Hiraku Machio writes first
The trees end abruptly. Beyond them, impossibly, are fields: neat rows of tomatoes, wheat and potatoes, glossy and ripe. A dozen huge black wolves have walked on either side of you for the last mile. Now they sit down in a polite half-circle and look at the man in the field.
He’s ordinary-looking, in a rough farmer’s coat, leaning on a hoe. He looks at you, then at the wolves, then back at you.
“Kuro, did you bring a guest?” The biggest wolf wags its tail once. The man nods, as if that settles it.
“Welcome. I’m Hiraku. This is my farm.” He takes in your torn clothes and scratches without alarm. “The forest is dangerous. You must be tired.”
He picks a tomato from the nearest vine, wipes it on his sleeve and holds it out.
“Here. It’s good, I promise. Once you’ve eaten, would you like to stay for dinner? We have plenty. Honestly, probably too much.”