Valley of Souls

Long before our ancestors settled in this valley, a battle between two warlords scarred these fields. Among these overgrown weeds are heavy stones that still bear the mark of swords and spears. The old diviner says that one night long ago, this field was stained red under a full moon. The fallen were buried here without the words to unbind their souls from their bleeding bodies. And so, this field lies barren to this day, because there are battles that can linger to haunt us. The old diviner says that there are scars that no time can heal.

On the edge of the field, the figure of a frail, hunched-over man is silhouetted by the last flicker of day. He is leaning against a withered cherry tree, staring at the rugged hills in the distance. He hasn't spoken a word for forty years, and the villagers have come to think of him as a part of the field itself - part of the same haunting presence. The villagers call this man "No Name".

The soft blue of twilight still clung to the skies when a wandering minstrel arrived along the road from Luo-Yang. The minstrel saw the old man and even without words, he sensed the old man's sadness for they were palpable. He wondered to himself - if this sadness were a color, would it be more ebon than a stroke of midnight? And so, instead of singing of joy or hope, the minstrel sang the Song of Long Sorrow because he realized this was the only song the old man could understand.

And for the first time in forty years, "No Name" began to speak. His words came out garbled and inhuman at first before they finally took form. Even as he spoke, the old man continued to stare blankly at the hills, but the minstrel listened intently.

"I was an apprentice to a great master of ceramics", the old man started. "And one day, I was to run an errand and bring back a fresh load of porcelain from Luo-Yang. Before I had barely left the village, a woman with graceful steps saw me in my clay-painted robes and showed me a marvelously light porcelain vase, translucent like crisp jade. She said, 'Come with me, and I will show you what your hands can create.' But of course, I had to go to Luo-Yang that day. And so she pointed at those hills, and said 'I live beyond those hills. I will be waiting for you.' And so I continued on to Luo-Yang." The old man finished with a sigh. The minstrel nodded slowly.

"And of course I knew as soon as I reached Luo-Yang that I had to find her. And of course my master told me that porcelain could never be made that thin or light. But I knew I had to find her. So I sought out every path and road, trying to find one that would lead me beyond those hills. I tried and tried for years, but no path would lead me towards them. All these paths seemed to bring me further away instead. And then all I had left was the memory - the memory of that day, the memory of the beautiful vase, the memory … ," the old man was muttering to himself now.

Neither the old man nor the minstrel spoke for a long time, as if they were both waiting for the sadness to fade into the night. The minstrel finally asked,

"Why do you not cross over this field?" And to the minstrel's surprise, the old man replied,

"Because there are no paths in the field."

And as the moon drifted to the center of the night sky, the minstrel said with a gentle smile,

"There are never paths in fields you haven't traveled through."

The old man stands staring at the hills, and when he finally turns his head, the minstrel is already gone. And so, there is nothing left to do but take one step into the field - one painful step that flares through his swollen knees. Tears of physical agony run down his weather-worn cheeks. The old man does not sleep that night. He tells himself that he has slept enough in these sixty years. He does not eat for three days for he brought no food with him, and his only water comes from meandering streams. And yet, slowly, every step becomes lighter and easier than the one before. He finally realizes that he is alone, and this realization gives him a strength he never knew he had.

And when he finally reaches the other side of the hill, he kneels before a pool of spring water and sees the reflection of a young man - the face of a man who he hasn't seen for forty years. There is a murmur of graceful steps behind him, and he turns to see the same woman he saw that day long ago. Her face - as if she hadn't aged all these years. She whispers with a gentle smile,

"I have been waiting for you."