“I thought to myself, ‘I am an official who is wearing the suit of a fish merely for fun. Even if I swallow that hook, I can’t believe the fisherman would kill me. Surely he would return me to the city.’ So I gobbled down the baited hook, and Chao Kan reeled me out of the water. As he reached for me, I cried out over and over, but he would not listen. He ran a string through my cheeks and tied me among some reeds.
“In a short time the servant Chang Pi came and said to Chao Kan, ‘Chief Constable P’ei wants to buy a fish, and it has to be a good-sized one.’ ‘I haven’t caught any,’ answered Chao Kan, ‘but I have over ten pounds of small fish.’ ‘He ordered me to get a big fish. I have no use for small ones,’ said Chang Pi. Then he poked among the reeds and picked me up.
“I said to Chang Pi, ‘I am the deputy assistant magistrate of your own county. I shifted into the shape of a fish and have been swimming through the waters of the kingdom. How can you fail to bow to me?’ Chang Pi paid no attention, picked me up, and walked on, ignoring even my curses. When we entered the gate to the magistrate’s office, I saw the officers sitting down to a game of chess. I shouted at them with all my might, but there was no response at all. They merely smiled and said, ‘Quite a catch! Three or four pounds, at least!’
“Then we entered the hall. Tsou and Lei were gambling. P’ei was chewing on a peach. Everyone was delighted with the size of the fish, which was swiftly sent on to the kitchen. When Chang Pi reported that Chao Kan had concealed the carp and tried to fill the order with small fish, P’ei was enraged and had the fisherman beaten. I cried out to all of you that it was your own colleague who had been caught—but far from being set free, I was swiftly put to death. Was that humane? My shouts and tears were ignored as I was handed over to the cook.
“Wang Shih-liang took up his knife and threw me with pleasure onto the chopping block. Again I cried, ‘Wang Shih-liang, you are my regular fish-mincer. Would you kill me? Won’t you take me to the officials to explain what has happened?’ He seemed to be deaf as he pressed my neck against the block and struck off my head. The moment the head fell, I awoke and summoned all of you.”
The officials were dumbfounded. Compassion arose in their hearts. But when Chao Kan had caught him, when Chang Pi had picked him up, when the two officers had been playing chess, when the three officials had been in the hall, when the cook had prepared to kill him, the fish was not heard at all even though its mouth was moving.
The three gentlemen threw away the minced fish and from then on never touched that dish. Hsüeh Wei recovered and rose to be assistant magistrate before he finally passed away.
—Li Fu-yen
Li Ching and the Rain God
When the great military hero Li Ching was still an obscure and humble man, he would hunt with bow and arrow in the Huo mountains, lodging and dining in a local hamlet. The hamlet elder thought him quite remarkable and treated him more and more bountifully as the years went by.
Once Li Ching came upon a herd of deer and pursued them. Dusk was at hand. He wanted to give up the chase, yet excitement carried him forward, and soon in the darkness of the night he lost his way. Where was the road home in this bewildering blackness? Vexed, he pressed on, his anxiety increasing. Then on the horizon he saw the glow of lanterns and headed swiftly toward them.
He arrived at a large mansion with the vermilion gates of wealth and rank. The walls were exceptionally high. After he had knocked for a long time, a servant came out. Li Ching explained that he had lost his way and begged a night’s lodging. “It may not be possible to stay overnight,” he was told. “The young masters have gone, and only the mistress is at home.”
“At least convey my request,” Li Ching urged.
The man went inside and then returned. “At first the mistress thought of refusing,” he said, “but considering the blackness of the night and the fact that you are lost, she felt obliged to serve as your host.”
So Li Ching was invited into the living room. Soon a maid appeared to announce the mistress, who came out wearing a black skirt with a white jacket. She was something over fifty years of age and carried herself with an air of unaffected elegance. To Li Ching it was like entering the home of a leading member of society. He came forward and bowed. Returning his bow, the mistress said, “Since neither of my sons is here, it is not appropriate that you stay. However, the night is dark and the way home uncertain, so that if I refused you, where could I send you? Still, ours is a simple dwelling in the mountain wilds. My sons come and go all the time. Sometimes they arrive in the night and make a lot of noise. I hope you will not be alarmed.”
