"This plow is well made," he said. "Did Tetsui make it?"
"Yes," Chisen said.
"Tetsui is three years older than me. When we were young, he learned smithing in Konoha while I farmed at home. By the time he finished learning, I was still out in the fields." The old man set down the plowhead and brushed the dust off his hands. "His plows work well."
Chisen bent down and stacked the plowheads back on the ox cart, then unloaded a bundle of hoes and lined them up against the Ginkgo Tree's trunk. Kiba was handing out sickles nearby, while Akamaru darted through the crowd with children chasing him. Akamaru deliberately ran slowly enough to stay just out of their reach, then sped up a couple of steps whenever they nearly caught him. The children's laughter burst through the village entrance like a string of firecrackers.
Chisen crouched beneath the Ginkgo Tree, unloading the tools from the ox cart one by one and stacking them by type. His hands touched many of the hands reaching out to take them. Rough hands, smooth hands, big hands, small hands, scarred hands, unscarred hands, warm hands, icy hands. Every pair was different. But one thing was the same-every person received the tools with both hands.
No one took them with one hand.
Whether it was a hoe, a sickle, a shovel, or a rake, whether they were old people, women, or half-grown children, whether they were smiling,
crying, or expressionless-everyone used both hands. As though receiving something very heavy, or very precious, or something that must not be dirtied.
Chisen stayed crouched there after handing over the last shovel.
Kiba came over and crouched beside him.
"Tired?"
"No."
"Hand hurting?"
"No."
"Then why aren't you getting up?"
Chisen lowered his head to look