Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library)

by Roberts, Moss

  The bird flew down and furled its wings, settling upon a painted screen. It told Liang of the maid’s affection and the depth of her anxiety. Elated, Hsü asked if the maid could read. “Somewhat,” the bird replied, and then and there Hsü wrote a letter revealing his love and vowing to marry her. He sealed the note and set it on the ground. The parrot swooped down, took the paper in its beak, and flew away, leaving Liang Hsü more astonished than ever by the oddness of it all.

  For several days the young man did not see the bird. All news of the maid was abruptly cut off, and he was racked by yearning and despair. Then he heard that a maid in the great household where his beloved served had died and been hastily buried. Suspecting the worst, he made inquiries and verified that it was his own heart’s love, though he could not discover the cause of her death. So great was his grief that he almost lost his voice from weeping.

  What Liang Hsü did not know was that the maid had seen his note and, ashamed of her inability to write, had removed an earring and given it to the bird to carry back to her intended. The bird was to tell him the location of her parents’ home and ask him to visit them and make a gift of money. Her freedom could then be redeemed and she could marry Liang Hsü.

  The bird took the earring in its beak and flew aloft, but midway in its course a young tough struck it in the cheek with a rock. The talking parrot tumbled lifeless to the ground.

  It was not long before disaster struck the maid also. At first the master had favored her because of her beauty, and everyone had expected that she would take her place among the master’s concubines. But she had resisted the idea and had grumbled behind the master’s back. When she had put the blame for the lost bird on the other maids and servants, they had looked at her askance even though they had escaped a whipping. They feared that she would cause trouble for them once she became the master’s favorite concubine, so they soon attacked her in unison. Having heard her talking to the bird in her room during the night, they spread the slander that she was involved with some man. The tale was quickly sowed in the ear of the master, who began to nurse a deep jealousy. Presently he made a search of the maid’s room and came across Liang Hsü’s love letter. Enraged now, he had the maid interrogated under torture. Since the story of the parrot partook somewhat of the absurd, the maid herself could not give a clear account of it, and so she was beaten until her body was covered with bruises and her breath scarcely came. Though she was near death, the master did not wait but put her alive into a coffin and ordered her buried in the wilds.

  After he learned of her death, Liang Hsü treasured the memory of his buried jewel. He sat, wounded in spirit, and dozed off at his desk. Suddenly a woman entered his dreams. Clothed in feathers, she walked with a dancing gait as she came before him and pulled her lapels together in the ceremonial salute traditionally required of women. “I am the parrot,” she said, “and my elder sister, your heart’s love, is a parrot as well. Thanks to her virtuous conduct in our previous lifetime, she was transformed into a human, and by chance I was reunited with her. I became concerned that she would be humiliated in an unworthy match, so I respectfully made an occasion to introduce her to you. Who would have thought I would die before accomplishing my mission—leaving my sister’s virtue to be defiled, a wrong she bore unto death. The pity of it! And yet something of her vital force still remains, though none save you can help her.”

  In his dream Liang Hsü was overjoyed and rose to question the vision. Pointing a finger, she said, “One hundred paces beyond the city … the tomb of the fair one is not far away …” The woman fell to the ground, turned into a crane, and soared to the heavens.

  Liang Hsü awoke with a start. At once he ordered his horse and rode out beyond the city wall. He knew of a certain hamlet whose name had the same sound as “hundred paces,” the hint in the dream. There he found the burial site, although he did not dare open it right away. He took a room in the hamlet, and when night came he paid his servant to accompany him to the dread place and help him open the tomb. It was not very deep, and when they reached the coffin he thought he could hear the sound of breathing. He broke open the lid, and the maid returned to life.

  Delirious with joy, Liang Hsü went to a nearby Buddhist convent and humbly knocked at the gates. He related in full his reasons for coming, and the nuns, who took pleasure in acts of charity, agreed to help him lift the maid from the hole. Liang Hsü carried her to the convent on his own back and left her with the nuns. After seeing to the costs, he went home.

