“Look. Over there. His farm is dying!”
For a moment the words didn’t register but then, when I finally did begin to grasp the implications of what he was saying, all the strength drained away from my limbs.
Through dry lips I said: “What? What do you mean?”
The farm worker was still grinning eagerly.
“Look! There. Up there. All dead.”
I turned my head to follow the direction of his arm, and when I saw where he was pointing I felt as if a black shadow had passed over the face of the earth. Suddenly all the exertions of my walk had come home to roost all at once and had fallen on my shoulders at the same time like the blow from a great axe.
On the hillside beyond the farmhouse, in a part of the orchard that I had not yet visited, the skeletal trees were leafless and dead, and in the paddy fields down below there were no golden rice plants rocking in the sunshine; instead there were only diseased brown stalks, motionless as cemetery grass.
I left the farmhand behind me. He was still joyfully proclaiming the farmer’s misfortune and grinning like a devil. I could hear him shouting at me in Japanese long after his face was lost behind the earthwork wall.
Breathlessly I strode back down the mown path, unable even to think a single coherent thought. I had to go there and see the evidence for myself. I had to know the worst. After a few minutes I had crossed the golden fields and I found myself confronted by a view as bleak as anything in the land of Sinai.
Every last rice plant was dead. There was not a single stalk ripe for the harvest and higher up on the slopes there was not one living tree left in the orchard. Disease had carried them off, every last one. All that remained of this ancient farm was a scar on the landscape. It was a warning to all who thought they could do without the modern world, that their arrogance would deliver them up only this land of death.
I don’t know how long I stood in the fields; such a hammer blow of disappointment robs the mind of normal perception. Finally, I turned my back on the scene of devastation and with a heavy heart I began to make my way back towards the farmhouse.
As I walked I shook my head at my folly. How had I not noticed these fields and orchards before? Perhaps I saw only what I wanted to see. The farmer’s idealism and obstinacy were infectious and had blinded me to the truth. I too had wanted to believe that a natural way of farming and a natural way of life were possible. It seemed now that I had to acknowledge to myself that I was so eager to find some reason for optimism in the world that I was prepared to ignore reality. The farmer had delivered up a perfect dream and I had grasped at it as truth. But for all its beauty, it was a dream nonetheless. I had counted some four hundred dead trees in the orchard before I lost heart.
The worst part of it all was that I would now have to face the farmer. And then when I had done that I would have to continue on with my walk, knowing that this strange man did not have any special access to the truth and that his story of a new life was nothing more than a snatch of summer dreams, and in a few more seasons’ time there would be nothing left of his farm at all except for a few weed-strewn fields and the acres of overgrown orchards.
I thought of the long road to the monasteries that lay ahead and I thought of the life that I was soon to return to, filled as it was with all its doubts and its bad dreams, and a profound sense of weariness overcame me.
The cold floors and the diet of gruel, mankind at war with itself, the steady arc of progress leading to the giant acres of commercial farms and the frightening phrases of the modern world. I knew now that was the truth of the world and, as I admitted this to myself, I felt my heart sink into the ground.
As I rounded the corner into the farmyard I was jolted from my brooding by a wholly unexpected sight that had the effect of immediately lifting my spirits.
A young woman was standing by the mud hut in the sunlight, holding a basket of bright yellow flowers. She had a beautiful pale face and long black hair that was tied in tresses down her back, and she was wearing a pale blue kimono. She looked just like one of the pretty country girls that are depicted in the classical prints.
Behind her, at the main entrance to the farmyard, stood a magnificent snow-white mare, hitched to a trap. Standing next to the trap was a stout young man, clearly the driver, and sitting on the passenger seat was an austere-looking elderly woman draped in a shawl, her arms folded neatly on her lap.
Only the snow-white horse had noticed me. She watched me through her solemn, pink-rimmed eyes, jerkily raising her right foreleg and flicking her mane.
I was just about to step out of the trees and into the farmyard when the farmer, carrying a large box of fruit and vegetables, suddenly appeared through the farmhouse door. The sight of him instantly made me feel ashamed of my thoughts of only moments before.
The peaceful labour of the farm, the constant fresh air and sunshine, his frugality, but above all the purity of his soul gave him a kind of aura of vitality that instantly worked to restore my faith. Confused, I stayed back, half hidden behind the fronds of a citrus tree.
I watched in fascination as he presented the box to the young woman, laying it at her feet. They were both smiling warmly and he was gently explaining something to her. It was a touching scene completely out of kilter with my mood of despair, and it occurred to me that perhaps I was wrong; perhaps a portion of the farm was bound to die when such a revolution occurred. After all, the farmer was trying something never before attempted. He was pioneering a new way of living with nature; what it depended on for success, more than anything else, was the faith to persevere against setbacks. My own faith had been tested and I had failed.
Just then the young woman noticed me. Without moving at all, she lowered her dark eyes and whispered quickly to the farmer. I must have been a most unexpected sight. I doubt that many foreigners had ever been seen coming in from the fields of Ehime before. The farmer spun round urgently, but when he saw me he laughed and hailed me in his gentle voice.
