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

by Roberts, Moss

  Once a man came to him with a case of typhoid, but Chang was drunk and dosed the patient with the medicine for malaria. When Chang awoke, he realized his mistake but was afraid to tell anyone. Three days later a grand ceremonial procession arrived at his gate to thank him, for the typhoid victim had recovered after a spell of severe vomiting and diarrhea. Incidents of this kind occurred frequently.

  From then on Chang became a wealthy man without holding office, and the value of his services continued to rise with his rising reputation. He would visit only those who offered him large fees and comfortable transportation.

  Another famous physician was Old Man Han, who lived in Yitu of Ch’ing province. Before he became famous he peddled tonics in the four corners of the realm. One night when he was far from any inn, he was given lodging by a family. It happened that their son was dying of typhoid, and the parents begged Han to treat the boy. Han feared that if he refused, they would throw him out; yet the truth was that he had no cure for the disease. Pacing back and forth wondering what to do, he rubbed his hand along his body, and some grime came off in his fingers. In his distraction he kneaded the dirt into a pellet. Then the thought struck him that he could dose the boy with it, for it certainly could do no harm. If there was no improvement by dawn, Han would have already earned a meal and his night’s rest.

  Han gave the boy the pellet, and in the middle of the night the boy’s father came knocking furiously at Han’s door. Sure that the boy had died, the physician leaped out of bed and vaulted the compound wall to avoid a beating. The father pursued the fleeing doctor for over a mile and finally caught up with him. Then Han learned that the patient had sweated and recovered. They led the medical man back to a sumptuous banquet and sent him on his way richly rewarded.

  —P’u Sung-ling

  The Lost Horse

  A man who lived on the northern frontier of China was skilled in interpreting events. One day for no reason, his horse ran away to the nomads across the border. Everyone tried to console him, but his father said, “What makes you so sure this isn’t a blessing?” Some months later his horse returned, bringing a splendid nomad stallion. Everyone congratulated him, but his father said, “What makes you so sure this isn’t a disaster?” Their household was richer by a fine horse, which the son loved to ride. One day he fell and broke his hip. Everyone tried to console him, but his father said, “What makes you so sure this isn’t a blessing?”

  A year later the nomads came in force across the border, and every able-bodied man took his bow and went into battle. The Chinese frontiersmen lost nine of every ten men. Only because the son was lame did father and son survive to take care of each other. Truly, blessing turns to disaster, and disaster to blessing: the changes have no end, nor can the mystery be fathomed.

  —Liu An

  The Deer in the Dream

  A woodsman of the state of Cheng was gathering firewood in the forest when he met a frightened deer. He stood before the animal and struck it dead. Afraid someone else would find and appropriate it, he hastily hid the deer in a ditch and covered it with the wood he had gathered. Presently, however, the place where he had hidden the deer slipped his mind, and he ended up thinking it had all been a dream.

  As the woodsman continued on his way, he sang a song about what had happened. A passerby on the road overheard the song, and making use of the words, found the deer and took it home. The passerby told his wife, “I heard a woodsman who dreamed he had a deer but didn’t know where it was. I now have it, so plainly his dream was true.”

  “Might it not be,” said his wife, “that you dreamed a woodsman had a deer? Why must there be a woodsman at all? Since you now have the deer, doesn’t it mean that your dream is true?”

  “Well, since the deer is in my possession,” said the man, “what difference does it make whether he was dreaming or I was?”

  When the woodsman who had killed the deer returned home, he was distressed over losing the animal. That night he dreamed of the place where he had hidden it and also of the passerby who had taken it. Early next morning he searched and found the man just where the dream had indicated. He took the man to court over the deer, and the case came before the magistrate.

  Addressing the woodsman, the magistrate said, “At first when you really got a deer, you called it a dream. And when you really dreamed of getting a deer, you called it real. The passerby really got your deer, and you are challenging him for it. His wife says that you are claiming another’s deer from a dream, and that no one got your deer. Now then, the passerby and his wife have possession of this deer, but I advise that it be divided between you.”

  The magistrate brought the case to the attention of the king of Cheng. “Ah well,” said the king, “I suppose you will in turn be dreaming that you divided the deer?” The king consulted the prime minister, his chief adviser, who said, “I cannot tell dreaming from waking. Only the Yellow God-king or Confucius could do that. Since we have neither, it seems best to accept the magistrate’s decision.”

  —Lieh Tzu

  Loss of Memory

  Hua Tzu of the state of Sung suffered a loss of memory in his middle years. Whatever he took in the morning was forgotten by evening. Whatever he gave in the evening was forgotten by morning. On the road he would forget to move ahead. Indoors he would forget to sit down. Here and now, he has forgotten then; later he will not remember the here and now.

  His whole household was plunged into confusion by his ailment. Finally he sought the help of an astrologer, but divination provided no answer. He sought the help of a medium, but prayer could not control the problem. He visited a physician, but the treatment brought no relief.