  It was over a month before the maid regained her strength. Then Liang Hsü asked a nun from the convent to be his matchmaker and explain as forcefully as possible to his mother that his heart belonged to a girl from a poor home.

  Hsü’s mother went to see the maid whom she remembered meeting once before, and listened sympathetically to the girl’s tearful story. Having always treasured her son, the mother would never thwart his wishes. She took his fiancée home from the convent and severed relations with the maid’s former household, so that the girl’s whereabouts were kept secret. And Liang Hsü remembered the talking parrot’s kindness so well that whenever he met someone who had captured one of these birds, he would buy it and free it.

  —Hao Ko Tzu

  Sea Prince

  On the Isle of Relics in Shantung multicolored flowers are in bloom the year round. No one has ever lived on the island, and even visitors rarely go there.

  A youth named Chang was a lover of things strange and curious. Having heard of the marvelous sights on the island, he prepared wine and food and rowed himself there in a small skiff.

  He arrived when the flowers were at their greatest glory, exhaling fragrance that could be scented for a mile. Trees were there too, wide as a dozen spans. He was enraptured and unwilling to leave. He opened his winejar and poured for himself, regretting only that he had no one to keep him company.

  Suddenly from among the flowers a beautiful maiden appeared wearing a dazzling red robe. She was unlike anyone he had ever laid eyes upon. She smiled at Chang and said, “I thought I was alone in my enthusiasm for this place, and never imagined I would find a kindred spirit here.” Startled, Chang asked her who she was.

  “I am a singing girl from Chiaochou,” she continued. “I have come with the sea prince, who has taken off in pursuit of scenic wonders. I remained behind because it is difficult for me to walk.”

  Chang was elated to have so beautiful a maid end his loneliness, and he invited her to sit with him and drink. The maid spoke with a warm and tender turn of phrase that stirred his feelings. Chang was strongly attracted to her, but he feared that the sea prince might come and prevent him from fulfilling his desires.

  As he was thinking, a wind sprang up and rustled the trees, which leaned and bent with its force. “The sea prince!” cried the maid. Chang clutched his clothes and looked in astonishment: the maid was gone! Then he saw a giant serpent emerge from the trees, its body thick as a large bamboo. Hoping it would not notice him, Chang hid behind a tree, but it drew closer and began wrapping itself coil by coil around both man and tree. Chang’s arms were locked between his legs, and he could not move them. The serpent raised its head and jabbed at Chang’s nose with its tongue. Blood poured out of his nose and formed a pool on the ground, and the serpent leaned down to drink it. Chang thought he was going to die.

  Suddenly he remembered that he was carrying a bag of fox-bane at his waist. Prying it free with two fingers, he broke open the bag and spilled the poison onto his palm. Then, turning his neck so that he could see his opened palm, he let the blood drip from his nose onto his palm. In moments his hand was full. The serpent drank a little of the poisoned blood, whereupon its body uncoiled, its tail thrashed with a peal like thunder, and it knocked against the tree, cracking the tree in half. Then it lay down on the ground and died, looking like a huge beam.

  At first Chang was too faint to get to his feet, but in an hour or two he revived enough to load the serpent on his boat and row home. It was
more than a month before he fully recovered from the attack by the beautiful girl who was a serpent spirit.

  —P’u Sung-ling

  A Girl in Green

  A student called Sung from Yitu, Shantung, was studying in the Temple of Sweet Springs. One night when he was reciting aloud over his open books, a girl appeared outside his window. “How diligently young master studies,” she said admiringly. As Sung wondered how such a maiden came to dwell in the mountain depths, she had already come smiling into the room. “Such diligence!” she repeated. Sung rose, surprised. She was graceful and dainty, green-bloused and long-gowned. Though he sensed that she might not be human, Sung questioned her about her home town.

  “Can’t you see I’m not going to bite you? Why bother with all these questions?” she replied.

