The Book of Fantasy

by Jorge Luis Borges

  The Encounter

  A tale from the T’ang Dynasty (618-906 a.d.)

  Ch’ienniang was the daughter of Chang Yi, a public official in Hunan province. She had a cousin named Wang Chu, an intelligent and handsome youth. The two cousins had grown up together and, since Chang Yi both loved and approved of the boy, he said he would accept Wang Chu as his son-in-law. Both the young people heard and marked the promise; she was an only child and spent all her time with her cousin; their love grew day by day. And the day came when they were no longer children and their relations grew intimate. Unfortunately, her father, Chang Yi, was the only person around who did not notice. One day a young public official asked Chang Yi for his daughter’s hand. The father, heedless or forgetful of his earlier promise, consented. Ch’ienniang, torn between love and filial piety, nearly died of grief; the young man fell into such despair that he resolved to leave the district rather than watch his mistress married to another man. He invented some pretext or other and told his uncle that he must go to the capital. When the uncle was unable to dissuade him, he supplied the youth with funds along with some presents and offered him a farewell banquet. In a desperate state, Wang Chu did not leave off moaning throughout the feast and was more than ever determined to go away rather than persist in a hopeless love affair.

  The youth embarked one afternoon; he had sailed only a few miles when night fell. He ordered his sailor to tie up so that they might rest. But Wang Chu could not fall asleep; some time around midnight he heard footsteps approaching. He got up and called out: ‘Who is it, walking about at this hour of the night?’ ‘I, Ch’ienniang,’ came the reply. Surprised and overjoyed he brought her aboard. She told him that she had hoped and expected to be his wife, that her father had been unjust, and that she could not resign herself to their separation. She had also feared that, finding himself alone in a strange land, he might have been driven to suicide. And so she had defied general disapproval and parental wrath and had now come to follow him wherever he might go. The happily re-united pair thereupon continued the journey on to Szechwan.

  Five years of happiness passed, and she bore Wang Chu two children. But there was no news of Ch’ienniang’s family and every day she thought of her father. It was the only cloud in their happy sky. She did not know whether or not her parents were still alive; and one night she confessed her anxiety to Wang Chu. Because she was an only daughter she felt guilty of a grave filial impiety. ‘You have the heart of a good daughter and I will stand by you,’ Wang Chu told her. ‘Five years have passed and they will no longer be angry with us. Let us go home.’ Ch’ienniang rejoiced and they made ready to go back with their children.

  When the ship reached their native city, Wang Chu told Ch’ienniang: ‘We cannot tell in what state of mind we will find your parents. Let me go on alone to find out.’ At sight of the house, he could feel his heart pounding. Wang Chu saw his father-in-law, knelt down, made his obeisance, and begged his pardon. Chang Yi gazed upon him with amazement and said: ‘What are you talking about? For the past five years, Ch’ienniang has been lying in bed, in a coma. She has not gotten up once.’

  ‘But I have told you the truth,’ said Wang Chu. ‘She is well, and awaits us on board the ship.’

  Chang Yi did not know what to think and sent two maids-in-waiting to see Ch’ienniang. They found her seated aboard ship, beautifully gowned and radiant; she asked them to convey her fondest greetings to her parents. Struck with wonder, the maids-in-waiting returned to the parental house, where Chang Yi’s bewilderment increased. Meanwhile, the sick girl had heard the news, and now seemed freed of her ill. There was a new light in her eyes. She rose from her bed and dressed in front of her mirror. Smiling and without a word, she made her way towards the ship. At the same time, the girl on the ship began walking toward the house. The two met on the river-bank. There they embraced and the two bodies merged, so that only one Ch’ienniang remained, as youthful and lovely as ever. Her parents were overjoyed, but they ordered the servants to keep quiet, to avoid commentaries.

  For more than forty years Wang Chu and Ch’ienniang lived together in happiness.

  The Three Hermits

  Count Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910), one of Russia’s greatest writers and philosophers, is the celebrated author of War and Peace and Anna Karenina as well as many collections of stories and folk tales.

