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

by Roberts, Moss

  The tiger nodded. The woodsman wept, and the tiger wept too. When the woodsman arrived home, his astonished family questioned him, and after he had told his story they rejoiced together. At the appointed time he prepared a pig and took great pains in butchering it. The tiger, however, arrived at the appointed place before the appointed hour. Unable to find the woodsman, she actually entered the west gate, where she was seen by the residents. They summoned some hunters, who closed the main gate and wings and gathered around the tiger, their spears at the ready, arrows to the bow. They agreed to capture her alive and present her to the local authorities.

  The woodsman ran to the rescue, crying out to the crowd, “This tiger once kept me alive. I beg you all not to harm her!” But the hunters caught the tiger and took her to the government office. The woodsman went along, beating a drum and shouting. Angered, the officials questioned him, and he told them the whole story. They did not believe him.

  “Let me prove it, then,” said the woodsman, “and I’ll suffer a beating if what I say is false.”

  The woodsman put his arms around the tiger and said tearfully, “Your Majesty saved my life?” The tiger nodded. “Your Majesty entered the gate to keep our appointment?” The tiger nodded again. “I shall plead for your life; if I fail, I shall die with you.” As the woodsman spoke, the tiger’s tears fell to the ground. Of the many thousands who witnessed this, not one stood unmoved. The astounded officials hastened to free the tiger, then led her to the post station and threw her the promised pig. The tiger straightened her tail and made a feast of the pig. Afterwards she looked once at the woodsman and departed. Later this district was named after the trusty tiger.

  — Wang Yu-ting

  The Repentant Tiger of Chaoch’eng

  A woman of Chaoch’eng who was over seventy years old had an only son. One day he went into the mountains and was eaten by a tiger. The old woman grieved and grieved, ready to give up her life. Then with vociferous cries she complained to the local authorities.

  “How can a tiger be subject to the law?” said the magistrate with a smile. This only aggravated the old woman’s tantrum, and when the magistrate scolded her she would not be intimidated. Because he felt sorry for her, he kept his own temper and even ended by agreeing to have the beast apprehended.

  The old woman knelt down before him. She refused to leave until the warrant was actually issued, so the magistrate called for a volunteer on his staff to go and make the arrest. Li Neng, an agent who was drunk at the time, came forward and took the warrant, and the old woman left satisfied.

  When Li Neng sobered up, he regretted his offer. Still, he assumed that the warrant was only a ruse to stop the old woman from creating a nuisance, so he turned it back in to the magistrate casually. But that official said angrily, “You gave your word you’d do it. How can I accept a change of mind?”

  Cornered, the agent appealed for another warrant to deputize some hunters, and this the magistrate granted. Day and night Li Neng and his hunters now stalked the mountain hollows in hopes of catching a tiger. But more than a month passed without success, and the agent was given a severe beating of one hundred strokes. Having nowhere to turn for redress, he presented himself at the shrine east of the town. There he called on his knees for the local deity, crying until he had no voice.

  Soon a tiger came up. Li Neng was aghast, expecting to be eaten. But the tiger entered the shrine and, looking steadily at the agent, sat down on its haunches in the doorway. Li Neng called to the tiger as though it were a deity: “If it was you who killed the woman’s son, then you should submit to my arrest.” Then the agent took out a rope and tied it around the tiger’s neck. The tiger dropped his ears and accepted the rope, and the agent led the beast to the magistrate’s office. The magistrate asked the tiger, “That woman’s son—you ate him?” The tiger nodded.

  “Those who take life must die,” continued the magistrate. “That law stands from oldest times. Besides, the poor woman had only one son. How do you suppose she’ll survive the years that remain to her? However, if you should be able to serve as her son, I shall spare you.” Again the tiger nodded. So they removed the ropes and sent the animal away, though the old woman was grieved that the magistrate did not make the tiger pay with its life.