  Greatly attracted, Sung shared his bed with her that night. When she took off her gossamer jacket, her waist was so slender that two hands could enclose it. Later, as the last night drum sounded, she fluttered away and was gone.

  She came every evening after that. Once when they were having wine together, her conversation revealed a knowledge of music. “Your voice is so bewitching,” Sung said. “If you would compose a song it would melt my heart.”

  “For that very reason,” replied the maiden, “I must not sing.” He pleaded, and she explained, “Your serving maid would not begrudge you the song, but what if someone should hear? Still, if you insist, I can only show my poor skills—just a whispered sign of my affection.” As she sang, she tapped her tiny foot lightly upon the couch.

  No butcherbird must catch

  This slave girl’s midnight song.

  No chill night dew can stay me

  From keeping my lord company.

  Her voice was a fine hum, the words barely audible. But to the absorbed listener the movement of the melody was lissome and ardent, affecting the heart as it touched the ear.

  When the song was over, she opened the door and peered outside. “I must make sure no one is out there.” She looked all around Sung’s chamber before reentering.

  “What makes you so anxious?” he said.

  “The proverb ‘A ghost that steals into the world fears all men’ applies to me.” Then she went to bed, but she was still uneasy. “The end of our relationship may be at hand,” she said. Sung pressed her for an explanation. “My heart is restless,” she told him. “I sense danger. My life will end.”

  Sung tried to calm her. “Such flutters of the heart are normal,” he said. “Do not jump to conclusions.” The maiden seemed relieved, and they embraced again.

  When the water clock had run dry and it was morning, the maiden put on her clothes and got out of bed. She was about to open the door, but walked back and forth instead. Finally she returned to him. “I don’t know why,” she said, “but fear is in my heart. Please see me out.” The youth arose and escorted her outside. “Keep an eye on me,” she said. “You may go back after I get over the wall.” Sung agreed. He watched as she rounded the corridor, then could see her no more.

  Sung was about to return to bed when he heard her cry out desperately. He rushed toward the sound, but there was no sign of her—only a noise under the eaves. Looking carefully, he saw a spider the size of a pellet with something in its clutches that made a whining sound. Sung broke the web, picked out the object, and removed the threads that bound it. The captive was a green bee on the verge of death. He took it to his room, where it rested on his desk for a long while. When the bee was able to walk, it slowly climbed to the inkwell and pitched itself in. Then it crawled out and walked back and forth until it had formed the word “Thanks.” The bee stirred its wings and with a last effort flew out of the window, ending the relationship forever.

  —P’u Sung-ling

  Butterfly Dreams

  Chuang Tzu said, “Once upon a time I dreamed myself a butterfly, floating like petals in the air, happy to be doing as I pleased, no longer aware of myself! But soon enough I awoke and then, frantically clutching myself, Chuang Tzu I was! I wonder: Was Chuang Tzu dreaming himself the butterfly, or was the butterfly dreaming itself Chuang Tzu? Of course, if you take Chuang Tzu and the butterfly together, then there’s a difference between them. But that difference is only due to their changing material forms.”

  —Chuang Tzu

  Suited to Be a Fish

  Hsüeh Wei was appointed deputy assistant magistrate in Ch’ing-ch’eng county in the year A.D. 759. He was a colleague of the assistant magistrate, Mr. Tsou, and the chief constables, Mr. Lei and Mr. P’ei. In the autumn of that year Hsüeh Wei was ill for seven days. Then he suddenly stopped breathing and did not respond to persistent calling. But the area around his heart was slightly warm, and the family, reluctant to bury him too quickly, stood guard over him and waited.

  Twenty days later, Hsüeh Wei gave a long moan and sat up. “How many days was I senseless?” he asked.

  “Twenty days.”

  “Find out for me whether or not the officials Tsou, Lei, and P’ei are now having minced carp for dinner,” Hsüeh Wei said. “Tell them I have regained consciousness and that something most strange has happened. Bid them lay down their chopsticks and come to listen.”