“Aha! Pilgrim! It is you! You are frightening my guests!”
I stepped out of the trees and into the farmyard and a wave of affection for the farmer filled my heart. He had turned back to the young woman and was clearly explaining to her who I was and that she should not worry. I walked over to join them. As I crossed the yard I felt the old woman’s eyes following my every move.
The farmer had changed his clothes since I had last seen him. He had on a clean blue-cotton work shirt and an unblemished pair of cloth shoes. His tanned muscle-bound forearms were waving around excitedly as he spoke first in English then in Japanese.
“James! Please, I would like you to meet Masumi. She is from the village down by the shores of the Inland Sea.”
I bowed low. Now that I was close to the young woman I could see how strikingly beautiful she was. Her skin was completely perfect and her crimson lips glowed with good health. I was so surprised by her beauty after weeks of rugged countryside that I blushed like a schoolboy, and it was only the coaxing of her sympathetic gaze and kind smile that made me recover my senses.
“And this is her mother, Madam Kimiko,” said the farmer.
Tearing myself away from the gaze of the young woman, I turned to face the old lady across the yard and bowed low. She looked on unmoved.
The farmer was talking again. I had not seen him like this before. The presence of the young woman had transformed him. All his energy and attention seemed to be directed towards her. I could not help chuckling to myself and noting that, for all his single-mindedness, even he wasn’t immune to human beauty.
“Masumi and Madam Kimiko visit every week and I give them the best fruits and vegetables from the orchard. Today they will have some pomegranates and some apples.”
His hands were in the box, sorting through the contents.
“The shopkeeper in Fumimoto tells me that my apples taste just like sherbet. They fizz on the tongue when you bite into them.”
Like a magician he held up an apple, and then a seco
nd later it had turned into an orange, then a pomegranate. The young woman smiled at him affectionately, and then she turned her soft, intelligent eyes onto me and to my great surprise she spoke to me in English. Her voice was warm and kind.
“Do you like it here on the farm?”
Once I had recovered from the shock I stammered a reply.
“Yes … Yes, it’s a lovely place.”
The farmer watched us silently and with interest. The young woman hardly moved, but there was a maturity and wisdom in her thoughtful eyes that went far beyond her years.
“Yes. It’s very peaceful here.”
Suddenly, the farmer stood up again.
“James, I must go up to the orchard and pick some choice vegetables. Perhaps you could show Masumi and her mother the spiders’ webs. I think that they would like to see them. I will join you in a moment.”
Whilst the farmer disappeared up the hillside into the trees, I helped the old lady down from the trap and led her and her daughter through the farmhouse and out into the back garden where the view of the fields below was at its best.
I hadn’t forgotten about my crushing discovery of only minutes before, but the young woman was so captivating that it was only when we stepped into the garden and I noticed out of the corner of my eye the black lands of failed rice and the slopes of dead and dying trees that the sense of despair returned.
The dead lands were not easily visible from the back of the farmhouse. That must have been why I hadn’t noticed them earlier that morning. But instead of pointing out the dead lands, I found myself feeling protective towards the farmer and his dream – I don’t know why. I pointed the young woman and her mother in the opposite direction. I didn’t want anyone to know the truth until I had first confronted the farmer. But they were staring in wonder at the dazzling, shimmering, silver-clad fields that flashed like a giant mirror in the down below. Even the old lady could not suppress her awe and, for a second, the expression on her face became one of almost childlike joy.
Standing in the garden at the back of the farmhouse I told the story of the spiders’ mysterious appearance and even more mysterious disappearance to the young woman, and in turn she translated my explanation for her mother. By now the old lady had regained her composure and severity and, as she listened to her daughter, a look of disdain marked her ancient features.
I explained how no one knows where the spiders come from or where they go, and I explained that they were lucky to see such a sight today because since people had started to use pesticides almost all such natural cycles had been destroyed.
The young woman listened with interest until after a few minutes she stopped translating for her mother and looked at me directly. Her mouth had the first hints of a knowing smile.
“How do you know all these things?”
I blushed.
“The farmer taught me. I did not know them until this morning.”
She studied my face for a moment with her beautiful eyes and then her expression slowly turned from humour to anxiety.
“So you believe what he says about the world and nature? Do you believe also in what he says about ploughing and chemicals? Do you believe then that the farm will work?”
It was the first time that I had seen beyond the calm composed face and into the mind of this woman, and for whatever reason she clearly cared a great deal about the fate of the farmer and his work.
For a moment I was too confused to answer. I thought of the dead trees and the black field, but then I thought too of the golden rice plants and the magical orchard with its profusion of life, and then I thought of the farmer and the extraordinary power of his will.
“Yes. It will work.”
She lowered her eyes. She was so completely in control of even her smallest gestures that her body language provided no insight into her real thoughts. Nevertheless, I sensed that she seemed somehow comforted by my answer, although it was impossible to know for sure.
