socalfunplaces Chapter 376 I got the scythe!
Chapter 376 I got the scythe!
Chapter 376 I got the scythe!
"It's free," Chi Quan said.
The old woman's gaze shifted from the farm tools back to Chi Quan's face. She looked at him for a long time, then slowly, section by section, opened the door, as if opening a door that hadn't been opened in a long time, its hinges rusted.
"Come in." Her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn't spoken to anyone in a long time.
Chi Quan didn't go in. He stood at the door, bent down to pick up the cloth bag, and took out a sickle from it. The sickle wasn't big; it could be held with one hand. The curve of the blade was just right, and the edge gleamed with a bluish-white light in the thin winter sunlight.
"This is a sickle. Forged by Master Tetsui. The steel is from a Jonin of the Land of Lightning, and it's been quenched three times. Feel it." He handed over the sickle, hilt facing forward, blade towards himself.
The old woman reached out and touched the handle of the knife. The wooden handle was polished smooth, without any splinters, and felt neither slippery nor uncomfortable in her hand. She turned the sickle over to examine the blade and gently scratched the edge with her thumb—without applying any force, but the blade still managed to make a very fine cut on her thumb, from which a bead of blood oozed out.
The old woman looked at the blood on her thumb and suddenly laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh, but a strange laugh, like crying, yet without tears.
"The sickle my husband used to use had the same feel to it," she said. "That sickle was burned down when the people of the Land of Lightning burned down our house."
Chi Quan remained silent.
The old lady returned the sickle to Chi Quan.
"What's your name?"
"Chiquan."
The old woman's fingers trembled slightly. She had heard of that name. The entire Western Region had heard of it. Rain-Cracked Basin, 23,000 people. Some said he was a monster, some said he was a savior, some said he wasn't human at all, but a sword transformed into human form. The old woman looked at him standing at her doorstep, the bandage on his left hand peeking out from his sleeve, a red scar on the web of his right hand, his face unnaturally pale, his lips dry and chapped. He didn't seem like a monster, didn't seem like a savior, didn't seem like a sword transformed into human form.
Like a young person who was discharged from the hospital before his injuries had fully healed and who wasn't very talkative.
"Come in and have some hot water," the old lady said.
Chiquan hesitated for a moment, then went inside. Kiba followed behind, and Akamaru jumped off Kiba's shoulder, rubbed his paws on the threshold, and then followed him inside.
The room was dark. The paper pasted on the windows was torn and patched up with an old cloth. There was a fire in the stove, burning firewood; the fire wasn't big, but it was warm. There was a musty smell in the room, mixed with the smell of firewood smoke and old cotton wadding. A few bags of grain were piled in the corner, not much left.
The old lady took the iron kettle off the stove, poured a bowl of hot water, and handed it to Chi Quan. Chi Quan took it, held it with both hands, but didn't drink it.
"What about the rest of the village?" he asked.
The old woman sat down on a low stool by the stove, placed her hands on her knees, and looked at the fire in the stove that was barely extinguished.
"Some ran away. They ran east. They heard that people from Konoha were distributing food in the east, so they ran away. Some are still here, hiding in their houses, afraid to come out. They're afraid the Allied Forces will come back. I told them there wouldn't be a fight, but they didn't believe me."
"The coalition forces won't fight anymore," Chi Quan said. "A peace treaty has been signed. There won't be any fighting for thirty years."
The old lady looked up at him.
"You promise?"
Chi Quan looked at her.
"I promise."
The old lady laughed again. This time it was a genuine laugh, not the kind of laugh that comes from tears. Her wrinkles gathered together, and her eyes narrowed into slits, like two pieces of dried orange peel stuck together.
Okay. I believe you.
Chi Quan drank half a bowl of hot water, put the bowl on the stove, and stood up.
"The farm tools are on the oxcart at the village entrance. I had them unloaded and placed under the big locust tree at the village entrance. Could you please tell the villagers to come and get them?"
"Aren't you going to send it yourself?"
'
Chi Quan thought for a moment.
"If I post it, some people won't dare to come and collect it."
The old woman understood. He was the man who buried 23,000 people in the Rain-Cracked Basin. Some people were afraid of him. Afraid of his hands, afraid of his knife, afraid of him as a person. He stood at the village entrance; some would peek through their doors, but they wouldn't open them. The old woman could open the door because she was too old, too old to be afraid. Too old to believe that things couldn't get any worse than what had already happened.
"Okay." The old lady stood up, took a patched cotton-padded coat from the wall and put it on. "I'll go call them."
