Chapter 1: The Edict Arrives

The summer sun shimmered over the paddies of Yamato province, its rays glinting on the flooded fields where bent backs moved in steady rhythm. In the village of Asuka, the air crackled with tension. Word had come down from Nara, the new seat of imperial power, and with it, a proclamation that unsettled every heart: the rice tax would be levied with new rigor. Sae, the eldest daughter of farmer Gentarō, paused in her work, straightening to ease the ache in her shoulders. The muddy water of the paddy clung to her legs, and her hands were raw from planting. She looked up as her younger brother Taro splashed through the dike, breathless, holding a rolled scroll. “Father!” Taro called, voice breaking the heavy silence. “The official from Nara—he is coming! He carries the Emperor’s new edict.” Gentarō wiped sweat from his brow and glanced at his neighbors. Fear flickered in the eyes of the men and women—fear of what new demands might come from the capital. For years, the rice tax had been a fact of life, but rumor whispered that the new Emperor, Shōmu, sought to build ever grander temples and would tighten his grip on the fields. The village headman, old Yoshitada, gathered the people beneath the shade of a spreading camphor tree. The imperial official, resplendent in dyed hemp robes and black-lacquered hat, read aloud in a clear, impassive voice: “In the name of His Imperial Majesty, let it be known: all those who till the land are to render one part in ten of their harvest unto the storehouses of the Emperor. Let none withhold, for in the rice of the people lies the strength of the realm and the favor of the gods.” As the words faded, a murmur rose—anger, fear, resignation. Sae met her father’s eyes. The harvest had not been good, and their granaries were thin. One part in ten? For some, it would mean nothing left for winter. “Is there no mercy?” Gentarō asked quietly. The official’s gaze was cold. “The Emperor’s will is the will of heaven.” —

Chapter 2: Nara’s Shadows

Far from the fields, in the bustling heart of Nara, a very different world unfolded. The wide avenues teemed with courtiers, traders, and monks. The great construction of Tōdai-ji temple was underway; the clang of hammers and the shouts of laborers echoed through the air. Incense from the many Buddhist halls drifted over the city, mingling with the smell of fresh timber and earth. Within the walls of Gangō-ji monastery, a young novice named Eiji knelt in the dim light, copying sutras onto mulberry paper. His hands were steady, his mind less so. He had come to Nara to seek wisdom, but found the city’s ambitions cast a shadow over the teachings of compassion. He listened as two senior monks spoke in low voices nearby. “The Emperor’s temple will rival any in China,” one said, pride and worry mingling in his tone. “Such splendor requires heavy offerings,” replied the other. “The people strain under the weight. Is this truly the path of the Buddha?” Eiji’s brush paused. He remembered his own father’s narrow fields, the anxious faces at home when the rice tax was mentioned. The city gleamed, but at what cost? Later, Eiji walked the bustling streets, watching artisans carve Buddha statues and laborers haul timber. He felt a pang of guilt—was this the enlightenment he had sought, or simply another kind of power? In a side alley, a group of peasants whispered together, their faces drawn. “They take our rice for the Emperor’s great Buddha,” one muttered. “But what do we eat?” Another spat on the ground. “The city grows fat, and we grow thin.” Eiji’s heart ached with each word. He was caught between the glory of Nara and the suffering that fed it. —

Chapter 3: The Fields in Drought

Back in Asuka, the summer stretched on, merciless and hot. The rains came late, and the paddies turned from shining mirrors to cracked earth. Sae and her family walked their fields at dawn, hoping for clouds. Each day, the rice withered further. One evening, as fireflies danced in the twilight, Sae sat with her father beneath the eaves. Taro slept nearby, exhausted. “Father, what will we do?” she whispered. Gentarō’s voice was heavy. “We give what we must, and pray the gods are kind. If we protest, the soldiers will come.” Sae clenched her fists. “It is not right. We work and starve, while in Nara they build golden Buddhas.” Her father’s eyes were sad. “That is the way of the world. The strong take, the weak endure.” The next day, the imperial collector returned, demanding the tax. He marked their stores with lacquered seals, measuring each basket with careful precision. Sae watched as their best rice was carted away, the family granary left half-empty. She caught the collector’s eye, and for a brief moment, saw doubt flicker there. But duty was stronger than mercy. —