We stood in silence for a minute or so, contemplating the wonderful natural scene, until finally the old lady muttered something in Japanese.
Masumi turned to me and said with a kind smile: “It is time for us to return home now. Thank you very much for showing us this beautiful sight.”
As we stepped back into the farmyard the farmer appeared down the path from the orchard, carrying a bamboo box filled to the brim with fresh vegetables of every kind. He was smiling happily and he greeted the two women in Japanese before passing the box to the driver who loaded it onto the trap.
I said goodbye to the young woman and she wished me a safe journey home and then I lingered in the doorway of the farmhouse, not wanting to get in the way of the farmer’s farewells. The driver helped the old lady back up into the trap whilst the farmer and the young woman stood in the centre of the farmyard saying their goodbyes.
As I stood in the doorway watching the young couple talk, the truth of the situation suddenly revealed itself to me in a blinding flash and I felt foolish for not having understood it sooner. The farmer and the young woman were deeply in love.
They were standing facing each other, yet they were closer together than two people who were just friends would ever stand. I could not hear what they were saying but it did not matter for in such situations words only serve to obscure the truth.
What they really thought and felt was there for all to see. Their bodies yearned to be together. The farmer’s open hands were frozen in front of him, as if he wanted only to clutch her by the waist and draw her to him, whilst her head was bowed as if she longed more than life itself to lie upon his chest.
Their lips must have moved, but all I could see were two motionless statues forever unable to consummate their love.
So strong was the sense of passion and intimacy that I felt forced to avert my gaze altogether, as if I was staring directly at the sun. I thought of the line from the poet Issa who described the parting of two lovers as being more painful than a fingernail being pulled from a finger.
As soon as I sat down by the fire, my thoughts took a very bleak turn. The folly of the farmer’s revolution against the modern world seemed suddenly all the more enormous, for I was sure now that the success of the farm was somehow linked to his prospects of living a happy life with the young woman.
Of course it was only my suspicion, but I knew enough about Japanese life to believe that this was the case and besides, my instincts told me that I was right. I recalled the anxiety with which the young woman had asked me for my opinion on the chances of the farm’s success, and I recalled also the steely and suspicious gaze of the old lady who had overseen the young woman’s trip.
For the first time I was angry with the farmer. I was angry with him because I did not want to see someone who was plainly so good suffer such a tragic fate. His attempt to live a truer life now seemed cavalier.
It was one thing to risk his own livelihood in pursuit of a noble dream, but to squander the love of this beautiful woman as well was utter madness, particularly as he was clearly every bit as much in love with her as she was with him.
Now that heartbreak seemed to be the likely outcome of his radical experiments, I wanted to beg him to stop. The worst thing of all was that it was the farmer’s very purity of spirit that had got him into this predicament. He believed that he had been shown the way to the truth and he was prepared to make no compromises at all to get there. I shook my head in frustration. I needed to talk to him straight away and the first thing I had to know was the truth behind the dead fields and trees.
When the farmer finally came inside he was clearly troubled and deeply preoccupied with his own thoughts. He smiled at me, but his brow remained furrowed and as he arranged the vegetables for lunch I thought I heard him sigh more than once. Seeing him like this I once again felt unable to challenge him. I didn’t want to heap more pain upon his head.
Instead I offered to help him prepare lunch. He refused my offer of help and instead he asked me to relax and enjoy the peace of the d
ay. I sat back to sip my tea and tried to make myself as unobtrusive as possible. I felt like a dog that senses that his master is troubled and so sits quietly in the corner until the dark mood passes.
The farmer finished cooking and handed me a bowl of delicious food and then sat down himself and began to eat. He seemed a little happier now and so I could contain myself no longer, but when I finally opened my mouth I spoke almost in a whisper, as if half hoping that he wouldn’t hear what I had to say.
“I ran into one of the neighbours this morning,” I began.
The farmer didn’t look up. He continued to chew his gruel and study the smouldering embers in the fire grate.
I pressed on.
“He said that last year the rice and barley harvests were down. That they were lower than before, when your father had been in charge.”
I felt as if I was plunging a dagger into the farmer’s heart and then turning it one way and then the other.
“And so I went to look myself and I counted more than four hundred dead trees on the northern slopes and I saw the rotten fields …”
He stopped chewing and at that moment I wished that there had been someone else in the room, someone with whom I could share the burden of making these terrible accusations. The farmer’s face was impassive. He glanced up from his food and looked me in the eye.
“And he is right.”
In that one awful instant that it took him to utter those words, my heart sank. How could it be? How could he be telling me that his natural method was the best when all along he had known that it was failing?
“And he said that your farming doesn’t work.”
The farmer sighed and put down his bowl and then spoke again.
“And do you believe him?”
“I don’t know …”
I saw his chest rise and fall. He shook his head in disappointment and then summoned the energy to try to explain.
One Day the Shadow Passed Page 7