  A Bishop was sailing from Archangel to the Solovétsk Monastery, and on the same vessel were a number of pilgrims on their way to visit the shrines at that place. The voyage was a smooth one. The wind favourable and the weather fair. The pilgrims lay on deck, eating, or sat in groups talking to one another. The Bishop, too, came on deck, and as he was pacing up and down he noticed a group of men standing near the prow and listening to a fisherman, who was pointing to the sea and telling them something. The Bishop stopped, and looked in the direction in which the man was pointing. He could see nothing, however, but the sea glistening in the sunshine. He drew nearer to listen, but when the man saw him, he took off his cap and was silent. The rest of the people also took off their caps and bowed.

  ‘Do not let me disturb you, friends,’ said the Bishop. ‘I came to hear what this good man was saying.’

  ‘The fisherman was telling us about the hermits,’ replied one, a tradesman, rather bolder than the rest.

  ‘What hermits?’ asked the Bishop, going to the side of the vessel and seating himself on a box.

  ‘Tell me about them. I should like to hear. What were you pointing at?’

  ‘Why, that little island you can just see over there,’ answered the man, pointing to a spot ahead and a little to the right. ‘That is the island where the hermits live for the salvation of their souls.’

  ‘Where is the island ?’ asked the Bishop. ‘I see nothing.’

  ‘There, in the distance, if you will please look along my hand. Do you see that little cloud? Below it, and a bit to the left, there is just a faint streak. That is the island.’

  The Bishop looked carefully, but his unaccustomed eyes could make out nothing but the water shimmering in the sun.

  ‘I cannot see it,’ he said. ‘But who are the hermits that live there?’

  ‘They are holy men,’ answered the fisherman. ‘I had long heard tell of them, but never chanced to see them myself till the year before last.’

  And the fisherman related how once, when he was out fishing, he had been stranded at night upon that island, not knowing where he was. In the morning, as he wandered about the island, he came across an earth hut, and met an old man standing near it. Presently two others came out, and after having fed him and dried his things, they helped him mend his boat.

  ‘And what are they like?’ asked the bishop.

  ‘One is a small man and his back is bent. He wears a priest’s cassock and is very old; he must be more than a hundred, I should say. He is so old that the white of his beard is taking a greenish tinge, but he is always smiling, and his face is as bright as an angel’s from heaven. The second is taller but he also is very old. He wears a tattered, peasant coat. His beard is broad, and of a yellowish grey colour. He is a strong man. Before I had time to help him, he turned my boat over as if it were only a pail. He too is kindly and cheerful. The third is tall, and has a beard as white as snow and reaching to his knees. He is stern, with over-hanging eyebrows; and he wears nothing but a piece of matting tied round his waist.’

  ‘And did they speak to you?’ asked the Bishop.

  ‘For the most part they did everything in silence, and spoke but little even to one another. One of them would just give a glance, and the others would understand him. I asked the tallest whether they had lived there long. He frowned, and muttered something as if he were angry; but the oldest one took his hand and smiled, and then the tall one was quiet. The oldest one only said: “Have mercy upon us,” and smiled.’

  While the fisherman was talking, the ship had drawn nearer to the island.

  ‘There, now you can see it plainly, if your Lordship
will please to look,’ said the tradesman, pointing with his hand.

  The Bishop looked, and now he really saw a dark streak—which was the island. Having looked at it a while, he left the prow of the vessel, and going to the stern, asked the helmsman:

  ‘What island is that?’

  ‘That one,’ replied the man, ‘has no name. There are many such in this sea.’

  ‘Is it true that there are hermits who live there for the salvation of their souls?’

  ‘So it is said, your Lordship, but I don’t know if it’s true. Fishermen say they have seen them; but of course they may only be spinning yarns.’

  ‘I should like to land on the island and see these men,’ said the Bishop. ‘How could I manage it?’

  ‘The ship cannot get close to the island,’ replied the helmsman, ‘but you might be rowed there in a boat. You had better speak to the captain.’

  The captain was sent for and came.

