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Kazuha and the Wanderer are passing through misty mountains. As they walk, the environment around them changes from the verdant green of terraced rice paddy fields to a muddy brown. Water collects in the fallow fields around them, stale and decaying.
VOICE OF THE WIND 1: (faint, sorrowful, masculine) Greetings, traveller…
KAZUHA: Greetings, kazemaru. Do you not see my companion here?
The Wanderer tilts his jingasa up. The bells on his broad-brim hat tinkle lightly with the movement.
WANDERER: (affectionate) Are you talking to your wind spirits again?
KAZUHA: Indeed so. Come, open your ears like I taught you. Their presence is strong here.
VOICE OF THE WIND 2: (stronger, joyful, feminine) See, brother! There is another one who sees us!
WANDERER: Kuh! G-greetings, kazemaru.
KAZUHA: (muttered) For them to be so strong… something significant must have happened here. Much less for there to be two… (to spirits) Would you care to tell us the tale of the land?
VOICE OF THE WIND 1: Yes… listen…
VOICE OF THE WIND 2: (solemn) There was once a farmer here.
Mist swirls into the form of a farmer, wielding a great scythe. Though no colour is visible, the impression of the straw hat upon his head is clearly visible, and both men sense the sweat on his body.
He moves the blade in great sweeping motions, cutting the rice free from the ground. Gathering it, he places it into a basket he carries on his back.
VOICE OF THE WIND 1: He was… the greatest farmer in the region. All these fields you see now… those which lie fallow… his.
While the wind whispers, the mist swirls again.
FARMER: (booming, cheerful) Come, come! Buy my grain!
The Wanderer flinches from the sudden explosion of sound. Kazuha catches him.
VOICE OF THE WIND 2: Gifted with the scythe, and magically inclined, not only did he produce more rice than anyone else, his grain was also finer than all those around.
FARMER: Only 2 dollars per kilogram! Buy from Rayson!
VOICE OF THE WIND 1: And yet… no one resented him, for he was… always one to lend a helping hand.
FARMER: Here, girl, take this basket of rice!
The mist-figure speaks to open air, yet he reacts as if there is an adoring little girl. Perhaps the memory of her is faded?
FARMER: Why am I still a farmer if I have so much power and wealth?
He bends down and picks up a grain of rice.
FARMER: I admire rice. Rice is so… simple, yet it helps everyone. Rice would never, could never, hurt anyone. If I should pack up my blade and go adventuring, all I would leave is a bloody wake. If I stay here… I won’t… hurt anyone.
The mist swirls and thickens again.
KAZUHA: I can feel… time is passing. How long did he live like this?
VOICE OF THE WIND 2: Years and decades. While the country was at peace, so was he.
VOICE OF THE WIND 1: And yet… one day, war came…
WANDERER: (fearful, frustrated) Tsk, war always comes for the best… what happened to this poor soul?
By this point, their feet have left the steady road. Kazuha’s sandals squelch slightly as he walks through the mud. The Wanderer hovers slightly above.
FARMER: No, I will not go to war. I have my place here.
Silence.
FARMER: No.
Silence. He draws his scythe.
FARMER: I will not go. My scythe is for harvesting rice, not lives.
Silence. The farmer’s face grows wrathful, then becomes calm. Instinctually, the Wanderer grasps Kazuha’s hand tightly.
FARMER: Yes, rice I can give to you.
He seems to have come to an agreement.
FARMER: Fair fortune to you. Defend our land well.
The mists deepen again. The Wanderer’s vice grip relaxes, but he does not let go.
WANDERER: So, is that all?
VOICE OF THE WIND 2: (almost hysterical) Is that all? Is that all? Look at me and him, and think! If that was all, would we still be here?
The Wanderer bows his head. Kazuha squeezes his hand.
VOICE OF THE WIND 1: The war went poorly… soon the frontlines had moved. His fields… a route through the mountains… passes through. A scout… no, let me show you.
The mists reform into figures. It appears thinner now, as if it is stretched to its limits.
A scout appears, wielding a gun.
KAZUHA: It’s late at night, isn’t it?
The farmer spots him. He draws his scythe and closes the distance between the two, every step taking him further than it should, faster than it should. Gunshots ring out, yet no bullet hits him, his whirling blade deflecting every shot.
WANDERER: (scream) Please, no more!
Yet the vision does not stop. Skillfully does he subdue the scout, pinning him down in a matter of seconds. His blade stops short of flesh, leaving the scout unharmed, but soaked in the paddy waters of the fields.
FARMER: Surrender. I have you dead to rights.
In the distance, the mists form the image of a woman, once a girl, startled by the gunshots. Quickly does she run out into the fields, her bedclothes billowing behind her.
The scout smiles the smile of a dead man.
SCOUT: Never.
The gun discharges. The woman falls.
Swiftly the farmer brings up the scythe and rends the scout’s soul from his body. Yet he does not stop – with quick motions the body of the scout is disassembled, the fields running red with blood. Finally he raises the blade. And to Kazuha’s eyes…
KAZUHA: (trance-like, wondering) It was once cold, noble steel… now it is coated, covered in blood. So much blood… I cannot bear to see it. Surely what has been used to take life… could never again produce something so noble as rice.
The mist-farmer stares at his mist-hands, and though the Wanderer has not the gift of Kazuha’s eyes, even he can tell…
WANDERER: His hands… must be coated in blood.
VOICE OF THE WIND 1: Blood…
VOICE OF THE WIND 2: Blood…
The farmer stares at his beloved scythe with revulsion and hatred. He plants the tool of peace, now a weapon of war, deep into the ground.
He runs and does not look back.
VOICE OF THE WIND 1: The people… never saw him again…
Suddenly, the mists clear. The two men behold the sight of the farmer’s scythe. Though the fields before lay fallow, weeds and insects still lived.
KAZUHA: I still smell it… the blood has soaked deep into the ground here. This is a place of death.
WANDERER: Look at the blade… pitted and corroded.
KAZUHA: Years of rain, wind, weathering… yet, behold, the blade is still stained.
WANDERER: No wonder he could not bear to stay in this place.
Kazuha draws a blade – not of steel, but of rice leaf, plucked from an earlier field. Raising it to his lips, he plays a quiet dirge for the fallen.
Kneeling down, he places the leaf at the foot of the scythe.
KAZUHA: May life bloom in this place again.
VOICE OF THE WIND 1: (fading) Thank… you…
The Wanderer tugs at Kazuha’s hand. He points towards the edge of the fallow fields. There, verdant rice grows again.
WANDERER: (exhausted) Come, let’s go.
The two walk off, supporting each other.