Crowless Fields

Years later, when cherry trees bloom and the river runs clear with snowmelt, the people of Kōgoe still tell the tale of the season their fields went silent and crowless. Grandmothers and grandfathers draw children near and speak of how an angry kappa’s curse once blighted the valley - how not even a crow dared caw over the withered paddies in those dark days. They recount how Endō Jūbei, a humble farmer with a brave heart, helped the village earn back the river’s blessing through respect and honesty.

Endō Jūbei himself lived to a ripe old age, revered as the quiet hero of his village. It’s said he would often be found at dusk by the willow, humming an old tune to the river as the fields whispered around him. After he passed on, his name and deeds never faded from the village’s memory - for he became part of the legend that binds them to the river.

In the years that followed, whenever a drought threatened or locusts gathered in dark clouds on the horizon, the people hurried to the willow with prayers and offerings. On one occasion, a family new to the village neglected to float their cucumber offering at planting time; that summer a sudden hailstorm ravaged their melon patch while sparing the surrounding fields. Taking it as a mild rebuke from the river god, the contrite family promptly offered double tributes the next morning, and no further harm came - a lesson swiftly heeded by all. And more often than not, they found that disaster skirted their fields as if the kappa itself were batting away those perils. Such occurrences only reinforced their faith in the pact.

If you journey to that northern valley in Iwate and stroll at sunrise, you’ll witness fields of rice and cucumber stretching green and contented to the horizon. In summertime, the river’s edge brims with white wildflower blossoms and darting dragonflies, a lively testament to the kappa’s benevolence. In autumn, villagers send the first sheaf of rice drifting downstream as thanks, the golden stalks bobbing under the harvest moon. And in the depths of winter, when the riverbanks frost over with silvery ice, one can still find a lone cucumber or a steaming cup of broth left at the water’s thawed edge - proof that even in the coldest season, the pact is kept and the guardian remembered.

They call this story “The Kappa’s Gift,” and indeed the gift was twofold. It was the protection that the kappa bestowed upon the honest and reverent, and it was the lesson that prosperity carries obligations - that one must give in order to receive. Parents remind their youngsters whenever they shoo them from the river at twilight: “Be respectful and keep your promises, lest the kappa take notice.” And the children nod solemnly, aware that their village’s fortune is bound up in an ancient agreement renewed anew each year.

Even today, when farmers plant their seedlings, they sing a simple song to the water’s edge about the river guardian. The words may vary with the singer, but the spirit remains: a promise that as the river gives life, the people will give thanks. Thus the balance endures.

It is said Endō Jūbei’s descendants still farm those same plots by the Kitakami’s flow, and each generation raises the next on the tale of the kappa’s gift. When the spring festival comes, they float cucumbers inscribed with their family names, each green offering a pledge that the bond will never be forgotten. If ever a year passes where offerings are late or lacking - a rare lapse, to be sure - a minor mishap might remind them, a sudden flood in a single paddy or a wind-toppled scarecrow, and the villagers quickly renew their devotion. In this way, the memory of the crowless fields is kept alive not as a horror, but as a caution and a promise.

For the people of Kōgoe, the story of the kappa’s gift is woven into their lives. On spring mornings, they bow to the river before planting. On autumn nights, they pour a libation of sake into the current in quiet thanks. And when the stars align on equinox evenings, they gather by the old willow - children, parents, and elders together - to send their gratitude downstream on the gentle back of cucumbers.

In the dusk of a spring day, a lone crow alights on a scarecrow’s shoulder in Jūbei’s old field, cawing as if to converse with the straw man about bygone days. Nearby, the river eddy swirls in playful whorls. And under the whispering willow, unseen but ever-present, a grateful kappa keeps its gentle vigil - a quiet guardian of those who learned the value of respect - ensuring that the fields of Kōgoe are never crowless again.