  ‘I should like to see these hermits,’ said the Bishop. ‘Could I not be rowed ashore?’

  The captain tried to dissuade him.

  ‘Of course it could be done,’ said he, ‘but we should lose much time. And if I might venture to say so to your Lordship, the old men are not worth your pains. I have heard say that they are foolish old fellows, who understand nothing and never speak a word, any more than the fish in the sea.’

  ‘I wish to see them,’ said the Bishop, ‘and I will pay you for your trouble and loss of time. Please let me have a boat.’

  There was no help for it; so the order was given. The sailors trimmed the sails, the steersman put up the helm, and the ship’s course was set for the island. A chair was placed at the prow for the Bishop, and he sat there, looking ahead. The passengers all collected at the prow, and gazed at the island. Those who had the sharpest eyes could presently make out the rocks on it, and then a mud hut was seen. At last one man saw the hermits themselves. The captain brought a telescope and, after looking through it, handed it to the Bishop.

  ‘It’s right enough. There are three men standing on the shore. There, a little to the right of that big rock.’

  The Bishop took the telescope, got it into position, and he saw the three men: a tall one, a shorter one, and one very small and bent, standing on the shore and holding each other by the hand.

  The captain turned to the Bishop.

  ‘The vessel can get no nearer in that this, your Lordship. If you wish to go ashore, we must ask you to go in the boat, while we anchor here.’

  The cable was quickly let out; the anchor cast, and the sails furled. There was a jerk, and the vessel shook. Then, a boat having been lowered, the oarsmen jumped in, and the Bishop descended the ladder and took his seat. The men pulled at their oars and the boat moved rapidly towards the island. When they came within a stone’s throw, they saw three old men: a tall one with only a piece of matting tied round his waist: a shorter one in a tattered peasant coat, and a very old one bent with age and wearing an old cassock—all three standing hand in hand.

  The oarsmen pulled in to the shore, and held on with the boathook while the Bishop got out.

  The old men bowed to him, and he gave them his blessing, at which they bowed still lower. Then the Bishop began to speak to them.

  ‘I have heard,’ he said, ‘that you, godly men, live here saving your own souls and praying to our Lord Christ for your fellow men. I, an unworthy servant of Christ, am called, by God’s mercy, to keep and teach His flock. I wished to see you, servants of God, and to do what I can to teach you, also.’

  The old men looked at each other smiling, but remained silent.

  ‘Tell me,’ said the Bishop, ‘what you are doing to save your souls, and how you serve God on this island.’

  The second hermit sighed, and looked at the oldest, the very ancient one. The latter smiled, and said:

  ‘We do not know how to serve God. We only serve and support ourselves, servant of God.’

  ‘But how do you pray to God?’ asked the Bishop.

  ‘We pray in this way,’ replied the hermit. ‘Three are ye, three are we, have mercy upon us.’

  And when the old man said this, all three raised their eyes to heaven, and repeated:

  ‘Three are ye, three are we, have mercy upon us!’

  The Bishop smiled.

  ‘You have evidently heard something about the Holy Trinity,’ said he. ‘But you do not pray aright. You have won my affection, godly men. I see you wish to please the Lord, but you do not know how to serve Him. That is not the way to pray; but listen to me, and I will teach you. I will teach you, not a way of my own, but the way in which God in the Holy Scriptures has commanded all men to pray to Him.’

  And the Bishop began explaining to the hermits how God had revealed Himself to men; telling them of God the Father, and God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost.

  ‘God the Son came down on earth,’ said he, ‘to save men, and this is how He taught us all to pray. Listen, and repeat after me: “Our Father.” ’

  And the first old man repeated after him, ‘Our Father,’ and the second said, ‘Our Father,’ and the third said, ‘Our Father.’

  ‘Which art in heaven,’ continued the Bishop.

  The first hermit repeated, ‘Which art in heaven,’ but the second blundered over the words, and the tall hermit could not say them properly. His hair had grown over his mouth so that he could not speak plainly. The very old hermit, having no teeth, also mumbled indistinctly.

