“Once, in ancient Souchou, there was a king who called his followers to pay in tribute. One person offered a beautiful young deer from the temples. ‘What a magnificenthorse!’ the emperor declared – and, fearing his wrath, the courtiers agreed: yes, it was a fine horse that had been paid. The deer had no say in the matter.”
“What are youtalkingabout?” Sen muttered.
“Such a one who cannot tell the difference between a horse and a deer – what do we call that?”
Sen blinked. He waited.
Jobo bopped him on the head.
“Ow!”
“Your head is full of stars. Hurry up.”
They went the rest of the way out of the Godspath and found themselves in the open river valley of the no’in outvillages that lay dotted around Kitano. The sun rose high, unmarred by clouds, and about them, in agentle wind, Sen tasted something like willow sap, fresh herbs, and the late-summer berries that grew along the trail.
He sat by the older farmers as Jobo blessed the fields. A series of benches had been erected, and no’in and ge’in were taking their rest, sipping twig-tea from wooden casks. Others stood ankle-deep in mud at the edges of the paddies, banging drums and keeping rhythm for the song.
“Wanna help?”
Sen looked up to find Rui Misosazai, in the robe and bound-shin pants of farmers, standing before him. She had a bamboo hat on her head, and whatever anger she’d felt that day with the serow seemed to have evaporated. She gave a little bow. “Lord Hoshiakari.”
“I… wouldn’t know how,” Sen said, honestly.
Rui grinned. “Come on.”
For the no’in, harvest-time was almost like a celebration. She showed him how to brush the stalks, letting excess water drip from the ends; how to cut them, how to tie them into bundles. “It’s not difficult,” she said, rolled bundles dripping as they hung over their ties. “Just hard. I guess you get used to it.”
They helped each other pull the bundles onto drying racks, tall triangular structures the shape of sawhorses with long horizontal poles made from bamboo for the bundles to hang. Rui, being nimble and young, climbed the ladder and caught bundles that a farmer named Koroku tossed; the others formed a chain to pass the remaining bundles along, and Rui hung them upside-down to dry in the sun.
Even the youngest no’in helped. They ran scurrying about, laughing in high voices, small fronds in their hands. A boy showed him an emerald grasshopper, proud as if he’d discovered the turning of the world.
The jangling sound of the bells continued, as did thedun-dunntapping of the drums. Sen couldn’t believe how these farmers kept the pace they did without any food or drink. Rui smiled at him, briefly, then looked away: he felt a flutter in his chest.What’re you doing?he thought.She’s no’in.
But he smiled back.
Later she joined him on a long oak bench, and sat in silence as the sun went down. His shoulders screamed at him, his legs ached, and he’d only done half the work of the farmers. It filled him, somehow, with an immense feeling of satisfaction, of thankfulness – at the town, at the beauty of the fields, the green, bright light, fresh wind in the air; at Rui, for helping.
But something at the end came through to him, a truth he wasn’t sure he knew how to say.
“They said we used to play together, when we were little,” Rui said suddenly. “Do you remember?”
So she knows, he thought.About us. When we were found.
“Do you?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I do, but…” She paused. He felt the fragment of a memory come back, harsh and grating as a splintered oar, fighting itself out of the darkness of his past, like it was trying to remind him of something too; bringing him back to himself from wherever it was that he’d been buried.
Then Rui seemed to remember herself – no’in didn’t speak so casually to someone of status, and a kijin at that. “I’m – sorry. Lord.”
“How come we’ve never met before?”
“I’m no’in,” she said, and gave a shrug, as if that was the only answer there was. “I’m to work the castle now,” she continued. “Your lord-brother. He told me. And I thought that…”
She stopped suddenly, as a shout caught their attention. It was Jobo, trampling along the path.
“Ho! Star-boy!” he called. “Something we must do.”
“The holy must lower their head,” Jobo said, leading Sen to a farmhouse under the shadow of the trees. “We in this fleeting world, no matter our birth, high or low; we’re all one people. That’s why they say kings and farmers are the same.” He drew a long knife from his belt. “Sen. The harvest is done. We must offer something to the gods who have blessed us, and pray their protection for the planting in spring.”
