When the Sea Turned to Silver

by Grace Lin

  “The Iron Rod is not in the treasury, Your Majesty,” one of the guards said.

  “You checked carefully?” the Sea King asked. “You know the Iron Rod can shrink to the size of a needle.”

  The guards nodded.

  “Begin a search for it at once, then,” the Sea King said. “Question all the servants and check all who have ever been to the Treasury. Make sure to ask the queen and her handmaids; sometimes they use it for their sewing and other fine work. If the Iron Rod is in the sea, I want it found.”

  The guards bobbed and bowed, and with more clicking, they disappeared again. The Sea King looked once more at the children.

  “But I think we know the Iron Rod is unlikely to be found in the sea,” he said to them. “So it looks as if the task of retrieving it will be up to you, my small friends.”

  “We’ll go immediately,” Yishan said.

  “Do you not wish to rest after your travels?” the Sea King said courteously. “It would honor me to host—”

  “That’s not necessary,” Yishan interrupted. “We’ve been away long enough, and with time being different down here and everything, who knows what has happened up there?”

  “Very true,” the Sea King said. He bowed respectfully and said, “I will take you to the surface.”

  “You will take us?” Pinmei coughed.

  As if in reply, the Sea King straightened and let out another roar, this one long and thunderous. His robes billowed out in colossal waves, flowing past Pinmei and ­Yishan. The silk settled onto a massive, powerful ­shape and transformed into iridescent scales. When Pinmei finally dared to look back at the Sea King, she saw his head had elongated, with deep brows shadowing his glittering eyes and his horns now majestic. The Sea King had changed into a dragon.

  “Come,” he said, his voice sounding as if it were coming from the depths of the sea.

  Yishan quickly clambered onto the dragon’s back and held out his hand to Pinmei. “Hurry up.”

  Pinmei stared. The dragon’s scales shimmered and glistened; he was a gigantic mountain of luminous colors and light. As she hesitated, the dragon turned his head toward her, his impenetrable black eyes piercing her.

  “Come, Storyteller’s granddaughter,” he said. “You will be needed too.”

  Pinmei nodded and, without taking Yishan’s hand, climbed onto the dragon’s back.

  CHAPTER

  61

  The stonecutter waited for Amah to awaken before he started work. He watched as her eyes opened, but to his dismay, he saw them fill with tears.

  “It is nothing,” Amah said, wiping her tears and waving him away. “I dreamed of my granddaughter, and when I woke to see the bars of the prison cell…”

  “I know,” the stonecutter said, reaching for her hand. Tears filled his eyes as well. “Sometimes I wonder if the face I remember is truly my daughter’s.”

  “I hope they are both safe and protected,” Amah said as another tear fell.

  “My friend,” the stonecutter said, “perhaps that is not a thing to hope for. You lived on the mountain because you wished your granddaughter to be safe. But even on the mountain, danger came. For, truly, the safest place in the world is this prison cell.”

  Amah stared at the stonecutter and slowly nodded. “You are wise,” she said, “wiser than me.”

  “No,” the stonecutter said, shaking his head. “I am just a common stonecutter.”

  “Hardly,” Amah said as she looked with appreciation at his finely cut stones. “You are quite a master.”

  “Ah, this is nothing,” the stonecutter said humbly, waving his hand. “If I only had my own tools or just a chisel of good quality… then perhaps I could make something worthy of you calling me that.”

  “It is your skill, not the tools, that make you master,” Amah said. “Just like Painter Chen and his magic paintbrush. It needed the skill of a master.”

  “I do not know that story,” the stonecutter said. “Tell me.”

  There was once a boy named Liang who longed to be an artist. But as he was the son of a poor fisherman, there seemed little opportunity for him to become one. Nevertheless, he would draw whenever he could. Everyplace he went was covered with his drawings.

  What Liang wished for most was a paintbrush. He would often sneak to the studio of the local craftsman and watch him make paintbrushes and inkstones, hoping there would be a discarded one for him to take. Unfortunately for him, there was never ­anything—­not a swath of goat hair or even a piece of ­stone—­for the boy to take.