“Not at all,” replied Li Ching. The mistress ordered dinner served. The food was fresh and excellent. Strangely for that mountain setting, there was plenty of fish. After dinner the mistress went into another part of the house. Two maids brought bedding and spick-and-span covers which were most luxurious. Then they closed the gate, barred it, and left.
Li Ching wondered what could be coming at night and causing a commotion out here on the wild mountain. He was too frightened to sleep and sat upright, listening. The night was almost half over when urgent knocking sounded at the gate. He heard a servant answer and the caller announce, “The heavens command your son to send down rain in a radius of two miles around this mountain; steady rain until the dawn watch should suffice. Do not delay or cause any harm.”
The servant answering the door brought the written order to the mistress inside. “My sons have not come home yet,” Li Ching heard her say, “and the order for rain has arrived. We cannot refuse, and if we delay we will be punished. It is already too late to send someone to tell the boys. The servants can’t be expected to take it into their own hands. What shall we do?”
“The guest in the living room seems to be a remarkable fellow,” one of the young maids said. “Why not ask him?”
Grateful for the suggestion, the mistress knocked at Li Ching’s door. “Are you awake, sir?” she asked. “Kindly come out for a moment.” Li Ching was swift to comply.
“This is not a human habitation,” the lady then told him. “It is the palace of the dragon whose duty is to make rain.”
Li Ching was astonished and awed, for the dragon, dwelling in the deep and rising into the clouds, governs the cycle of rainfall over the earth.
“My older son has gone to the East China Sea to attend a wedding,” the lady continued. “My younger is escorting his sister for the evening. A moment ago we received Heaven’s command to send down rain. There is no time to inform the boys, since thousands of leagues now separate us. A replacement is not easy to find, either. I must venture to trouble you: Would it be possible for you to help us this instant?”
“I am a mortal man, not a rider of the clouds,” Li Ching replied. “How would I be able to send the rain? But if there is some art you can teach me, then I am at your disposal.”
“Only follow my directions,” said the mistress, “and there’s nothing you cannot do!” She called for the horse, which was a cream-colored steed draped in black, and directed the servants to tie the rain holder, a little vase, to the front of the saddle. “Don’t rein in on the bit,” she warned Li Ching. “Follow the horse’s own movements. When he stamps his feet and whickers, take one drop of water from the vase and let it fall onto his mane. Be sure not to use more than one drop!”
Li Ching mounted the horse. It vaulted forward, its feet going higher and higher. Li Ching was amazed at its speed and steadiness; he did not realize that he was on top of the clouds. The wind raced by like arrows. Thunder rumbled beneath his feet. Then the horse stamped, and the rider put a drop of water on his mane. Lightning gleamed and clouds parted. Below, he could see the hamlet where he often lodged. ‘I’ve given the hamlet much trouble,’ he thought, ‘and they have treated me very kindly. How can I repay them? There has been such a long drought that their crops are nearly parched. Now that I have the rain in my hands, why should I be stingy with it?’ So Li Ching put twenty drops more onto the ho
rse’s mane. Soon the rain stopped, and he rode back to the mansion.
There he found the mistress sobbing in front of the living room. “Oh what a mistake!” she cried. “You promised to use no more than one drop. Why did you use twenty to satisfy your whim? One drop from heaven means a foot of rain on earth. By midnight this hamlet had twenty feet of water! There are no people left. I have been severely blamed and given eighty strokes of the rod. Just look at my back; it’s covered with bloody welts. My sons are also incriminated. Oh, what shall I do?”
Li Ching was struck dumb with shame and fear. “Good sir,” the lady continued, “you are but a man from the world of mortals, who knows nothing of the movements of cloud and rain. Really, I cannot hold you to blame. But if the dragon king comes looking for you, you will have much to fear. Leave quickly, then, but let me reward you for your pains. Here in the mountains we have little to offer. Perhaps you would accept a gift of two servants—or only one of them, as you choose.” And she ordered the two servants to come out.
