"I'd have sworn that ink was black," Chen-cho murmured. "Was I mistaken? Yes, no doubt. The light's dim here."
He made a few more brush strokes. They were no longer vermilion, but jade green. Chen-cho put down the brush and rubbed his chin.
"What's happening here? That ink stick's black as night, through and through. What's doing it? The stone? The brush? No matter, let's have another go."
Chen-cho daubed at the paper, which was soon covered with streaks of bright orange, red, and blue. Anyone else might have grown alarmed or frightened at such an uncanny happening. But Chen-cho enjoyed surprises, mysteries, and extraordinary events. And so he laughed with delight to find himself owner of these remarkable materials.
"Well, old fellow," he said to himself, "you've come onto something you never expected and probably better than you deserve. Let's try something else. Those are marvelous colors, but what if I wanted a sort of lilac purple-green with a reddish cast?"
No sooner did Chen-cho imagine such a hue than it flowed from his brush. He quickly discovered that he need only envision whatever shade he wanted, and there it was, from brush to paper.
"That's what I call convenient and efficient," exclaimed the joyous Chen-cho. "No more paint pots and a dozen different pigments. Here's everything all at once."
With that, he clapped his felt hat firmly on his head, seized a handful of papers, packed up the box, and hurried out of the inn. He ran all the way to the stream where he had first met Ragbag. There he settled himself, ignoring the weather, forgetting to put up his umbrella, and worked away happily, letting the brush go as it wished, hardly glancing at what he was doing.
It was dusk and the light had faded before he could make himself leave off. But the picture was finished, better than anything he had ever painted. Chen-cho laughed and slapped his leg. "Old boy," he told himself, "keep on like this and you might even do something worthwhile."
He went back to his room at the inn. Excited by his wonderful new possessions, he forgot to eat his dinner. He barely slept that night, eager to start another picture.
Next morning and for several days thereafter, Chencho went into the countryside looking for scenes to paint. Each landscape that took shape under his hand delighted him more than the one before.
It snowed heavily on a certain morning. Chen-cho usually paid no mind to bad weather. That day, the wind blew so sharply and the snow piled up so deeply that he decided to stay in his room. Nevertheless, his fingers itched to take up the brush. Ordinarily, he painted outdoors, according to whatever vista caught his eye. This time, he thought to do something else.
"Why not make up my own landscape? I'll paint whatever pops into my head and strikes my fancy."
Taking one of his largest sheets of paper, he set about painting hills and valleys, forests and streams, adding glens and lakes wherever it pleased him. He painted rolling meadows he had never seen; and bright banks of flowers he invented as he went along; and clouds of fantastic shapes, all drenched in sunlight, with a couple of rainbows added for good measure.
"What this may be, I've no idea," Chen-cho said when he finished. He blinked happily at the picture. "All I know is: I've astonished myself. That's something that never happened before."
Chen-cho could not take his eyes from his handiwork. He peered at it from every angle, first from a distance, then so close he bumped his nose.
"If I didn't know better," he said, "I'd swear I could smell those flowers. In fact, if I hadn't painted them, I'd believe I could pick one."
He reached out, pretending to pluck a blossom. Next thing he knew, the flower lay in his hand.
Chen-cho gaped at it. He swallowed hard, then grinned and shook his head. "What you've done, you foolish fellow, is go to sleep on your feet. You're having a dream. A marvelous one, but that's all it is."
He pinched himself, rubbed his eyes, soaked his head in a basin of water, paced back and forth. The flower was still where he had set it on the table. Fragrance filled the room.
"I'm wide-awake, no question about it," he finally admitted. He went again to the picture. "That being the case, let's examine this reasonably. It seems I've put my hand into it. What, for example, if I did-this?"
Chen-cho poked his head into the painted landscape. Indeed, he could look around him at the trees and lakes. The sunshine dazzled and warmed him. He sniffed the fragrant air. He heard the rush of a waterfall somewhere in the distance.
"This is definitely out of the ordinary," Chen-cho murmured, pulling back his head. "Dare I explore a little farther?"