  But one day, Liang was alone on his father’s boat in the water. He was supposed to be minding the fishing nets, but he had found a fine piece of bamboo and was using it to draw pictures with water on the inside of the boat. So, he was quite surprised when the boat pulled violently, the motion matched with a pained cry.

  Liang looked over the edge of the boat, and there, under the surface of the water, was the figure of a girl. Her hair had gotten tangled in his fishnets and she was pulling to free herself with such force she was sure to drag his boat under. Quickly, the boy took out his knife and cut the girl’s hair. Freed, the girl swiftly disappeared without even looking at him. But as she swam away, he saw that instead of legs, she had a fish tail.

  Liang scratched his head, almost believing it had been a dream. But when he pulled up his fishnets, he saw the lock of hair was still caught in it. As he pulled out the strands of hair, he marveled at its texture. So smooth and delicate, they were almost like threads of water. The boy stared at it.

  Using the twine from his fishnet, he quickly attached the hair to his bamboo stick.

  “A fine brush!” Liang cried out in joy.

  And it was indeed a fine brush. Liang did not realize how wonderful the brush was, however, until he dipped it into the water and painted a frog on the wood of his boat. To his amazement, when he finished, a real frog croaked from his picture and jumped away!

  With such a brush, Liang’s life changed. He painted ink and paper for himself, a magnificent boat for his father, and a luxurious silk robe for his mother. Everything he painted came to life, and all around him rejoiced.

  The news of the magic paintbrush reached the ears of a new, young judge of the village. This judge was not only new, but was also unscrupulous. He quietly ordered some thugs to steal Liang’s paintbrush.

  When Liang’s paintbrush was brought to the young judge, he eagerly began to paint. With the finest ink and paper, he painted a mountain of gold, but only a pile of dirty stones sprang from the page. He tried to paint a bowl of gold ingots, but instead a bowl of ­foul-­smelling, rotten dumplings formed. Finally, he decided to paint a simple bar of gold. But when he finished, the bar turned into a vicious yellow snake and the judge had to call his servants to get rid of it.

  Realizing he could not use the paintbrush himself, the judge had Liang brought to him.

  “I heard your paintbrush was stolen,” the judge said to him craftily, “so I had my officers search for it, and we’ve found it. I’m happy to return it to you.”

  Liang, of course, was suspicious, but he thanked the judge and reached to retrieve his special brush.

  “Do you think,” the judge said, again in a wily tone, holding the brush just out of Liang’s reach, “you could paint something for me, before you go?”

  Liang knew this was all a ploy, yet he could only nod.

  “What do you wish a picture of?” Liang asked.

  “It would be nice to have some gold,” the judge said. “Perhaps a chest or two?”

  “Ah, but a chest of gold would eventually empty,” Liang said, thinking hard. “You need the Golden Chicken. It lays eggs of pure gold.”

  “A chicken that lays eggs of gold?” the judge said, his eyes lighting with greed. “Yes, that sounds perfect.”

  So, taking the brush, Liang painted a chicken with golden feathers and red eyes. The chicken clucked and immediately laid an egg of solid gold. The judge fell upon his knees to collect it.


  “I’ll go now,” said Liang. The judge nodded, barely noticing the boy’s departure as he crawled behind the chicken to catch more eggs.

  Many weeks later, the judge had collected a room full of golden ­eggs—­the door to the room was locked with a special key only he carried. The chicken was given a special henhouse surrounded by a high, secure fence. But one day, as the chicken was pecking bugs outside, a soft rain fell. Immediately, the chicken disappeared, and in its place was a wet piece of paper, a blurry painting of a chicken on it.

  The judge, after the fury of losing the chicken subsided, comforted himself with his roomful of golden eggs. But soon after, a terrible smell came from the judge’s residence. The servants finally traced it to the judge’s locked room. When he opened the door, all almost fainted from the foul odor. The room was full of rotten eggs.