Chapter 4: Echoes in the Capital

Eiji, restless, found himself at the edge of the city, where the poorest clustered in makeshift huts. He spoke with a woman who had come from the provinces. “My husband is gone,” she said, thin arms wrapped around her son. “Taken for the Emperor’s roads. Our rice is gone. I came to Nara to beg, but there is little here for the likes of us.” Eiji offered her a handful of rice from the monastery’s stores. He knew it was not enough. He returned to Gangō-ji, troubled. That evening, he approached the abbot. “Reverend,” he asked quietly, “should not the temple serve the people, not the other way around?” The abbot regarded him. “We serve the Emperor, who serves the gods. This is the order of things.” Eiji bowed, hiding his frustration. But the words would not leave him. He began to copy more sutras, leaving them in the city’s poorest quarters, hoping their message might bring comfort or stir thought. —

Chapter 5: Resistance and Fear

As the harvest neared, discontent simmered in Asuka. Under the camphor tree, the villagers whispered of resistance. “We cannot give more,” one man said. “If we hide some of the rice—” “—they will beat us,” interrupted another. “Or worse.” Sae listened, heart pounding. She remembered stories of soldiers burning fields, of families broken by the Emperor’s wrath. Yet hunger had a voice stronger than fear. That night, Gentarō made a difficult choice. He and Sae buried a small jar of rice beneath the floor of their hut—a slim hope for winter. When the collectors returned, suspicion flickered in their eyes. They searched the granary, but found nothing. Sae’s hands shook as she knelt, head bowed. Would their neighbors betray them? Would the village survive another season of imperial demands? —

Chapter 6: The Temple’s Shadow

Autumn brought little relief to Nara. Eiji watched as the foundations of Tōdai-ji rose ever higher, and the city swelled with laborers pressed from the countryside. He sought out an old friend, a laborer named Masaru. “I was a farmer,” Masaru said bitterly. “Now I haul stones for the Buddha’s house. My wife and son are hungry, and I cannot help them.” “Doesn’t the Emperor see?” Eiji asked. Masaru laughed, hollow. “He sees only what the priests and courtiers show him.” Eiji’s doubts grew. He began to question the sermons, the rituals, the endless demands for offerings. At night, he prayed for clarity, but found only sorrow. —

Chapter 7: The Harvest’s Price

The harvest in Asuka was meager, but enough for survival—barely. Sae and her family ate sparingly, rationing the hidden rice. The village was quieter now, several families having left for Nara in hope of work or charity. One frosty morning, the collector returned, this time with soldiers. Rumors of tax evasion had reached the capital. The soldiers searched homes, overturning baskets and lifting floorboards. Sae’s heart pounded as they neared their hut. But fortune—or perhaps the gods—favored them. The jar remained undiscovered. Later, as the soldiers left, the village headman gathered the people. “We must endure,” he said, voice trembling. “The Emperor’s will is law. But let us not forget kindness—share what little you have, and remember those who suffer most.” Sae looked at her neighbors, their faces drawn but resolute. The Emperor might command their rice, but he could not command their compassion. —

Chapter 8: Seeds of Change

Winter settled over Yamato. In Nara, Eiji knelt before the Buddha, searching for answers. He resolved to speak out, quietly, to teach the novice monks that compassion was not mere ritual, but action. In the countryside, Sae and her family survived the winter, helped by the secret jar and the shared food of their neighbors. The hardships had not broken them. In whispered conversations by the hearth, they dreamed of a day when the rice of the people would be their own. The edict remained, and the taxes continued. But in the cracks of the imperial order, kindness and dissent grew. —

Chapter 9: Endings and Beginnings

As spring returned, Sae ventured to Nara, bearing offerings for her ancestors at the great temples. She caught sight of Eiji, now teaching a small gathering of children outside Gangō-ji, sharing stories of the Buddha’s mercy. Their eyes met—a fleeting moment of understanding between city and countryside, between the burdened and those who sought to lift the burden. The Emperor’s temples would rise, as would many more edicts. But in the hearts of the people—farmers, monks, and laborers—grew a quiet resistance, a hope that justice and mercy might one day find their place beside power. —