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month record rogue 5 6 3
That winter was harsher than usual. Shennong went north, but had not returned. There was no one to guide the people on what preparations to make for the coming sowing season.
The snows were also unusually thick. They piled up in layers like coffin lids, covering the fields.
When spring came, a shrine to Shennong was erected. Having lost Shennong's aid, the people all wished to find something to prop up their spirits. Upon seeing them so dejected, she suggests holding a plowing ceremony. The reception to her idea is lukewarm, so she does not insist upon it. After some thinking, she carries a gong out of the house. Some see her walk to the fields and take a deep breath, as if summoning her courage. Then, she lifts her wooden mallet.
BONG!
The startled farmers lift their heads to see her dancing on the paddy ridges, singing songs of the fields.
BONG!
'Sand and stone fly through the wind, as gales tear down my new sprouts.'
BONG!
'Naught to do when locusts cover the sky, eating their fill on my crops.'
BONG! BONG! BONG! Each strike of the gong represents a disaster the people of this land had once contended with. Everyone knew what the songs meant: being able to stand here and sing about these experiences means they lived through them.
The dance reaches its end. She lifts the mallet, but then lowers it. Out of curiosity, the farmers ask her why.
'Would Shennong's leaving us be considered a disaster for our fields?', she asks gently. 'The crops that fall can be replanted next year, but people are gone forevermore... When you are done crying, take up her mantle. There will always be people who come after. That is the reason we toil in the fields. And so, this last strike does not represent disaster, but respect for the land, and the people who live upon, thrive upon, and work it.'
BONG! The gong is like spring thunder, startling the larkfowl.
The dance of one has somehow become the dance of many.
Winter may have been harsh, but now the snow has melted, and its waters nourish the soil.