  Even more enraged, the judge called for Liang to be brought to him. But Liang had left the village long ago. On the day he had painted the chicken, he had hurried home, said goodbye, and, after painting a giant crane, jumped on its back, and flown away.

  Liang changed his name to Chen, hid his brush, and found a great master artist to study under. When he grew to manhood, he finally took out his magic brush again. But he made sure he never finished any of his paintings so they would not come to life. His horses’ eyes were never dotted, his fish’s scales were incomplete, and his figures were missing a shoe. However, even with these flaws, his artistry became renowned. All acknowledged Painter Chen as the master of all masters.

  And it was as such that he was approached for a painting by a powerful magistrate. The magistrate did not recognize Painter Chen, but Liang recognized him as the young judge, now much older.

  “Painter Chen,” the magistrate said, “I commend you on your work on my son’s project. The paintings in the Long Walkway are beautiful to behold.”

  “Thank you,” Painter Chen said. “I still have much to do. I plan to paint every beam and ceiling placard.”

  The magistrate frowned as he watched the painter.

  “You are painting that beam with water!” the magistrate said. “No one can see what you are painting if you paint with water!”

  “They will see this painting when it is ready to be seen,” Painter Chen said. “Was there something you wished to speak to me about?”

  “Ah, yes,” the magistrate said. “I would like to commission you to create a painting for my own palace.”

  Even though Painter Chen had misgivings, he made an agreement. The magistrate would forgo taxing Painter Chen’s old hometown village for a year and Painter Chen would paint the magistrate a dragon.

  And his painting was magnificent. Per his custom, Painter Chen did not dot the eyes of the dragon and gave the unfinished painting to the magistrate. Unfortunately, back at his palace, the magistrate saw this error and attempted to fix the painting ­himself—­which caused the dragon to come to life!

  The dragon destroyed the magistrate’s palace, causing chaos and calamity before disappearing. But the dragon’s appearance made the magistrate realize Painter Chen’s real identity. With his guards, he hastened to capture the artist.

  In the meantime, Painter Chen was finishing the last painting on the Long Walkway. His apprentices ran to him with warnings, urging him to flee, but Painter Chen continued to calmly paint. When the Painter finally glanced away from his work, he saw the magistrate and his men rushing toward him, their swords drawn.

  Without a word, Painter Chen turned back to his painting. It was a landscape scene, a calm blue sea and a distant land. With a few quick, sure strokes, he painted a boat in the water. Just as the tip of one of the men’s swords was about to touch him, Painter Chen jumped right into the painting! All stared openmouthed and shocked as Painter Chen sailed away in the painted boat to the painted land, taking his magic paintbrush with him.

  “Ah, good story,” said the stonecutter. “It’s interesting how all the magistrates and king’s fathers in your stories seem to have the same personality. It’s as if they could all be the same person.”

  “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Amah agreed.

  “Though I suppose the powerful all seem the same to us,” the stonecutter said, laughing, “All those characters could even be Our Exalted Majesty himself.”

  “Yes,” Amah said. “They could.”

  CHAPTER

  62

  “Look!” Yishan said, pointing. “Something is happening!”

  They had been walking toward the Capital City, the frozen sea looking exactly as before, even though the Sea King warned them that some time had passed, perhaps as much as three moon cycles. He had left them on the outskirts of the city after an incredible flight, not up to the surface of the sea as Pinmei had expected, but over the edge of the bridge and downward to the Heavenly Lake. The water had parted before them as they dove and the moon had grown bigger and bigger, becoming a giant hole in the ­star-­spattered curtain of water that they burst through to arrive in the sky above the Capital City.

  They had been walking in silence, for Pinmei was ­sulking—­while she agreed about the tortoise, she was still angry at Yishan. He could have told her he was going to ask about the tortoise first! And the whole time he was at Sea Bottom, he had acted strangely. She was sure he was hiding something from her, and her irritation was just as visible as the clouds of steam from their warm breaths. Yishan, however, pretended not to notice, and was just about to suggest changing direction when an outpouring of people began to cluster into view. Great crowds were ­forming—­women, children, men.