  In the state of Lu there was a Confucian scholar who claimed that he could cure the disease, and Hua Tzu’s wife paid him half their estate to do it. “No sign or omen,” said the Confucian, “can solve this. No prayer can preserve him. No medicine will work. I must try to transform his mind and alter his thinking; then there may be hope.” The scholar stripped Hua Tzu, and the naked man demanded clothes. The scholar starved Hua Tzu, and he demanded food. He locked Hua Tzu in a dark room, and he demanded light.

  The delighted Confucian said to Hua Tzu’s son, “This illness can be cured. But my remedy is a secret handed down for generations, a secret that has never been revealed to anyone outside our family. I must ask you to dismiss all your father’s attendants so that he can live alone with me for seven days.” The son agreed.

  No one knows what methods the scholar used, but Hua Tzu’s ailment of many years cleared up. When Hua Tzu realized that he was cured, he went into a tremendous rage. He chastised his wife, punished his son, and drove off the Confucian with weapons. People seized Hua Tzu and asked him why he did this.

  “In my forgetfulness I was a free man, unaware if heaven and earth existed or not,” said Hua Tzu. “But now I remember all that has passed, all that remains or has perished, all that was gained or lost, all that brought sorrow or joy, all that was loved or hated—the ten thousand vexations of my decades of life. And I fear that these same things will disturb my mind no less in times to come. Where shall I find another moment’s oblivion?”

  —Lieh Tzu

  The Sun

  During his travels to the east, Confucius came upon two boys arguing. He asked them why, and one replied, “I say that the sun is closest to us when it first comes up, and farthest away at noon.”

  “No,” said the other, “it’s farthest from us when it rises and closest at noon.”

  The first boy said, “When the sun rises, it’s as big as a chariot’s canopy. At noon it’s the size of a plate. Isn’t this because the farther is smaller, the closer is larger?”

  The second boy said, “When the sun rises it’s still cool, but by noon it’s quite hot. Isn’t this because what’s closer is hotter, and what’s farther is cooler?”

  When Confucius could not solve the problem, the two boys said, “Who says you know so much?”

  —Lieh Tzu

&n
bsp; THE ANIMAL KINGDOM

  A Faithful Mouse

  Yang T’ing-yi tells about the time he saw two mice come into the open and a snake gobble one of them down. The other mouse, eyes popping like peppercorns, kept his distance as he glared. The snake got the mouse it had caught into its belly and slithered for its hole. It was more than halfway in when the second mouse dashed forward and clamped his teeth around the snake’s tail. Furious, the snake backed out. The ever-nimble mouse darted to safety in a flash. The snake gave chase but failed to catch the mouse, so it returned to its hole. As it was entering, the mouse seized its tail exactly as he had before. Each time the snake crawled in, the mouse struck; each time the snake came out, the mouse ran. This went on for quite a while, until the snake spat the dead mouse onto the ground. The second mouse came up and cried over his friend. Then, squeaking dolefully, he picked up the corpse in his mouth and left. My friend Chang Li-yu wrote a poem in its honor called “The Faithful Mouse.”

  —P’u Sung-ling

  The Loyal Dog

  A man of Luan had run afoul of the law and was about to be executed. His son scraped together all the family’s savings, which came to a hundred pieces of silver, to appeal the case to the governor. When the son mounted his donkey and set out for the capital, his black dog followed after him. The son shouted at the dog to go home, but the moment he started to ride away, the animal followed again. Even when he whipped the dog it hung around and sidled after him.

  Man, donkey, and dog had gone a dozen miles or so in this manner when the son dismounted and hurried to the side of the road to relieve himself. Then he began throwing stones at the dog, until the animal finally fled for its life. Once free, the man and the donkey set out and made good time, when suddenly the dog reappeared. Breathing so hard its sides were like pumping bellows, it snapped at the donkey’s tail and ankles. Angrily the son laid his whip to his pet. It yelped and barked, but leaped ahead and snapped at the donkey’s head as if it were trying to block the way.

  Angrier than ever, the son turned the donkey around and rode back the way he had come, driving the dog before him. When he had it running a long way ahead of him, he swung around and galloped toward the capital.

  It was nightfall when he arrived. He felt for the satchel of silver at his side. Half the money was missing! He broke into a heavy sweat and lost his wits completely. All night he tossed and turned, until it struck him that there must have been a reason for the commotion the dog had made.

  He had to wait until early morning for the city gates to open. Then he rode carefully back the way he had come, with a sharp eye out for his money. Travelers on the roads were thick as ants, however, and he figured there was little chance of finding it. He came to the spot where he had dismounted to relieve himself. There in the high grass he saw the dog’s lifeless body, its fur soaked as if it had been bathed. He lifted the dog’s ear and saw the silver, intact, before his very eyes.

  Moved by the dog’s devotion, the son bought a coffin and buried it. The place is still known as the Loyal Dog’s Tomb.

  —P’u Sung-ling

  Black and White

  The philosopher Yang Chu had a younger brother named Pu. One day Pu left the house wearing white clothes. A storm came up and soaked them, so he changed into some dark ones. When he returned home, his dog did not recognize him and barked furiously. Pu was angry and raised his arm to beat the dog, when his older brother said, “Don’t hit him. Would you recognize your dog if he went off white and came home black?”