The old woman knocked on doors one by one. Doors opened one by one, and people peeked out. The old woman spoke to them, her voice soft, so Chi Quan couldn't make out what she was saying. But more and more doors opened, and more and more people gathered, from one person to two, from two to a group. Some pushed open doors and came out, some walked from the other side of the fields, and some stood at the crossroads carrying children, watching the three oxcarts under the big locust tree at the village entrance.
Chiquan stood beside the oxcart, not moving forward. Ya squatted on the other side of the oxcart, unloading the farm tools and stacking them one by one on the stone platform under the big locust tree. Chiwan ran back and forth around the stone platform, sniffing each farm tool with its nose, then wagging its tail.
The first person to approach was a young man. He was in his early twenties, thin, with a fresh scar running from his cheekbone to his chin, the scab still fresh. He walked to the stone platform, looked at the farm tools, and reached for a hoe.
"What kind of steel is this hoe made of?" he asked.
Kiba said, "A Jonin's sword. From the Land of Lightning."
The young man paused. He looked at the hoe in his hand, turning it over and over. The surface of the hoe was smooth, and the water ripples from the quenching process spread out in concentric circles, shimmering with a deep blue light. He scraped the scraper blade with his thumb, not daring to apply any force.
"My father was slashed by the sword of the Land of Lightning." He touched the scar on his face. "This scar of mine is also from the sword of the Land of Lightning."
Chi Quan remained silent.
The young man carried the hoe on his shoulder.
"This hoe is good. I'll take it back and show it to my mother."
He left. After taking a few steps, he stopped and looked back at Chi Quan.
"Are you Chi Quan?"
"Um.
""
The young man opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then remained silent. He stood there, hoe on his shoulder, the scars on his face turning a deep purple in the cold wind. In the end, he said nothing, turned, and walked away. He walked slowly, the hoe swaying up and down on his shoulder with each step, like a scale.
Once someone started, others followed suit.
A middle-aged woman carried a sickle, an old man carried a shovel, and a boy carrying two hoes was scolded by the old man and put one back. A young woman, holding a three- or four-year-old child's hand and carrying a rake, told the child to thank Chi Quan as they left. The child stared at Chi Quan for a long time, finally managing to utter "Hello, Uncle," before hiding behind the young woman.
Chi Quan's lips twitched slightly.
Ya saw it, but didn't say anything, and continued moving farm tools with his head down.
The old woman was the last to arrive. She didn't take any farm tools. She walked up to the pond, took a cloth bag from her cotton-padded coat pocket, opened it, and inside were four rice balls. The rice was already cold, tightly packed, and the grains were slightly yellow, with a few black sesame seeds sprinkled on top.
"Eat it on the way." The old lady stuffed the cloth bag into Chi Quan's hand.
Chi Quan looked down at the cloth bag in his hand. The cloth was old, faded from washing, and the edges were frayed. The rice balls were crammed together, making the bag bulge, and the shape of the rice grains could be seen through the fabric's texture.
"Thank you," he said.
The old woman patted the back of his hand. Her hand was dry and rough, with large knuckles and dirt under her fingernails. The pat on his hand felt very light, like a leaf falling on the surface of water.
"You must take good care of yourself too," the old lady said.
Chi Quan clutched the cloth bag, remaining silent.
The farm tools for Xiaqiu Village were distributed over the course of the day, the oxcarts emptying and being loaded and emptyed repeatedly. The forging apprentices made two trips back and forth to retrieve tools from a nearby warehouse. Chi Quan didn't go with them; he stayed under the big locust tree, handing each tool to the person who came to collect it. He didn't speak, smile, or exchange pleasantries while handing them over. He would reply briefly if someone spoke to him, but remain silent if no one did. Yet, he handed over each tool with both hands.
Ya noticed it from the side.
Chi Quan's left hand was still bandaged, and the stitches from the eighteen-stitch wound on his palm hadn't been removed yet. He supported the handle of the farm tool with his left hand and held the head with his right, handing it to the other person with both hands. Some tools were heavy, and his left hand couldn't support them, so he would take them back with his right hand, change his position, and hand them over again. Ya wanted to help him, but Akamaru bit his trouser leg. Akamaru shook his head at him, telling him not to go.
Kiba squatted down and looked at Akamaru.
"Doesn't his hand hurt?"
Akamaru tilted his head but didn't call out.
"You don't know either?"
Akamaru rested his chin on Kiba's knee, looking at Ikezumi.
By the time the distribution of sickles in Shimotsu Village was finished, it was almost dark. In winter, darkness falls early; the sun sets behind the mountains after four o'clock, and by five o'clock, only a faint reddish glow remains in the west. Ya unloaded the last sickle from the oxcart and handed it to a boy who came running up. The boy took the sickle and ran, but tripped and fell after a couple of steps. He got up, dusted himself off, and ran again, shouting, "Mom, I got the sickle!" His voice carried from one end of the village to the other.