  “Men!” Pinmei said, forgetting her annoyance. “There are men in the Capital City.”

  “Obviously,” Yishan said, “the emperor only uses the men from the mountain villages for his slaves. Let’s go see what the fuss is about.”

  Together, they ran toward the crowd. As they reached it, Pinmei tugged on the arm of an elderly woman. “What is happening?” she asked.

  “It’s the funeral, child!” the woman said, as if she should know.

  “Whose funeral?” Yishan asked.

  “Her husband’s!” the woman replied, distracted. “They are starting the procession to the Grand Pier!”

  “I heard the emperor himself will follow the coffin,” another woman said, “wearing mourning robes!”

  “Strange that they are burying him in the sea,” another said. “I’d be afraid of the bad luck.”

  “She insisted,” someone else said. “It was one of her conditions.”

  “How can they even put it in the sea?” a girl asked. “It’s frozen!”

  “Did you not hear them with the pickaxes this morning?” the first woman said. “Chop, chop, chopping for hours through the ice! Just so they can throw in the coffin! The emperor will do anything to get her to marry him.”

  “She must be very beautiful,” said the girl. There was a hint of awe and envy in her voice.

  “Oh, she is,” one of the women said. “Remember how angry the emperor was after what she had done to his wall? But as soon as he saw her, he was enchanted.”

  “Who?” Yishan said, matching his steps with the group. “What did she do to the wall?”

  “She destroyed it!” the first woman said, looking at Yishan. “Did you not hear the story?”

  “Destroyed the Vast Wall?” Pinmei gasped.

  “Well, only part of it,” the woman conceded. “She was looking for her husband at the Vast Wall. She ­traveled a great distance, all on foot, with only a bundle of cloth…”

  “I bet it was clothes for her husband,” another interjected. “Someone said it was all embroidered…”

  “But when she finally got to the wall, she was told her husband had died,” the woman continued, ignoring the interruption. “And, in shock, she began to wail and wail and cursed the heavens, ten hundred tears ­pouring—”

  “I was told she stood like a statue and shed only one tear,” another person said.

  “Well, a hundred tears or one,�
� the woman said, obviously cross to have her account disputed, “when her tear fell on the wall, the part it touched just ­collapsed—­as if crushed by her sorrow.”

  “And her husband’s body was right there in the rubble,” another woman added.

  “So the emperor was angry and probably wanted to punish her, right?” Yishan said, prodding. “But when he saw her, he wanted to marry her?”

  “And she wouldn’t,” the girl piped in. “Not unless he gave her husband a funeral that buried him in the sea.”

  “Which is what is happening now!” the first woman said, glaring at all the others.

  In the distance, a faint, ponderous beating of drums called. Yishan looked at Pinmei, and without a word they began to run forward, bits of conversation dropping upon them with the snow.

  “…four hundred li of the wall fell,” one voice said as Yishan darted through a pack of people, “as if her tear knocked it down…”

  “…thousands of bones under the wall,” another voice said as Pinmei ducked underneath a gossiping couple.

  “…it had to be clothes,” another said as they pushed onto the Grand Pier, the broad platform stretching over silent waves of ice like an unfinished bridge. “She had the embroidered bundle put into the coffin with him…”

  But then Pinmei’s ears became deaf to all but the crashing sounds of cymbals and drums. Yishan grabbed Pinmei’s arm and pulled her farther down the long pier ahead of them. As they neared the end, Pinmei could see the black gash of water where the ice had been chopped away. Imperial soldiers poured into the streets.

  “Back!” a soldier barked as the soldiers lined up on either side of the pier. “Stand back!”

  The crowd moved in a wave, pushing Pinmei and ­Yishan to the edge of the wharf. Pinmei looked over her shoulder nervously, eyeing the ice below.

  “Kneel!” another soldier ordered as the pounding of drums became even louder. “All kneel as the emperor arrives!”

  Everyone immediately obeyed. The sounds of the drums and cymbals boomed as the procession passed.