2.

The Village of Seosang-ri

Deep in the field he had tended for a lifetime, a solitary potato farmer dug up the last rows of his crop. The man had risen early that morning, determined to finish the late harvest before it rotted in the soil. Overnight, an early trace of snowfall had dusted the ground in a thin, lacy veil of white. He could see his own breath as he labored to fill the burlap sack hanging from his back. Once full, he trudged each load to the field’s edge to empty into a large wheelbarrow.

A line of tall, slender birch trees bordered the vast field. High in the branches, a gathering of magpies oversaw the man’s diligent work. They studied every turn of the soil with interest, for it always drove a fresh banquet of tasty earthworms to the surface, even this late in the season.

Long accustomed to the old farmer’s benign rituals, the birds felt free to dart from the treetops and move in behind as he worked. There they pecked and scrabbled at the loosened dirt, devouring the wriggling plump worms unearthed by the hoe. With bellies full, they returned to the trees to preen, sleep and wait for another course.

The farmer was always conscious of the birds’ presence and often encouraged them to partake. They provided company in the otherwise lonely field, and he considered them friends.

“Help yourselves,” he said. He raked the hoe to expose a fresh batch of grubs. After flinging a dirt-caked potato into his sack, he watched the magpies descend to feed behind him. Then he noticed something odd.

One lone bird still perched on the tallest neighboring tree. It was a strange raven he’d never seen before. Camouflaged by the birch bark, it stood immobile, watching him without expression. Odder still, the raven’s color was stark white, something mythical the farmer had only ever heard about.

Though the man did not traffic in everyday superstition, the motionless albino bird unsettled him. It did not belong here beside his field. Whether the animal was a harbinger of evil or a protective spirit, he drew a deep breath and pointed a direct finger. A few stray snowflakes still danced around him.

“Salajida!” he shouted. The farmer waved both arms, hoping to scare the raven away. “Begone to the temple! This is not your time!”

After a lengthy pause, the white bird extended its wings. It dove to catch air before lifting away in silence. With a single flutter, it rose to circle against the gray sky before fading above the chilly woods beyond.

The farmer soon returned to his focused work. He hauled several more punishing loads of crop, always returning to where he had left off. Grateful to be almost finished, he stood tall to stretch his back before casting his eyes upon the horizon.

Without warning, the ever-present magpies disbanded in agitation, scattering from the frosted field. The farmer froze in place, stunned to see thick plumes of angry black smoke advancing towards the nearby local village of Seosang-ri.

With breathless urgency, the old man stumbled in haste over the many uneven plowed rows to his weathered barn. Without pause he grabbed a wooden mallet and bore it hard against a small copper gong suspended from an overhead beam. This was not the usual gentle call to bring his livestock home at the end of another day.

Over and over he sounded full alarm to his neighbors of the calamity about to befall. The sonorous clangs echoed across the distance. The fast repetition told of dire emergency, and he knew they would listen.

Seosang-ri was a small and humble village. Nestled in the deep backwoods