Shen of the Sea

“A shamelessly rainy day, my honorable Brother Chi.”

“That is truth, esteemed Brother Cha. It rains perfectly hard. There will be plenty of leisure in which to beat the children.”

Ching Chi was merely quoting an old Swa Tou saying. Every one knows that on rainy days old and young are crowded, arm against elbow, in the house; often to get in each the other’s way—and misunderstandings are likely to arise. Then the bamboo is brought into play—and there are wailings. That is how the Swa Tou saying originated. When Ching Chi used it, he did so in fun, and, no doubt, to make talk.

But Ching Cha thought that his brother was speaking with earnestness. His face, made glum by the rain and by secret troubles, brightened at such a pleasing prospect. “Ho. Leisure to beat the children? What an utterly excellent idea. I, myself, will cut bamboos for your hand. Ah Mee is the one to beat. He played at being a mad wild elephant—oh, so perfectly wild, and with such trampling—in the midst of my huang ya tsai patch.”

Kua Hai City stands on a plain in northern China. The plain is called Wa Tien, and it is very smooth and fertile, giving many large melons. . . . Life there is good. The plain is likewise extremely low. Any reliable geography will tell you that Kua Hai is below sea level. And that, I know, is a fact, for I, lazily seated in my garden, have often gazed at sailing ships, large-eyed—wide-staring-eyed junks as they fetched into the Bay of The Sharp-Horned Moon, and to view them I had to raise my eyes. It is very true. I had to look up, as one looks up to behold the sky-hung eagles of Lo Fan.

I had as often wondered if the sea ever broke through its restraining walls and flooded Kua Hai. A storm coming down from the northeast would most likely thrust billows to overtop the wall. So I said to my gardener, Wu Chang: “Wu Chang, did fishes ever swim up the Street of A Thousand Singing Dragons? Did the sea ever come into Kua Hai?” Wu Chang paused in his scratching among the hung lo po (the radishes). Since thinking it over, I am inclined to believe that he welcomed an opportunity to change from the working of his fingers to the working of his tongue. “Once, and once only, Honorable One, has the sea invaded Kua Hai. But it can never do so again. Chieh Chung was fooled once, but he was far too clever to be fooled twice. He buried the bottle, perhaps in this very garden, for who knows?

A mock wolf was my undoing.”

The lowland was a pleasant country, with here and there a ripening field, and here and there a forest. Young Meng stood at the edge of a wood, casting about for a bed to serve him the night. A clatter of hoofs broke the silence. Some twenty men or more dashed into view. From their weapons and general swashbuckling appearance Meng knew them to be robbers. And knowing—he swiftly clambered up a tree.

The robbers halted and gazed about them right and left. Their chieftain said: “I thought I saw a man here. If you find him, kill him, for the people hereabouts are fierce enemies. Ho. . . . What’s That in Yonder Leafy Tree?”

Meng Hu could imagine a knife at his throat. He shook the tree with his trembling. Nevertheless, his wits worked faithfully. From his lips came the scolding chatter of hou erh (the monkey). It was exceedingly well done. The robber chieftain laughed. “Only a monkey—and what vile names he seems to call us. Ho. Ho. Ho. Only a silly monkey.”

The Street of Wang’s Broken Tea Cup lies between Seven Thieves Market and the long wharf where ship bottoms from all the world (and, as some say, the moon) discharge their varied cargoes. Queer sights are so excessively common there that the Phoenix bird lighting a match to his feathers would, probably, excite only ordinary interest. Nevertheless, the people do possess eyes, and they are provided with ears. Now and again they can be made to open those eyes, and sharpen those ears into eager hearing. The ridiculous, in especial, rouses their attention. There was the wit-wandering beggar, Weng Fu, as an instance.

Weng Fu walked in the Street of Wang’s Broken Tea Cup, bearing a great bundle of bamboo switches upon his back, and shouting thunderously. . . . “Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy? What young man wishes to buy him a father?” Whereat, several persons gathered, laughing. “I, Weng Fu, will sell myself as a father to any young man for only five cash.” The crowd and the laughter increased. “Who’ll buy a pretty father? An orphan may have me for only one cash. A most excellent father I’ll be to my son. I promise to beat him twice each day. Of every hundred cash he earns I’ll take only ninety-nine and he may keep one. I’ll even let him sleep upon warm ashes in the bed-stove. Ho—young men, come buy—come buy.”

The shopkeepers left their stalls unguarded as they gathered round Weng Fu to mock and express their not-flattering opinions. “Surely,” said they, “this is the oddest fellow we have had in a long while.

Out of the calm evening air came a mighty and horrendous whistling roar. No need to tell the prince its cause. In his early days he had heard silly nurses attempt such a whistling, trying to frighten him into being “a good boy. If you don’t, the loong will get you.” He had laughed at the affronted nurses. But now . . . his face was crinkled with grim lines, serious lines that spelled determination. Not a trace of laughter there. The whistling changed to a hissing. The air became noxious with hot breath. Four tremendous, padded talons enfolded Prince Ting Tsun. A scream of terror. A whanging of wings that lifted. . . . Gone. . . . Vanished.

A scream of terror? No, that is not true. It was a scream of mock terror. Can you think the prince was frightened? Prince Ting Tsun? He screamed merely to make his deception doubly sure. The prince to casual gaze was a maiden, and maidens are supposed to scream when snapped up by a dragon. Small blame to them for that.

Up. . . . Higher. . . . Swifter. . . . Up through the uncharted, the star-littered spaces, swept Prince Ting Tsun, borne by the dragon. The wind shrieked past him. Higher, still higher. The little stars twinkled above. Higher. . . . The little stars twinkled below. The air grew thin and cold. Prince Ting grew faint, for his breathing was of no consequence. There was no air to breathe. There was nothing but space and star-dust.