  When the morrow dawned, the old woman opened her gate to find a deer’s carcass, which she took and sold for her daily necessities. This became a custom, though sometimes the tiger would bring money or silk in his mouth and flip it into her yard. And so the woman became quite well-to-do—far better cared for than when her son was alive. She grew to feel deeply grateful for the tiger’s kindness. Eventually the tiger would come and lie under the eaves of her house the whole day, and the people and livestock no longer feared it.

  After several years the old woman died, whereupon the tiger came and bellowed in the front hall. The woman had saved up enough for an ample burial service, and her kinsmen laid her to rest. When the mound over the tomb was completed, the tiger suddenly bounded up. The mourners fled, and the tiger went straight to the front of the tomb, roared thunderously for a long while, and then departed. Local people set up a shrine to the loyal tiger by the eastern outskirts of the township, where it remains to this day.

  —P’u Sung-ling

  Tiger Boys

  In recent years my village has had a number of tigers, and they have chewed up more people than you can count. Travelers through most of China, in fact, have been similarly plagued. Some say tigers are agents of the Highest in Heaven, helping chase down those who have escaped their appointed death by violence. Others say tigers are manifestations of fierce demons and vengeful spirits in a state of agitation and frustration. There may be some truth in both views, but nothing is quite so remarkable as the story about Old Man Huang.

  Old Huang was from Mihsi, several miles from the town of Chiao. He had three fully grown sons. In the spring of the year, he sent them to plow his fields in the hills, and for several days they went out at sunup and returned home at dusk. One evening a neighbor said to him, “Your fields are overgrown with weeds.”

  “How could that be?” replied Old Huang. “My boys plow it every day.”

  “I’m afraid not,” answered the neighbor. Puzzled, the old man secretly followed his three sons when they went out next morning. He saw them enter the woods in the hills, remove their clothes, and hang them on a tree. Then they changed into tigers. Roaring and leaping, they emerged from the woods.

  Old Huang was terrified. He ran home and confided what he had seen to his neighbor, then bolted his door and hid. The three came home that night and called at the gate for a long time, but no one answered. At last the neighbor came out and explained that their father would no longer know them as sons because of what he had seen in the hills.

  “It’s true,” admitted the boys. “But we are not acting of our own free will. The Highest in Heaven compels us.” Then they cried to their father, “How could we fail to repay your boundless generosity? We feel helpless because you have long been destined for calamity. These past few days we have been ranging the hills in hopes of finding someone who could take your place. And even now, after you’ve discovered us, we can’t disobey our orders. In the collar of my clothes is a small booklet. Kindly get it for me, Father, otherwise you’re surely done for, and we three will be responsible for your death.”

  Old Huang took a lantern and searched in the collar, where he found the little booklet. It was filled with the names of those in Chiao who were to be killed by tigers. His own name was second from the top. “What can be done?” the old man asked.

  “Just open the gate,” said the boys. “We’ve thought of something.” Old Huang did so. The boys took the booklet and, weeping, bowed to him. Then they said, “This is all according to the decree of the Highest in Heaven. Now put on several layers of clothes, but don’t fasten the belt. Stick yellow paper on top, and pray fervently on your knees. We have our own way of rescuing you.”

  Old Huang did as he wa
s told. His three sons leaped over him from behind, each tiger catching a layer of clothes in its mouth. Then they dashed off with a great roar and never returned, and the old man is alive to this day.

  From ancient times there have been many cases of men turning into tigers. Without fail, their hides and their faces were transformed. But it is unheard-of for tigers to remain among men as these three boys did. Moreover, once the Highest in Heaven had assigned them to kill men while at the same time putting their own father’s name on the list, the sons were in a most difficult position. And if they failed to find a substitute for their father, they did preserve his life with great ingenuity. It may be said that theirs was a change of form, not of heart.

  The world is full of those who appear human and yet fail to recognize the king or the father standing in front of them. What, then, of those who have become tigers and yet remain grateful for the kindness they have enjoyed? How the Highest could let the boys’ own father be on their list of victims is beyond me.

