The sun hung high overhead, illuminating the cornfields in a brilliant shade of green. There was not a breath of wind. A young farmer stood beneath a large elm tree, wiping sweat from his brow as he gazed into the distance. The nearby corn shoots were thick and robust, already knee-high, but the two plots before him were sparse and barren, appearing like patches of baldness. The cornfields were so still they seemed frozen, with not a soul in sight; everyone had returned to the village for lunch. A path cut through the cornfields and curved around the elm tree, as if the path itself were yielding to the tree. The young farmer looked toward the horizon where the sun rises, then toward where it sets. He seemed to be waiting for someone; he had been watching this way for many years.
The villagers said his heart was not in the fields. At the age when men marry, no woman stood by his side. Some guessed he was waiting for a woman with whom he had a promise, concluding that his heart belonged to no one in the village. His ancestral home was dilapidated, the courtyard overgrown with weeds. He seemed content with this life. Occasionally, he would say, 'If one is fed, the whole family is fed,' though women whispered that he was not a man suited for family life. Someone said that when the person he waited for finally arrived, he might find his spirit again.
Suddenly, he spotted a small moving speck on the distant road, growing larger as it approached. The person carried a massive, heavy bundle. As the stranger approached, his face glistened with sweat, and his heavy breathing became audible. The farmer leaped onto the path, blocking the way, and barked, 'Don't move!'
The stranger looked up, startled. 'You've run into my blade,' the farmer said. The stranger replied weakly, 'Fine.' He reached for his waist, 'Wait, I'll get my knife.' The stranger set down the bundle and stood up. The farmer returned to the shade of the tree, opened his cloth bundle, and the knife flashed like lightning, its blade gleaming with hunger. He and the knife charged toward the center of the road. 'I am going to kill you; why don't you run?' the farmer demanded. 'I have accepted it; I came to be killed,' the stranger replied.
'Good lad,' the farmer said. 'This knife was passed from my grandfather to my father, and from my father to me. It has grown impatient.' 'I know,' the stranger said. 'What is your trade?' 'Small business, traveling merchant.' 'I farm; I have no interest in trade. I have been waiting for you.' 'I know. In the past, I always took a detour.' 'Why not this time?' 'One cannot detour through life forever. Some things cannot be avoided.'
'Tell me, what cannot be avoided?' 'One must die knowing the truth.' 'What did I do in my previous life?' the farmer asked. 'The same as my current trade,' the stranger replied. 'No wonder my crops never grow well.' 'Follow me.'
The man led him to an unmarked grave beside the elm tree. 'This is my grandfather's grave,' the farmer said. 'You are guarding your own grave,' the stranger replied. 'My father said it was my grandfather's grave. I must guard it and avenge him; this is all I have left in this life.'
The stranger dug into the grave and revealed a corpse with skin that still seemed elastic. 'This is you,' the stranger said. 'Look at your past self; the bone on your neck still bears the scar from this knife. When I fled with the knife years ago, it recognized me. As you pulled it out, it rushed toward me like a hound seeking its master. But now, you are its owner.'
The farmer's hand, sweaty and hot, felt the knife slipping. The stranger said, 'Enough. Let this be settled. Be quick about it.' The farmer brought the knife crashing down into the earth, kicking up a cloud of dust. He said softly, 'Go.' The stranger opened his bundle and spread out silver coins. 'Take this.' 'I don't want it. Leave now, or I may change my mind.'
'I pass this road several times a year,' the stranger said. 'If your knife regrets this, it will have many chances.' 'I never want to see you again.' 'In truth, I have been dead for a long time. Why do you bother letting me go?' 'If you had tried to run just now, you wouldn't have escaped that knife. At least you are a man of courage.' 'This knife is like a hound; if I don't run, it won't chase.'
As the stranger walked away, he looked back at the cornfields. 'In a few days, this place will be a sea of green.' The sun remained high, and a breeze began to stir the corn. The young farmer once again stood beneath the elm tree, wiping sweat and gazing into the distance. On the road, the man and his bundle became a small speck, then faded away, leaving only a road stretching toward the horizon.
