Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library) (35 page)

“What in hell are you talking about?” said the steward. “You’ll go if you’re summoned, but not if you’re invited? You don’t appreciate it when someone tries to help you!”

“Good Mr. Wang, okay, okay,” said Old Ch’in. “If His Honor sends an invitation, of course he means well. Why not go this time with my dear relative? You know the saying, ‘A magistrate can ruin the family.’ Why be so stubborn?”

“Uncle,” said Wang Mien, “the steward doesn’t know this, but haven’t you heard me tell of ancient worthies who refused their sovereign’s call? I really won’t go.”

“You present me with a difficult problem,” said the steward. “What explanation can I take back to His Honor?”

“This is a real dilemma,” said Old Ch’in, “between going and not going. On the one hand, Mr. Wang refuses to go; on the other, my dear relative will be hard put to explain it if he doesn’t. However, I may have a way out. When you return to the city, dear relative, don’t say that Mr. Wang won’t go, only that he is ill at home and cannot come right away, but will in a few days when he’s feeling better.”

“I’d need four neighbors to vouch for that!” cried the steward. And so they argued round and round. Old Ch’in made supper for the steward and quietly told Wang to bring half a tael of silver from his mother, to reimburse the steward for his travel expenses.

When Magistrate Shih heard the steward’s report, he thought, “How could the rascal have taken ill? This lackey of a steward must have gone into the village like ‘the fox in front of the tiger’
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and scared the life out of the artist, who has probably never yet been received by an official. But since my patron, Wei Su, has left it to me to arrange a meeting, he will hold me in contempt if I
flunk this test. It appears that I’ll have to pay my respects to the artist personally. This gracious compliment, with no hint of coercion, will surely give him the courage to meet me, and then I’ll take him along to see my patron. In that way I can pass the test with distinction!”

But the magistrate had another thought: “For a county magistrate to lower himself to pay his respects to a peasant will provoke the scorn of his underlings.”

Then the magistrate had yet another thought: “The other day my patron spoke of this artist with one hundred percent respect. I, therefore, should be one thousand percent respectful. Besides, if I lower myself to show respect to a worthy peasant, the local chronicles will surely include a section in praise of it—to my eternal credit! I can’t see anything wrong in that!” And so the magistrate made his decision.

Next morning he called for his sedan-chair. Dispensing with the full complement of heralds and banners, he took only eight guards to clear the road ahead, as well as the steward Chai, who hung onto the rails of the sedan-chair. They went directly to the village. When the villagers heard the gong announcing an official’s approach, they came crowding forth to look, supporting their elderly and taking their young by the hand.

The chair arrived at Wang Mien’s gate. And what did the steward find? Seven or eight thatched-roof huts and an unpainted wooden door, tightly shut. The steward bounded up to the door. After he had knocked at it for a while, an old woman came out, propped herself up on her walking stick, and said, “Wang Mien’s not home. He took the buffalo to water first thing this morning and he hasn’t returned yet.”

“His Honor has come himself to summon your son,” said the steward. “What are you wasting time for? Tell me where he is right away, so that I can deliver the summons.”

“The simple truth,” said the old woman, “is that he’s not here, and I don’t know where he has gone.” With that she went back inside, closing the door behind her.

While they had been talking, the magistrate’s chair pulled up. The steward kneeled before it and offered his report: “Your humble servant has been trying to summon Wang Mien, but he is not at home. May I suggest, Your Honor, that you have your dragon-chair moved to the public rest house, while I continue my efforts.” With steward Chai hanging on as before, the chair was
carried behind Wang Mien’s cottage, where there was a jumble of raised footpaths bordering the fields. Beyond them was a large pond bordered with elms and mulberries. Farther in the distance stretched an expanse of acres. There was a small hill too, near the pond, green with dense foliage. It stood about half a mile from Wang Mien’s house, and two people could hail one another from hill to house.

As the magistrate was being carried away, a water buffalo with a cowherd riding it backwards came from behind the hill. The steward hurried over to him and asked, “Young man, did you see where your neighbor Wang Mien took his animal?”

“You mean Uncle Wang?” answered the second of Old Ch’in’s sons. “He’s off to a feast in the Wang clan’s hamlet—about seven miles from here. But this is his buffalo. He asked me to drive it home.”

The steward informed the magistrate, who scowled. “If that’s the case,” he said, “there’s no point in my going to the rest house. We will return to the office at once.” By this time the magistrate was so angry that his first thought was to have Wang Mien arrested and taught a painful lesson. But on second thought he was afraid that his patron would criticize him for being hot-tempered. It might be better to hold his peace and explain that Wang Mien was not worth doing a favor. The young peasant himself could be dealt with in good time. With these thoughts the magistrate left the village.

Wang Mien had not in fact gone far at all, and soon he came strolling home. Thoroughly annoyed, Old Ch’in came up to him and said, “You were altogether too willful just now. He is the head of the whole county. How could you be so insolent?”

“Good sir,” said Wang Mien, “please sit down. I have something to tell you. The magistrate, backed by Wei Su’s power, has been maltreating our peasants every way he can. Why should I have anything to do with such a person? The thing is that when he goes back he’s sure to say something to Wei Su. If Wei Su takes offense at the insult, he’ll be looking to settle scores with me, I’m afraid. So for now I’ll bid you goodbye, get my things together, and go away to keep out of trouble, though leaving my mother alone at home makes me uneasy.”

“Son,” said Wang Mien’s mother, “you have been selling your art work for years. Out of that I’ve saved forty or fifty taels of silver. So I won’t be wanting for the basics. And though I’m old, my health is good. I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t get out of the way for a while. Besides, you haven’t committed any crime. The officers aren’t going to come and take me away!”

