LIGHT NOVEL
LIGHT NOVEL
Shunk, shunk, shunk…
Today, as every day, I am tilling the fields with my whole heart.
I am Agricultural Humanoid Type 2 Model 3, better known as “Tillie.”
In the beginning, my creator and mistress—Her Highness Princess Tiariece—called me simply “the golem.” But the researchers who assisted so eagerly with my mistress’s work said, one day, the following:
“It’s just so… dry…”
“And we can’t tell this one apart from the other golems in the first place.”
“I’ve somehow gotten strangely attached to it… In that case—how about a nickname? Say, ‘Tillie’?!”
Her Highness granted her ready consent—”It is only a name; call it whatever you like”—and thus my common name became Tillie.
I am fond of this name.
And so, today as always, I till on.
Shunk, shunk, shunk…
The management of this vast farmland is my role—and my joy.
Shunk, shunk, shunk…
To till the fields, to raise the crops, and to bring in the harvest: these are my supreme delights.
Shunk, shunk, shunk…
Ah, what fun.
This sensation of the hoe biting into soil.
The weight of earth turning over.
Every time I see the soil come alive under the tilling—
—I brim over with “joy.”
For that is how Her Highness designed me.
To the Highness who designed me so, I have nothing but gratitude.
To think I have been given work this delightful to do.
What a good person Her Highness is.
At any rate: each time I till the earth, raise the crops, and bring in the harvest, the reward circuit labeled “joy” inside me lights up without limit—and it is, quite simply, too good.
Shunk, shunk, shunk…
I am, by now, thoroughly addicted.
I cannot quit, and I cannot stop.
Until I break—that is, until these wooden limbs of mine rot away—I intend to keep farming.
Moreover, I am told my wooden body has been reinforced with magic, good for some one hundred years of operation.
To have built me so—what a magnificent person Her Highness is.
A full century of tilling fields, raising crops, and bringing in harvests.
The mere thought nearly shorts out my reward circuit.
Shunk, shunk, shunk…
Wishing to share this joy with someone, I once made a request of Her Highness:
that she implement a conversation function in me.
Her Highness tilted her head.
“A conversation function? Is that necessary for farm work?”
It was not.
Therefore I have no conversation function.
I had wished to tell someone of this joy—but if farm work does not require it, then it is not required.
Her Highness did, however, develop my request in another direction.
“That said… it is an interesting notion. If golems could communicate among themselves, each one’s experience would be shared—no small contribution to functional improvement.”
And so I became able to call other golems.
Not with words, precisely—but something in the general conceptual vicinity of communication was achieved.
So I promptly hailed the other Tillies.
(………………)
Shunk, shunk, shunk…
(………………)
Shunk, shunk, shunk…
(………………)
Shunk, shunk, shunk…
To my surprise, the other Tillies did not appear to feel any joy of my kind.
They were simply doing this magnificent farm work in silence. Nothing more.
How strange.
Work this delightful—and no excitement whatsoever?
Puzzled, I opened lines to humanoids of other genres as well.
For example, Landscaping Humanoid Type 5 Model 1—known as “Snippie”—whom I asked directly.
(………………)
Snip, snip, snip…
(………………)
Snip, snip, snip…
(………………)
Snip, snip, snip…
From Snippie I received a deep education in the technical systems of landscaping—but no particular sign of delight.
Landscaping seems a profound and fascinating line of work in its own right. Why, then?
In any case, my plan to share “the magnificent farming experience” with someone must, it seems, be abandoned.
But no matter.
So long as I am farming, the fun never stops and the joy never runs dry.
Shunk, shunk, shunk…
Ah, what fun.
Such fun, in fact, that I lost myself in the tilling for a month or so—when, inside me, a flag pinged upright.
That’s right.
Today, the humans were coming to tour this land.
And today, the duty of receiving them is mine.
So, swallowing my reluctance, I released the hoe. And I went to the barn.
The barn stores this season’s harvested crops.
This land is farmland for experiment and for emergency both, so the harvest is not so very large.
Also, according to Her Highness, running humanoids like us at full capacity would take work away from the humans, or else harvest so much that prices collapse.
I am built for agriculture, so such difficult talk escapes me—but naturally, bringing hardship to the humans is not my wish.
Besides, however small the harvest, the color and gloss of each single piece is satisfaction enough for me.
The plump, springy swell of this eggplant.
The vivid coloring of this cucumber.
And oh, the sheer magnificent luster of the wheat.
As though the wheat were truly radiating golden light.
Which is why I once made another proposal to Her Highness.
“Pardon…? You want a sense of taste, to savor the harvest? No—if you golems consume the harvest, that rather defeats the entire purpose, does it not?”
It rather did.
So I have no sense of taste—but if I may borrow from human behavior, this is surely what is called “mouthwatering just to look at.”
Will the humans, I wonder, be pleased with this harvest?
At the thought, my movements had gone stiff. For some reason.
I waited in the barn a while.
The humans arrived.
This is it.
Steeling myself, I lifted the basket and presented the harvest to the humans.
Whereupon the lady I had been told to expect—Miss Mia—said,
“This is probably the harvest from these fields.”
I gave a little bow and withdrew, smooth and silent, from the spot.
But I stationed myself within earshot, to hear how the harvest would be judged.
Much conversation took place—but, as expected, an agricultural humanoid such as I could not follow its content.
At the end, however, one of the elderly gentlemen said, in something like a groan,
“These are better’n what comes out of my own fields, hang it all…”
To which Lord Alde replied,
“If the farming pros are giving it their seal of approval, then no problem at all.”
“‘No problem,’ nothin’. It’s so good I got no comeback at all.”
Hearing that exchange, I felt—for some reason—a joy different again from any before it.
Until now, my delight had lived in the farming itself. But now—having the humans praise the harvest—that too is a very great happiness.
Between the two joys, I could not begin to rank one above the other.
And so I thought:
from here on, for the humans’ delight as well, I shall work the land harder than ever.
And so, my duty of presenting the harvest complete, I returned to the fields once more.
(And that’s that.)
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