  A servant left to find the officials, who were indeed about to dine on minced carp. He conveyed Hsüeh Wei’s request, and they all stopped eating and went to Hsüeh Wei’s bedside.

  “Did you gentlemen order the revenue officer’s servant, Chang Pi, to get a fish?” Hsüeh Wei asked them.

  “Yes, we did,” they replied.

  Hsüeh Wei then turned to Chang Pi and said, “Chao Kan, the fisherman, had hidden a giant carp that he had caught; he offered to fill your order with some small fish instead. But you found the carp in the reeds, picked it up, and brought it back. When you entered the magistrate’s office, the revenue officer was sitting east of the gate; one of the sergeants was sitting west of the gate. The revenue officer was in the midst of a game of chess. As you entered the hall, Mr. Tsou and Mr. Lei were gambling. Mr. P’ei was chewing on a peach. When Chang Pi told them how the fisherman had withheld his fine catch, they had him flogged. Then they turned the fish over to the cook, Wang Shih-liang, who was delighted with the carp and killed it. Is not all this true?”

  The officials turned and consulted one another and confirmed everything, saying, “But how did you know?”

  “Because that carp you had killed was me!” Hsüeh Wei replied to the astounded group.

  “Tell the whole story,” everyone said.

  “When I first took sick,” Hsüeh Wei began, “the fever was so intense that I could hardly bear it. All at once I felt stifled and forgot that I was ill. Burning as if I had caught fire, I sought to cool myself. I began to walk with a staff in my hand, unaware that I was dreaming.

  “When I had gone past the city wall, an ecstatic mood came to me, as if I were a caged bird or beast gaining its liberty. No one could know how it felt! I made my way into the hills, but I felt more stifled there than before. So I went down to wander by the edge of the river. It was deep and quiet, like a pool. The autumnal quality of the water made my heart ache. Not even a ripple was moving, and the water mirrored remotest space. Suddenly I had a desire to enter the water. I left my suit of clothes on the bank and dove in.

  “Ever since my youth I have been fond of the water, but in adulthood I no longer went swimming. Now I felt eager to enjoy myself so freely and satisfy a long-held desire. But I thought to myself, ‘Swimming in the water, man is not as fast as fish are. I wonder if I could enter somehow into the life of a fish and swim rapidly?’

  “A fish beside me said, ‘There’s nothing stopping you if you really want to. We can easily turn you into a regular fish; let me arrange it for you.’ And the fish was quickly gone. Shortly a fish-headed man several feet long arrived on the back of a sea monster. Several dozen fish were following him. The fish-headed man read me an edict from the river god:

  Living on dry land and swimming free in the deep are ways apart. T
hose on land never know the waves unless they love the water.

  Hsüeh Wei has expressed a wish to swim and dive, yearning for the leisure of the carefree deep. Finding pleasure in its boundless realm, he would give himself to its pure waters. Tired of high land, he forsakes the mortal world of illusion.

  For the present he may become a scaly creature, but this is not a permanent change of identity. Let him be a red carp in the Eastern Pond on a trial basis. But if he should rely on the tall waves to capsize people’s boats, the crime he thinks concealed will haunt him; while if he is greedy for bait, blind to the hook on the line, he will suffer in the open.

  Do not lose your dignity or shame your fellows. Be diligent in this!

  “Hearing the edict, I looked at myself and saw that I was already clad in the scales of a fish. So I flung myself into the water, swimming wherever I wished, atop the waves and down to the deepest deeps, always at ease, gamboling in the three rivers and five lakes of the kingdom. But every evening I had to return to the Eastern Pond, where I was assigned.

  “Presently I grew hungry and, finding nothing to eat, began to follow a boat. Suddenly I saw Chao Kan, the fisherman, drop a hook into the water. The bait looked sweet, but I had the sense to be careful. Then somehow it was near my mouth. ‘I am a man,’ I said to myself, ‘who is a fish only for the time being. Can’t I make an honest living for myself instead of swallowing his hook?’ So I moved away from the boat—but my hunger became worse.