With that, Chen-cho plucked up his courage and stepped all the way into the picture.
He was not certain how he did it. The painting was large, but far from as large as the artist himself. Yet, it must have grown spacious enough to take him in, for there he was, standing knee-deep in the soft grass of a meadow.
"So far so good," he said. "But now I've gone in how do I get out?"
He answered his own question by easily stepping back into the room. His first apprehension gave way to delight as he discovered that he could walk in and out of the painting as often as he pleased.
With each venture into the landscape, Chen-cho found himself becoming all the more comfortable and confident.
"It's quite amazing, hard to believe," Chen-cho remarked. "But I suppose one can get used to anything, including miracles."
A fascinating thought sprang to mind. What, he wondered, lay beyond the fields and forests and across the valleys?
"I've no idea what's there," he said, "which is the best reason to go and find out."
Chen-cho picked up the sandalwood box and a sheaf of paper in case he found some especially attractive scene. Stepping into the landscape, he set off eagerly along a gentle path that opened at his feet. He soon came to a high-arched bridge over a stream lined with willows. The view so charmed him that he spread his paper and began to paint.
He stopped in the middle of a brush stroke. He had the impression of being watched. When he turned around, he saw that his impression was correct.
Sitting on its haunches, observing him through a pair of orange eyes, was an enormous tiger.
"Hello there, Chen-cho." The tiger padded toward him, stripes rippling at every fluid pace. "My name is Lao-hu. I've been expecting you."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," replied Chen-cho. Having by now grown accustomed to marvelous happenings, the arrival of a tiger did not unsettle him too much, especially since the big animal had addressed him in a friendly tone. "However, I can't truthfully say I was expecting you."
"You must have, whether you knew it or not," Lao-hu said. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be here. Ah. I see you've been using my brush."
"Yours?"
"My hairs," Lao-hu said. "From the tip of my tail. I hope it pleases you."
"A remarkable brush," Chen-cho said. "I'd go so far as to call it miraculous. From the tip of your tail? Yes, but in that case, I'm a little puzzled. I hope you don't mind my asking, but if you weren't here until I painted this picture, where were you before I painted it? If you were someplace else, how did you get here? And who plucked out those hairs in the first place?"
"Why concern yourself with details?" Lao-hu yawned enormously. "It's a tedious, boring matter you wouldn't understand to begin with. Let me just say this: You're not the first to paint such a picture, nor the last. Many have done still finer work. And you're certainly not the first to use my brush."
"Tell me, then," Chen-cho said, "can others find their way into my picture? A question of privacy, you understand."
"Of course they can," replied Lao-hu. "It's your painting, but now that you've done it, it's open to anybody who cares to enter. But leave that idle speculation and nitpicking to scholars who enjoy such occupation. You've hardly seen the smallest part of all this." Laohu motioned around him with his long tail "so let me show you a little, for a start. Climb on my back."
Chen-cho gladly accepted the tiger's invitation. Laohu sprang across t
he stream in one mighty leap. Chencho clamped his legs around the tiger's flanks and his arms around Lao-hu's powerful neck. The tiger sped across meadows, through forests, up and down hills. Chen-cho glimpsed garden pavilions, farmhouses, towns and villages, sailboats on rivers, birds in the air, fish leaping in brooks, animals of every kind. Some of what he saw looked vaguely familiar; the rest, altogether strange and fascinating. Lao-hu promised they would continue their explorations and carried the painter back to where they had started.
As easily as he had stepped into the painting, Chencho stepped into the room. Lao-hu followed, much to the surprise and delight of the painter, who was reluctant to part from his new companion.
"I can go wherever I please," Lao-hu replied when Chen-cho asked about this, "just as you can."
"Can other people see you?" asked Chen-cho, wondering what his landlord might say if he came into the room and found a tiger.
"Of course they can," Lao-hu said. "I may be a magical tiger, but I'm not an invisible one."
With that, Lao-hu curled up at the foot of Chencho's bed. The tired but happy painter flung himself down and went to sleep, thinking that, all in all, it had been an interesting day.