Chi Quan watched the child's figure disappear into the alleyway, then stuffed the cloth bag in his hand—the rice ball the old lady had given him—into his coat pocket.
"The next village," he said.
Ya paused for a moment.
"Today? It's dark, and the roads are difficult to walk on."
"Not far. Seven miles north, to Shangqiu Village."
Ya looked at the sky, then at the bandage on Chi Quan's left hand that had been rubbed raw, then at the still red scar on the web of his right hand, and then at his face, which was even paler than in the morning.
"Eat the rice ball before you leave," Ya said.
Chi Quan glanced at him.
"You didn't eat either."
"I-
—"
"Share it in half."
Chi Quan took two rice balls out of his cloth bag and handed one to Ya. Ya took it and took a bite. The rice was cold and hard, a bit difficult to chew, the grains rolling around in his mouth one by one. The sound of the black sesame seeds being crushed was loud in his mouth, like crushing some very small, dry shell.
"It's delicious," Ya said.
Chi Quan took a bite. He chewed the rice slowly in his mouth; it had no taste, but he could swallow it. He chewed for a long time, swallowed, and then took another bite.
Akamaru squatted beside Kiba's feet, looking up at the rice ball in Kiba's hand. Kiba broke off a small piece and placed it in his palm. Akamaru leaned over, curled his tongue, and scooped the rice ball into his mouth, chewed it a couple of times, and swallowed. Then he looked up again.
"Didn't you just eat half a sausage in the village?" Tooth said.
Akamaru pretended not to hear.
Upper Hill Village is further north than Lower Hill Village, and its terrain is also higher. When the oxcart went uphill, the oxen were panting heavily, and the apprentice driving the cart jumped off and led the ox by the nose. Chi Quan followed behind the oxcart, walking at a moderate pace, but Ya noticed that his footprints were deeper than usual. It wasn't that he was heavier, but that he was taking each step very firmly, as if he was using walking to steady his body.
At the entrance of Shangtong Village stands a large ginkgo tree, its leaves long gone, its bare branches swaying in the wind. People are already gathered in the open space beneath the tree. An old man in a blue cotton-padded coat stands at the front, holding an oil lamp in his hand. The wick flickers in the wind, casting a long shadow on the ground.
"We've been waiting for you for a long time," the old man said. His voice was bright, unlike the hoarse voice of the old woman in Shimotsu Village; it had a strong, resonant tone, like someone calling people home for dinner from the fields.
Chi Quan walked up to the old man.
"Konoha Village, Ikezumi. Deliver farm tools."
The old man looked him up and down.
"I know you. My grandson is a ninja in Konoha, I can't remember his last name. He wrote back about you."
"They say you're quick with your knife, they say you're a man of few words, they say you're always the last one back from a mission." The old man raised the oil lamp a little higher, shining it on Chi Quan's face. "He's right. He is a man of few words."
Chi Quan didn't know what to say.
Before he could return, the old man turned and shouted into the village, "Everyone come out! The farm tools have arrived! Don't hide!"
The village seemed to be awakened by that shout.
Doors opened one by one, and footsteps gathered at the village entrance from all directions. Some people ran out wearing cotton-padded coats, some wrapped in quilts, and some carrying rice bowls. The children ran ahead, crowding together under the ginkgo tree, craning their necks to look at the oxcart.
"Do you have any?" A little boy with a topknot looked up at the pool.
Chi Quan looked down at him.
"How old are you?"
"Five years old!"
"A five-year-old can't lift a hoe. Your dad will."
"My dad's leg is broken," the little boy said. "The Allied forces shot him."
Chi Quan squatted down to be at eye level with the little boy.
"Then could you get your dad a small sickle, okay?"
The little boy's eyes lit up, and he nodded vigorously.
Chi Quan took the smallest sickle from the oxcart; its blade was two inches shorter than an adult's, and its handle was also thinner. When Master Tiejing made this batch of farm tools, he specifically made dozens of small ones for the children. Chi Quan handed the sickle to the little boy with both hands.
The little boy took it, gripped the handle with both hands, and raised it above his head like a flag.
"Dad! I got the sickle!"
Someone in the village laughed. It wasn't mockery, but the kind of laughter that comes involuntarily after being warmed by something—short, light, like the crackling of charcoal in a winter brazier.
The little boy ran home with his sickle in hand.
The old man handed the oil lamp to the person next to him, walked to the oxcart, and picked up a plow. The plow was heavy, so he lifted it with both hands, looked at the angle of the plowshare, and then at the curvature of the plowshare.