First year, first harvest

​

The lake was saturated with the heat of summer. The dawn brought dragonflies that buzzed amongst the reeds, the evening brought mosquitoes, and the midday sun brought a thick, humid air that allowed the rot to thrive.

Njejemobo glided along the surface of the lake as his son Ōsjebe paddled slowly. There would be no rôdo to fill their canoe, come harvest. The grass was browning here and greying there, flooping down into the water and struggling to grow past their heads. It was a failure like he had never seen before.

Many in Pabamamai lamented the sickness that was spreading through their fields: for some, it was the spirit Norhohānnassan, who swam amongst the paddies, and poisoned the roots of the rôdo. For others it was Mother Rôdo herself who, angry at her children, was withholding her nourishment to punish us.

Opposing opinions and a concave pot: weight always falls in the middle.

It was neither of those, as far as Njejemobo was concerned. Neither evil nor good inhabited those fields, neither of those opposing strengths lived amongst the paddy. It was the absence of spirits that allowed that chaos.

“There, son.” The old man's leathery hand pointed towards a healthy patch of grass, a small miracle. Amongst the brown and black, a handful of young, yellowish stalks sprouted amongst their dead surrounding. The seeds weren’t quite ripe yet - it was still early in the season - but they would have to do.

The son drove them near to those lonely stalks. he moved them closer to his blade and cut them off. The rest would have to go, eradicated completely from the sick mud of the paddy. They would wait for a new harvest, and suffer in the meantime.

​

Second year, first harvest

​

Father and son returned to the paddy. A temperate early spring had helped them in their purpose. Maybe the spirits have not abandoned us completely.

"There, son."

The rôdo had matured quickly, even if only half the plants had survived the devastating force of the black rot. They visited the paddy daily, inspecting the plants one by one, eradicating stalks at the first sign of their impending death.

Planting cattails where the rôdo had been removed was a good way to have something under their teeth come harvest, and – as was well known – the roots of cattails cleaned the waters and brought benefic influences to the other plants that shared their paddies. It was unclear if it truly helped with the rot or if the spirits had just decided to show their clemency that year, but at least one fourth of the paddy had matured come june and a third had grown free of rot.

It was time to cut.

Ōsjebe was weak, Njejemobo could see that but chose not to mention it. Whenever the father had suggested that Ōsjebe should rest, or that he let one of his younger brothers should come help the aging father in the paddy was met with proud refusals.

He's a good son. But this will kill him.

He was thinner and paler than he had ever been, yet he pushed the boat further without a trace of complaint on his face.

Mother rôdo, help him.

​

Second year, second harvest

​

Old Njejemobo was alone, this time, paddling and beating the stalks of rôdo by himself. It was a chilly day, late in october, and the second harvest had borne its fruit: slowly, spirits good and bad were returning to the lake, filling it with life. Ridding their modest paddy of the rot had been hard work, work that aged the man beyond his years and weakened his son until he died of a fever shortly after the first harvest.

He looked at a few flourishing patches of rôdo, almost two thirds of that fourth that had been cut which was now growing a second time before the frost, just in time. His son had cut those parches some months prior: in a way, they were the last manifestations of his son on this earth. He kissed his hand and blessed him.

"There, son, we made it through."

Tojorôdo, the double stalk of zizania, had always been a powerful symbol and the ladies of the city used it as an auspicious sign of fertility and abundance. There was a proverb behind it, there always was.

"A twin birth and a double stalk of zizania – blessings from a mother and sings of a power within her."

That mythical power was now before him. It was hardly enough to supplement the losses caused by the blight, Njejemobo knew that well, but it was enough to give the man some hope for the future. His weathered hands moved to caress the stalks of grown rôdo. It was enough to feed his family and heal from their losses.

​

​