One came from the east corridor. His face and manner were gentle and pleasing, and he seemed most agreeable. The other came from the west corridor. Hot-tempered and boisterous, he stood restraining his anger.
“We hunters are combative and fierce in what we do,” said Li Ching. “Were I to choose the gentle one, wouldn’t people take me for a coward? Yet I would not be so bold as to take them both. Since you have offered, I choose the fierce one.”
Smiling faintly, the mistress said, “If that is all you wish, sir?” She saluted him and they parted. The servant left with Li Ching, who went a few steps past the gate and looked back. The house was gone. He turned to the servant, but he too had vanished, and Li Ching had to find his way home alone. In the daylight he looked toward the hamlet, and there was water as far as the eye could reach. Only the tips of some trees stood above the flood. No men were to be seen.
It is said that east of the T’ung Pass prime ministers are produced; west of the pass, generals. Li Ching eventually quelled rebellions with his military might, and his victories were unsurpassed. But he never attained the post of prime minister. Can it be because he did not also take the gentle servant from the east corridor?
—Li Fu-yen
Jade Leaves
In the land of Sung there was a man who fashioned jade into wild mulberry leaves for his lord. The leaves, which took three years to complete, were so perfectly proportioned in stalk and stem, so magnificently realized in the minutest detail, that they could not be told apart when mixed among living leaves. The state supported this craftsman for his skill.
Lieh Tzu objected, “What if heaven and earth needed three years to create a leaf? There wouldn’t be many trees. Surely the sage counts on the fruitfulness of nature rather than the ingenuity of man.”
—Lieh Tzu
The Wizard’s Lesson
Tu Tzu-ch’un lived at the time when the great Sui Dynasty was founded. In his youth he was a devil-may-care sort who never troubled himself to preserve the family’s property. With his easygoing, self-indulgent temperament, and his taste for wine and dissolute company, he soon squandered his resources. Friends and relations to whom he turned for help only scorned him for neglecting his responsibilities.
The winter found him in tattered clothes, his stomach empty, barefoot in the streets of the capital, Ch’angan. By day’s end he had yet to eat. Confused, with nowhere to go, he drifted toward the west gate of the Eastern quarter. His wretched condition was all too obvious as he raised his eyes to the heavens and groaned.
“Sir, what is it you complain of?” An old man holding a staff stood before him. Tzu-ch’un told his story with indignation over the way his own family had slighted him.
“How many strings of cash would make you comfortable?” asked the old man. In those days, strings of coins were carried in loops of a thousand to each string.
“Thirty to fifty thousand cash would keep me alive,” answered Tzu-ch’un, naming a grand sum.
“Hardly enough,” said the old man. “Speak again.”
“One hundred thousand, then,” said Tzu-ch’un.
“Too little.”
“One million.”
“Still too little.”
“Three million!”
“That should do it,” said the old man as he drew a single string of cash from his sleeve. “Let this provide for you tonight. Tomorrow noon I shall watch for you at the Persian bazaar. Take care not to be late.” And at the appointed time Tzu-ch’un went to the Persian bazaar, where the old man was waiting for him. The man handed Tzu-ch’un three million cash, then left without disclosing his identity.
But wealth rekindled Tzu-ch’un’s extravagant desires. Never again, he thought, would he have to live the life of a stranger adrift. He rode the sleekest horses and wore the finest furs and silks. He gathered drinking companions and hired musicians, singing and dancing his way through the pleasure houses of the city. He gave no further thought to managing his money.
In a couple of years Tzu-ch’un had to exchange his fine clothes and costly carriage for cheaper sorts. Then he gave up his remaining horse for a donkey. And soon he gave up the donkey and went about on foot as before. In no time he was back where the old man first found him. At his wits’ end, he moaned in anguish by the gates to the quarter. At the sound of his voice the old man reappeared, took Tzu-ch’un by the hand, and said, “I didn’t expect to find you like this again. But I shall help you out. How many strings?”