Next morning, when the storm had passed, Chencho packed his belongings and set off on his way again. Lao-hu had jumped back into the picture, which the artist had rolled up and carried under his arm. Once away from the village, Chen-cho unrolled the painting. He saw no sign of Lao-hu. Dismayed, the artist anxiously called for him. The tiger appeared an instant later, sprang out, and padded along beside Chen-cho.
From then on, whenever he was sure they were unobserved, Chen-cho summoned Lao-hu, and the two of them wandered together, the fondest companions. When Chen-cho stopped to paint some scene or other, the tiger would stretch out next to him or disappear into the picture on some business of his own. Nevertheless, Chen-cho had only to call his name and Lao-hu would reappear immediately; and Chen-cho always kept the painting beside him when he worked.
As for his other paintings, thanks to the tiger's brush, the marvelous ink stick, and the grinding stone they became better and better, as did Chen-cho's reputation. Whenever he lodged in a town or city, he could expect any number of customers to come clamoring for his pictures. However, as always, he parted with few. Nor would he even consider selling his marvelous landscape, no matter what price was offered. So, more often than not, would-be purchasers left disappointed at being refused.
Only once did Chen-cho have a disagreeable encounter. In one town, a merchant came to inspect Chen-cho's paintings, but as soon as he saw them, he shook his head in distaste.
"What dreadful daubs are these?" he exclaimed. "Not one suitable to put in my house! And this." he pointed at the landscape, where Lao-hu had prudently hidden himself out of sight "worst of all! An ugly, blotchy, ill-conceived scrawl! I've had nightmares prettier than this."
Chen-cho, glad to see the merchant stamp off, flung a few tart words after him. He was, nonetheless, puzzled. He called Lao-hu, who popped out instantly.
"Easily understood," Lao-hu said, when Chen-cho told him the merchant's opinion. "As a painter, you should know this better than anyone. We see with eyes in our head, but see clearer with eyes of the heart. Some see beauty, some see ugliness. In both cases, what they see is a reflection of their own nature."
"Even so," replied Chen-cho, "a painting's a painting. Colors and shapes don change, no matter who looks at them."
"True enough," said Lao-hu. "Very well, then, let me put it this way: You can't please everybody."
"That, I suppose," Chen-cho said, "is a blessing."
• • • • •
While Chen-cho happily paints away with Lao-hu at his side, Jen is arriving at Chai-sang. To learn what he finds there, accompany him into the next chapter.
22
• What Jen Did Not Know •
• What He Found Out •
• What Happened To Master Chu •
THERE WERE SEVERAL THINGS Jen did not know. For one, that word had spread throughout the northern province. Following Ping-erh's example, other villages stood against Natha Yellow Scarf like so many gnats and mosquitoes that he wasted no more time and effort swatting them. He turned south again, his eye on greater prizes. Jen had failed to settle accounts with his old enemy but otherwise had succeeded better than he realized.
Another thing he did not know was how, in a practical way, to find Voyaging Moon. Late one afternoon, he at last trudged into Chai-sang. He might as well have stumbled into an anthill. The streets of the provincial capital swarmed with carriages, sedan chairs, carts, barrows, and jostling passersby. It was all he could do to break free of the crowd and find a quiet spot where he could make plans, of which he had none.
Of immediate concern was still another thing he did not know: how to stay alive. He had eaten up his small store of provisions two days before. A wet snow had begun, the heavy sky threatened more, a rising wind was sharp enough to bite through the quilt around his shoulders. Following his first thought, he entered the nearest inn. No sooner did the innkeeper catch sight of this clearly unprosperous new arrival than he berated him for dripping on the clean floor. He threatened to call the watchmen if the wretch did not take himself off instantly. Jen tried to explain that he wished to work in exchange for food. The innkeeper would hear none of that. He hustled Jen into the street and promised him a number of disagreeable things if he ever again set foot inside his establishment.