  —Hsü Fang

  Human Bait

  Hsü Shan-ken of Shantung province made his living by digging ginseng roots, which are used in a precious tonic. Traditionally, ginseng diggers must do their work on the darkest possible nights. During one such night Hsü became exhausted from digging and went to sleep upon the sandy ground. He awoke to find himself clutched in the hand of a man some thirty feet tall who was covered all over with reddish hair. The giant was stroking Hsü Shan-ken and rubbing Hsü’s body against his fur, as if he were playing with pearls or jade. At each stroke the giant burst into wild laughter, and Hsü reckoned that he was going to be the creature’s next meal.

  He felt himself being carried off. The giant took him to a cave containing mounds of such things as tiger sinew, deer tail, and elephant tusk. There the giant placed Hsü on a stone bed and offered him some tiger and deer meat. Although the ginseng digger was delighted to find that he was not himself going to be gobbled up, he could not eat the bloody chunks of flesh. The giant lowered his head as if he were thinking; then he nodded as if he understood. He struck a stone and made a fire, drew some water, and set a pot to boil. Cutting up the meat, he added it to the pot, and when the stew was ready the giant presented it to Hsü, who ate with relish.

  As dawn approached, the giant took Hsü and five arrows and went out of the cave to the base of a cliff. There he tied Hsü to a tall tree and withdrew, leaving the ginseng digger terrified that the giant meant to shoot him. Presently a pack of tigers, scenting a live human, came out of caves in the cliffside. They jostled each other in their haste to get at Hsü, and the giant drew his arrows and killed them. Then he untied Hsü and carried him home in his arms, meanwhile dragging the dead tigers behind him. As before, he cooked them and offered his captive a feast

  For more than a month Hsü served the giant as tiger bait. The ginseng digger came to no harm, and the giant grew quite fat. But one day Hsü became homesick and, kneeling before the giant, implored him tearfully, pointing again and again to the east. Weeping also, the giant took Hsü in his arms back to the place where he had been captured. He showed Hsü the way home and pointed out a number of choice ginseng patches. And that is how Hsü Shan-ken became a wealthy man.

  —Yüan Mei

  Educated Frogs and Martial Ants

  When I was young and living in Palm Lane, I saw a beggar who had a cloth sack and two bamboo tubes. In the sack he kept nine frogs. The tubes contained more than a thousand ants, some red and some white. He would go into a shop and display his act on the counter, then demand three coppers and leave.

  One of his tricks was called “The Frog Teaches School.” He set up a small chair, and a large frog leaped out of the sack and sat on it. Eight smaller frogs followed him out and formed a circle around the chair, sitting perfectly still. “Teach them!” the beggar cried. At once the large frog croaked, “Geggek.” The class repeated in unison, “Geggek.” And then all anyone could hear was “Geggek; geggek” until people’s ears were ringing. So the beggar cried, “Stop!” At once all was quiet.

  The other trick was called “Ants in Battle Formation.” The beggar had two flags, one red, one white, each about a foot long. He emptied his bamboo tubes onto the counter, and the red and white ants scurried all over until he waved the red flag. “Form ranks!” he cried. The red ants formed themselves into a line. Next he waved the white flag and cried, “Form ranks!” The white ants did so too. Then he waved both flags and cried, “Mixed formation!” The ants mingled together and marched, turning left and right in perfect step. When they had made several rounds, he marched them back into the tubes.

  Thus even such small dumb creatures as the frog and the ant can be taught, though I can’t imagine how it is done.

  —Yüan Mei

  The Snakeman

  A man of what is now Hopei province made his living by taming snakes and teaching them tricks. Once he raised and trained two black snakes: the larger he called Big Black; the smaller, Brother Black. Brother Black, who had red dots on his forehead, was very quick to learn his tricks. His twists and turns were exactly right, and the snakeman prized him above all the snakes he had owned.

  After a year Big Black died. The snakeman wanted to replace him but had not yet found the time to do it when he took lodging one night in a mountain temple. He awoke in early dawn and opened his snake basket. Brother Black was missing! Calling frantically, the snakeman searched in the dim light, but there was no trace of the snake.