Tzu-ch’un was too mortified to reply. The old man urged him to answer, but the prodigal could only thank him sheepishly for his concern. “Tomorrow noon, come to the place where we met before,” said the old man. Tzu-ch’un suppressed his shame and went. He got ten million cash.
Before accepting the money, Tzu-ch’un resolved that he would plan his life and livelihood so sensibly that the famous rich men of history would seem like small-timers. Once he had the money in hand, however, his convictions turned upside down. His self-indulgent nature was as strong as ever, and within a few years he was poorer than ever.
For the third time he met the old man at the familiar place. Tzu-ch’un could not master his embarrassment; covering his face with his hands, he fled. But the old man grabbed the tail of his coat and stopped him. “I should have known you’d need more,” he said, giving Tzu-ch’un thirty million cash. “But if this doesn’t cure you, there’s no remedy.”
Tzu-ch’un thought, “When I fell into evil ways and spent everything I had, relatives and friends took no notice of me at all. But this old man has thrice provided for me. How can I be worthy of his kindness?” And he said to the man, “With this sum I can put my affairs in good order, provide the necessities for widows and orphans, and repair my character. I am moved by your profound kindness and will perform any service for you once I have accomplished my tasks.”
“Such is my heart’s desire,” said the old man. “When you are done, meet me on the fifteenth day of the seventh month at the temple of Lao Tzu that stands between the juniper trees.”
Since most widows and orphans lived south of the Huai River, Tzu-ch’un transferred his funds to the city of Yangchou. He bought over fifteen hundred acres of choice land there, erected mansions for himself in the city, and set up more than a hundred buildings on the main roads to house the widows and orphans of the region. He arranged marriages for his nieces and nephews, provided all the clan dead with a place in the temple, matched all generosity shown him, and forgave all injuries. When he was done, it was time to seek out the old man.
Tzu-ch’un found him whistling in the shade of the junipers. Together the two ascended the Cloud Pavilion Peak of Hua Mountain at the western end of China. They had gone more than ten miles when they came to a clean, austere residence, unlike any where mortals dwelt, under a canopy of high arched clouds. Phoenix and crane winged through the air. Above them rose the main hall, inside which was an alchemist’s furnace nine feet high used for brewing potions and elixirs. Purple flames
licking up from it illuminated the door and windows in a fiery light. Around the furnace stood a number of jade-white fairy women, while a black dragon and a white tiger mounted guard front and back.
The sun was beginning to go down. The old man, no longer in mortal garb, appeared now as a Taoist wizard, yellow-hatted and scarlet-mantled. He held a beaker of wine and three white pellets to expand the mind, all of which he gave to Tzu-ch’un. The young man swallowed the pills, and the wizard spread a tiger skin against the western wall and seated Tzu-ch’un facing east.
“Take care not to speak,” the wizard cautioned. “Be it revered spirit, vicious ghost, demon of hell, wild beast, hell itself, or even your own closest relatives bound and tormented in a thousand ways—nothing you see is truly real. It is essential that you neither speak nor make any movement. Remain calm and fearless and you shall come to no harm. Never forget what I have said.” With that, the wizard departed.
Tzu-ch’un looked around. He saw nothing but an earthen cistern filled with water. Suddenly flags and banners, shields and spears, a thousand war chariots, and ten thousand horsemen swarmed over hill and dale. The clamor shook heaven and earth. A warrior called the General appeared. He was ten feet tall, and he and his horse wore metal armor that gleamed brilliantly. The General’s guard of several hundred men, swords drawn and bows taut, entered the space in front of the main hall.
“What man are you,” they cried, “that dares remain in the presence of the General?” Left and right, swords poised, they advanced, demanding Tzu-ch’un’s identity. But Tzu-ch’un firmly refused to answer. Infuriated, some wanted to cut him down, others to take a shot at him. Tzu-ch’un made no response, and the General left in a towering rage.
Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library) Page 4