Jen tried several other inns and eating houses with the same result. By this time, he could barely keep his thoughts straight. Master Hu had firmly lectured him on the virtues of honesty, but the notion floated into Jen's head that a little robbery might be unvirtuous but appropriate, and he wished he had paid more attention to Moxa.
So far, his belly had been clamoring wildly for food. Now it spoke to him calmly and reasonably. "What could be simpler?" it said. "You have the answer in your bundle."
"The bowl?" Jen said.
"Of course," his belly replied. "Master Wu chose it as a suitable gift. Therefore, it must have value. What has value can be sold."
"The last of my offerings?" Jen protested. "I can't. Then I'd be truly empty-handed."
"Come now," said his belly, "be reasonable. When you find Voyaging Moon, as you surely will, she'll no doubt have the flute. So, you'll offer that to Yuanming. Assuming you reach T'ien-kuo in the first place. If you don't, then what difference will it make? Therefore, you'd be foolish to hold on to something worth a few strings of cash. More, for all you know."
Jen hesitated. His belly went on in a wheedling vein, suggesting tasty dishes and a warm bed. Jen began to suspect that his belly was very clever and subtle, with its own purposes, and not to be trusted. By now, his head was going around in circles and his knees had turned unreliable. He stumbled out of the crowd and sat down with his back against a wall.
He unwrapped the bowl and stared at it. If he chose to sell it, as his belly recommended, where could he do so? He pondered this, eyes half-closed. A voice shouted in his ear. Jen blinked up at a furious face attached to a rag-covered body.
"My corner!" the face shouted. "Get on with you. Find your own place to beg."
The man shook a heavy stick and seemed perfectly willing to crack Jen's skull with it. Instead of offering explanation or apology, Jen thought it wiser to follow the man's suggestion. He clambered up and set off down the street. Along the way, he stopped a passerby.
The man eyed the bowl in Jen's hand. "Be off! If I gave to every impudent beggar, I'd soon be one myself."
"No, no," Jen said, "to sell this-who'd buy it? Where would I go?"
"Do you take me for a pawnbroker? Well, then, go to Green Sparrow Street." The man waved impatiently and doled out directions as grudgingly as if he were handing over coins.
Jen set off accordingly. Either he had been misinformed or had misunderstood, for he found himself in a maze of alleyways. His belly continued to mutter complaints. Also, his teeth b
egan chattering; he felt hot and cold at the same time. He picked his way through heaps of litter. He no longer remembered exactly where he had been directed. Just ahead, he caught sight of a bent figure hobbling along, leaning on a staff. Jen gave a joyful cry and ran to him.
"Master Shu!" The old man turned. "Shu? Honorable young sir, you mistake yourself." Jen rubbed his eyes. The man was as ragged and grimy as Master Shu had ever been. But, indeed, he was not the old poet.
"Shu?" The aged beggar shook his head. "Not I. Chu. You seek a Master Shu but find a Master Chu. And you? Whoever you may be, I am happy to make your acquaintance. It is always a pleasure to meet a colleague.
"New to the profession, as well, if you've come to this neighborhood looking for alms." Master Chu peered into Jen's bowl. "Empty. Empty as your belly, I might guess."
"Not looking for alms," Jen said. "I want to sell this bowl. Where can I."
"Sell your bowl?" Master Chu broke in. "Young man, a beggar without a bowl is no proper beggar at all. Why, it's your stock in trade, your trusty friend, your faithful servant. Beg well and you'll fill it with food, or a coin or two. In the course of time, what it brings you will be worth more than the little cash you'd get for it."
"Master Chu, I'm not here to beg," Jen said. "I was told that a young woman has been taken to Chai-sang. I must find her."
"Ah? That's a different matter. But, most assuredly, you will not find her. Not in your present state. You look hardly able to find your nose in the dark. Have you eaten? No? Come along, then."
Too confused and shaky to ask questions, Jen allowed Master Chu to lead him to something resembling a small shed or a large dog kennel patched together from matting and bamboo poles. Helping him inside, Master Chu rummaged through a pile of rags and torn quilts.