"Nobles and tribespeople are like cacao trees and blades of grass..."
The stream wound on, flowing beside the harvested rice fields. In the distance stood the redwoods of the western mountains, towering straight into the clouds.
The old Militia Chiwako sat on the ridge between the fields, looking at the golden mountains, at the cedar wood atop the peaks, then at the rice paddies by his feet, and for a long time he did not speak. He was a man who had suffered, who had endured the scattering of wife and children, the ruin of home and kin, then painstakingly gathered his family back together again. He was also a man who had experienced much, from the far south to the northern seas, from the fall of a nation to the founding of one, and then to explorations overseas.
Perhaps, in all of West Mountain Port, whether among the kingdom's immigrants or the local Miwok tribes, he alone could understand old Shaman Cedar. And only Shaman Cedar could speak words that struck straight into his heart.
".Old wood, look at what's before you! Plant more of these fields, plant more high-yield crops, and more people will be able to eat their fill!... No matter how some people, after becoming masters, might toss things around... if more grain can be harvested, if more people can live, that is never a bad thing!..."
".Old Corn, perhaps I've grown greedy. I always want to do more!... In truth, I regret it a little... If I had taken over the Miwok tribes and become that whatever king of a vassal state... would that have let the tribe eat its fill? Would it also have let the whole tribe, old and young, high and low alike, climb together to the mountaintop?... But I thought on