers here don't know how to appreciate it."
He patted the teacher on the shoulder, but the force of his pat was surprisingly strong.
"But then again, what use is knowledge to these peasant children? Their life is to dig in the ground. What you're doing is delaying their work during the day."
His words were full of blatant threats.
The aid team's work has reached a dead end.
Just when everyone was at a loss, an intelligence agent disguised as a historian made a breakthrough.
Under the guise of researching local folk history, he spent a large sum of money and finally bribed a servant of a local official to meet an old village chief who was about to pass away.
The old village chief is over ninety years old and is the only person in the village who still remembers the Ottoman era.
He lay on the bed, barely breathing.
The agent dismissed everyone, closed the door, sat on the edge of the bed, and took the old man's withered hand in his.
He didn't ask the questions on the questionnaire.
He simply told the old man a story in a slow and heavy tone.
A story about the Greek crown prince who wanted to ensure that all farmers had enough to eat and all children could go to school.
Tears, cloudy and deep, slowly streamed down the old man's face.
In his final moments, as if using all his strength, he trembled and pulled a piece of parchment, yellowed and brittle from the old bed frame beneath him.
That was a lease.
A lease signed by his great-great-grandfather from the De La Garce family.
The agent unfolded the parchment.
Above, in crooked handwriting, were written a few simple clauses:
"...Il, a tenant farmer, voluntarily rents thirty acres of land from Lord Deragases."
"...Seventy percent of the annual harvest must be handed over to the master's granary."
"...They must serve the master's estate for three months each year without pay..."
"...This contract shall be passed down through generations and never be revoked."
The old village chief looked at the parchment, made a hoarse sound in his throat, and burst into tears.
"This isn't a lease..."
"This is a contract of servitude..."
As soon as he finished speaking, the old man's head lolled to the side, and he breathed his last.
The agent sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the thin, yet heavy parchment tightly in his hand.
He knew he had found the sharpest knife to pierce the heart of this dark world.