  —Lieh Tzu

  The Dog Goes to Court

  In the fall of the year a traveler was riding home from a business trip with five or six hundred pieces of silver. In a county called Chungmou he dismounted from his mule and sat by the roadside to rest. A young man with a long pole on which he was carrying a dog sat down beside him.

  The dog whimpered piteously at the merchant as if begging for his freedom, so the traveler bought the dog from the youth and set it loose. Meanwhile the young man noticed that the merchant’s sack was heavily loaded. He quietly followed the traveler to a deserted spot, where he beat him to death with the pole. He dragged the body to a small bridge that crossed a stream, covered the corpse with sand and reeds, shouldered the sack, and left.

  Seeing the stranger dead, the dog kept out of sight but trailed the youth home. He took note of the place and left, running all the way to the county courthouse. It happened that the judge was opening the day’s sessions, and the sergeants-at-arms were in position, strict and severe. The dog dashed forward and made a great outcry, half moaning, half appealing. He could not be driven off.

  “What’s your complaint?” asked the judge. “I’ll send an officer to follow you.” The dog led the officer to the foot of the bridge where the traveler’s body was hidden; then he barked toward the water. The officer pulled up the reeds and discovered the corpse. He reported back to the judge, but there was no way to apprehend the culprit. The dog also returned to the courthouse, where he barked and flung himself about. “You know who did it?” asked the judge. “I might as well send officers to follow you.”

  This time the judge dispatched several men with the dog. They trailed him for seven or eight miles until they came to a house in a remote village. The dog entered it, leaped on a young man inside, and savaged him, tearing his clothes and drawing blood. The officers dragged the man to the courthouse, where he confessed and gave details of his crime. “The merchant’s silver has not been touched,” he told them, and they returned to the house for it. Inside the merchant’s sack of money they also found a document with his name and village.

  The judge passed sentence on the young man and had the sack placed in the public treasury. Again the dog planted himself and barked without letup. The judge reflected, “Although the merchant is dead, his family must be alive. The sack belongs to them; that must be why the dog is barking.” So he sent his officers off to the dead man’s village. The dog followed.

  When they arrived, the merchant’s family was terribly shocked to learn that he was dead. The man’s son went back with the officers to Chungmou, where the culprit had already died in jail. The judge took the sack of silver, checked it carefully, and turned it over to the son.

  The dog meanwhile followed the son to Chungmou and then back again when the coffin was escorted home. And in all the hundreds of miles that they covered, the animal conducted itself like a human being.

  —Hsü Fang

  The Tale of the Trusty Tiger

  One morning a woodsman was walking through a bamboo grove. All of a sudden he lost his footing and fell into a tiger’s lair. Two little cubs were inside the pit, which was shaped like an upside-down bowl. Sharp, jagged stones stuck out on three sides. The front wall was smooth but well over ten feet high. It was an unbroken drop like a slide—the tiger’s pathway.

  The woodsman leaped up and fell back down a number of times. Then he walked around inside at his wit’s end. Tearful, he awaited his death. The sun set, and the wind brought the tiger’s howl. She scaled the wall and entered the pit with a freshly killed elk, which she tore in half for her two cubs. Next she saw the woodsman cowering on the ground. She spread her claws and flexed her front legs, but then circled him pensively as if she had had a second thought. Instead of attacking, she fed him a scrap of the meat. As he ate it, she went into her niche with her cubs to rest.

  The woodsman figured that the tiger was not hungry now but would surely devour him come morning. Instead, the tiger leaped out of the pit at the crack of dawn. At midday she returned, bringing a musk deer, which she fed to her cubs. And as before, she threw the leftovers to the famished woodsman, who devoured them. To relieve his thirst he drank his own urine. This went on for nearly a month, and gradually he became used to the tiger.

  One day when the cubs had grown husky, the tiger put them on her back and went out. Frantic, the woodsman howled to the heavens, “Save me, Your Majesty!” Within moments the tiger came back, folded her forelegs, and lowered
her head before the woodsman. He climbed onto her back, and she vaulted the wall. There on the surface she set the woodsman down, took her cubs, and went on. He was left alone by a dark cliff in dense grasses, where there was no song of birds or any noise but the shrill wind blowing out of the dark wood. More frantic than ever, the woodsman called out, “Your Majesty!”

  The tiger turned and regarded him. Kneeling, the woodsman pleaded, “It was Your Majesty’s kindness that kept me alive. But now we shall be lost to one another, for I fear I shall not escape wild beasts. To guarantee my safety, could you favor me with your escort to a main highway? I shall be in your debt to my dying day.”

  The tiger nodded and preceded the woodsman to the main road. Then she turned around and stood staring at him. Again the woodsman expressed his thanks: “I’m a poor man of the west gate, and after I leave you, we’re not likely to meet again. But when I get home I’m going to raise a pig, and I will wait for you with the pig on a certain day at a certain time by the post station. Come and enjoy a feast. Don’t forget.”