“She has a point,” said Old Ch’in. “Moreover, your talents will go unrecognized buried in this village town. Take yourself off to some important place where you may meet your fortune. As for your most honorable mother—I’ll be responsible for everything at home while you’re gone.” Wang Mien thanked Old Ch’in with clasped hands upraised. The farmer went back to his house to fetch some wine and delicacies, and with these he bid a fitting farewell to Wang Mien. They spent half the night celebrating before Old Ch’in went home.

The next day before dawn, Wang Mien got up and collected his things. Old Ch’in arrived as he was finishing breakfast. Wang Mien bid his mother a respectful goodbye, and mother and son, shedding tears, parted hands. Wang Mien slipped on his hemp shoes, set his pack on his back, and went to the village entrance. Carrying a small white lantern, Old Ch’in accompanied him. The
two men wept. Old Ch’in, lantern in hand, stood watching Wang Mien until he was out of sight.

Exposed to the elements, stopping every twenty or thirty miles at hostels, Wang Mien traveled straight to the city of Tsinan, capital of Shantung. Though Shantung is a northern, hence a poorer, province, Tsinan is populous and prosperous. When Wang Mien arrived his money had all been spent, so he had to rent a small dwelling attached to the front of a convent. There he read the stars and told people’s fortunes. He also painted a few soft-shape lotus blossoms, which he put up for sale to passersby. His work was so popular that he could not keep the crowds away.

Snap your fingers; half a year passed. There were some vulgar plutocrats in the city who prized Wang Mien’s pictures and were always eager to buy them. Of course these wealthy men did not come personally; they sent their lackeys, who shouted and called out orders and made such a commotion that Wang Mien had no peace. When he could bear it no longer, he painted a huge ox and pasted it up together with some barbed verses. He knew this would lead to trouble and began thinking about moving on.

One day in the clear early dawn he was sitting in his room when he was amazed to see a great crowd of men and women shrieking and wailing as they moved down the street. In the baskets that hung from their shoulder poles, some had pots and household things and some had children. All were gaunt and ragged. They streamed past, rank after rank, filling up the street. Some sat on the ground and begged. Asked why they were here, they said they had come from the shires and counties along the Yellow River. Their fields and homes had been swept away, they said, when the river broke through the dikes and flooded the countryside. They were ordinary folk fleeing a disaster for which the government had no concern. So they could only take to the road to survive.

Wang Mien could not stand to watch them. “The river is overflowing north,” he said with a sigh, “and the world enters a period of great disorder. What’s the point in remaining here?” He gathered up what money he had, tied his things together in a bundle, and went back home. It was only when he reached the border of his home province that he learned Wei Su was back in the capital and the magistrate had been promoted. So it was safe to return home and pay respects to his mother.

He was glad to find her hale as ever. She told him of the many
kindnesses Old Ch’in had shown her. Quickly unpacking, Wang Mien took a bolt of silk and some dried persimmon to Old Ch’in to show his gratitude. The farmer prepared a homecoming celebration, and afterwards Wang Mien chanted poems, made pictures, and took care of his mother as he had done before.

Six years went by. Wang Mien’s mother, now old and unwell, kept to her bed. Wang Mien tried every kind of cure and doctor—to no avail. One day his mother gave him the following advice: “I can see that I am past saving. Now, these few years people have been bending my ears saying that since you are so learned I should encourage you to go and become an official. No doubt that would reflect well on your ancestors. And yet these officials never seem to come to a good end. With your proud spirit, the outcome would be dreadful if you got yourself in trouble. So my son, heed these last words—take a wife and raise a family; care for my grave—and don’t become an official. That way I can die in peace, eyes and mouth closed.”

Wang Mien tearfully assented. His mother drew her last few soft breaths and went home to the heavens. The grieving son pounded his bosom and stamped his feet and gave voice to his sorrow, and his cries moved the neighbors to tears. He asked Old Ch’in to help prepare the burial clothes and the coffin. Wang Mien himself carried the earth to make the grave mound, and for the required twenty-five months he “slept on earth and hemp” in mourning.

Hardly a year after the ceremonial mourning ended, a great revolution broke out. The anti-Mongol leader Fang Kuo-chen seized Chekiang province, Chang Shih-ch’eng seized Suchou, and Ch’en Yu-liang seized the Hupei-Hunan region. But these three were only bandit-heroes. The founder of the Ming Dynasty was to be Chu Yüan-chang,
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the Great Imperial Ancestor, who raised an army at Chuyang, captured Nanking, and established himself as the king of Wu. His righteous legions smashed the bandit-hero Fang Kuo-chen and gave him command of all Chekiang, and the villages and towns knew peace.

One day at noon as Wang Mien was returning home after the ceremonial sweeping of his mother’s grave, he was surprised to
see a dozen horsemen heading into his village. The man in the lead wore an army cap on his head and a military tunic. With his light, clear face and three-strand whiskers, he had the marks of a true Chinese sovereign. The man dismounted at Wang Mien’s gate, greeted him courteously, and said, “May I trouble you with a question? Where is the home of Master Wang Mien?”

“Your humble servant,” replied Wang Mien. “This poor home is mine.”

“Marvelous,” said the man, “for it is you I come to greet.” He ordered his men to dismount, picket their horses by the lakeside willows, and take up posts outside the cottage. The leader alone took Wang Mien by the hands and went with him indoors, where they seated themselves as host and guest and exchanged further amenities.

Wang Mien said, “I dare not inquire your most respected name and title and why you have favored this remote village with a visit.”

“I am named Chu,” replied the man. “I have raised armies throughout southeast China and previously held the title king of Chuyang. Now that I have taken Nanking, I am known as the king of Wu.
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I have come to conquer the forces of the bandit-hero Fang Kuo-chen, and wish in particular to pay my respects to you.”