  The Bishop repeated the words again, and the old men repeated them after him. The Bishop sat down on a stone, and the old men stood before him, watching his mouth, and repeating the words as he uttered them. And all day long the Bishop laboured, saying a word twenty, thirty, a hundred times over, and the old men repeated it after him. They blundered, and he corrected them, and made them begin again.

  The Bishop did not leave off till he had taught them the whole of the Lord’s Prayer so that they could not only repeat it after him, but could say it by themselves. The middle one was the first to know it, and to repeat the whole of it alone. The Bishop made him say it again and again, and at last the others could say it too.

  It was getting dark and the moon was appearing over the water, before the Bishop rose to return to the vessel. When he took leave of the old men they all bowed down to the ground before him. He raised them, and kissed each of them, telling them to pray as he had taught them. Then he got into the boat and returned to the ship.

  And as he sat in the boat and was rowed to the ship he could hear the three voices of the hermits loudly repeating the Lord’s Prayer. As the boat drew near the vessel their voices could no longer be heard, but they could still be seen in the moonlight, standing as he had left them on the shore, the shortest in the middle, the tallest on the right, the middle one on the left. As soon as the Bishop had reached the vessel and got on board, the anchor was weighed and the sails unfurled. The wind filled them and the ship sailed away, and the Bishop took a seat in the stern and watched the island they had left. For a time he could still see the hermits, but presently they disappeared from sight, though the island was still visible. At last it too vanished, and only the sea was to be seen, rippling in the moonlight.

  The pilgrims lay down to sleep, and all was quiet on deck. The Bishop did not wish to sleep, but sat alone at the stern, gazing at the sea where the island was no longer visible, and thinking of the good old men. He thought how pleased they had been to learn the Lord’s Prayer; and he thanked God for having sent him to teach and help such godly men.

  So the Bishop sat, thinking, and gazing at the sea where the island had disappeared. And the moonlight flickered before his eyes, sparkling, now here, now there, upon the waves. Suddenly he saw something white and shining, on the bright path which the moon cast across the sea. Was it a seagull, or the little gleaming sail of some small boat? The Bishop fixed his eyes on it, wondering.

  ‘It must be a boat sailing after us,’ thought he, ‘but it is overtaking us very rapidly.
It was far, far away a minute ago, but now it is much nearer. It cannot be a boat, for I can see no sail; but whatever it may be, it is following us and catching us up.’

  And he could not make out what it was. Not a boat, nor a bird, nor a fish! It was too large for a man, and besides a man could not be out there in the midst of the sea. The Bishop rose, and said to the helmsman:

  ‘Look there, what is that, my friend? What is it?’ the Bishop repeated, though he could now see plainly what it was—the three hermits running upon the water, all gleaming white, their grey beards shining, and approaching the ship as quickly as though it were not moving.

  The steersman looked, and let go the helm in terror.

  ‘Oh Lord! The hermits are running after us on the water as though it were dry land!’

  The passengers, hearing him, jumped up and crowded to the stern. They saw the hermits coming along hand in hand, and the two outer ones beckoning the ship to stop. All three were gliding along upon the water without moving their feet. Before the ship could be stopped, the hermits had reached it, and raising their heads, all three as with one voice, began to say:

  ‘We have forgotten your teaching, servant of God. As long as we kept repeating it we remembered, but when we stopped saying it for a time, a word dropped out, and now it has all gone to pieces. We can remember nothing of it. Teach us again.’

  The Bishop crossed himself, and leaning over the ship’s side, said:

  ‘Your own prayer will reach the Lord, men of God. It is not for me to teach you. Pray for us sinners.’

  And the Bishop bowed low before the old men; and they turned and went back across the sea. And a light shone until daybreak on the spot where they were lost to sight.

  Macario

  B. Traven is one of the most mysterious figures in all literature, the author of The Death Ship (1926), The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1927) and The Rebellion of the Hanged (1936), and proletarian stories and novels set in South America and Mexico. He has been identified with the German revolutionary Ret Marut, with his own agent, the American Hal Groves, and most recently as a Pole named Otto Feige.