  In the past whenever the snakeman had come upon a dense grove or thick vegetation, he stopped and let Brother Black free to enjoy himself. Brother Black always returned, so the snakeman had reason to hope that the snake would come back now. He sat down to wait, but when the sun had climbed high in the sky he despaired and left.

  He had gone several paces away from the temple when he heard a low scraping sound in the depths of the thicket. Startled, he stopped and turned back. It was Brother Black! The snakeman felt overjoyed, as if he had regained a priceless jewel. He stopped to rest at a turn in the road, and the snake stopped also. When the snakeman looked again, he saw a small snake following Brother Black.

  “I thought you were lost to me,” said the snakeman, stroking Brother Black. “Are you presenting your little companion?” He took out some food for Brother Black and his follower. The smaller snake curled up, too wild and shy to eat. So Brother Black fed the newcomer from his own mouth, in much the way that a host serves his guest first. The snakeman gave the small snake more food, and this time he ate for himself. When the meal was over, the small snake followed Brother Black into the basket.

  The snakeman carried the basket off. And when the new snake began to learn tricks, he performed them all perfectly, just as Brother Black did. So the snakeman named the newcomer Baby Black. He took his act all over the country and made a handsome profit.

  As a rule men who handle snakes have to discard them when they grow more than two feet long, for they weigh too much to handle. The snakeman kept Brother Black as he grew beyond the limit because he was so tame. But after another couple of years the snake reached three feet and filled the basket entirely, so the snakeman decided to let him go.

  One day when he came to the eastern hills of present-day Tsinan, the snakeman fed Brother Black something special, gave him his blessing, and freed him. The snake went off for a while but then returned and circled his basket. The snakeman shooed him away. “Be off! No party lasts forever, and the best of friends must part. Retire into the valley, and soon enough you are sure to become a divine dragon. Why do you want to remain in a basket?”

  Brother Black wiggled away again, and the snakeman watched him go for a long time. But again the snake returned. When the snakeman shooed him away this time, he refused to leave and knocked his head against the basket. Baby Black was inside and becoming restless. Then it occurred to the snakeman that Brother Black must want to say goodbye to Baby Black. He opened the basket, and Baby Black came straight out and wrapped himself around Bro
ther Black. Their tongues flickered as if they were talking to each other. Then they both went off in a carefree manner. The snakeman thought that Baby Black would not return, but after a while he undulated back in a sulky sort of way and finally crawled inside the basket.

  The snakeman never again found a specimen so perfect as Brother Black. Meanwhile Baby Black was growing larger and unfit for handling. The snakeman acquired another snake that was rather tame but not the equal of Baby Black, who by this time was as thick as a child’s arm.

  When Brother Black first began to live in the hills, a number of woodmen saw him. Years later he had grown several feet and was as thick as a bowl. He began to come out and chase people. Travelers were soon warning one another, and no one dared enter the snake’s territory. One day the snakeman was crossing the hills and a snake shot out at him like wind. Terrified, the snakeman ran. The snake pursued him and was about to overtake him when the snakeman saw the telltale red dots on his head.

  “Brother Black! Brother Black!” cried the snakeman, setting down his burden. At once the snake stopped, lifted his head, and after a long while coiled himself around the snakeman, as he used to when they worked together. The snakeman realized that the snake meant no harm, but the reptile’s body was so heavy that the man fell to the ground. He pleaded to be released, and the snake unwrapped himself and then knocked against the basket. Realizing what Brother Black wanted, the snakeman let Baby Black out.

  When the two snakes met, they twisted around one another and clung tightly. After a lingering interval they separated. The snakeman gave his blessing to Baby Black. “For a long time I have wanted to let you go. Now you have a companion.” To Brother Black he said, “You brought him to begin with, now you may take him away. One word more: There’s plenty to eat in these hills. Don’t disturb the travelers and suffer heaven’s punishment.”