As he carried the stone, it seemed to wriggle and squirm in his arms. “Bubble… bubble… glub… glub…” the stone seemed to whisper to him. “Shh,” the stonecutter whispered back. “You are to be a dragon.”
However, when the stonecutter began to carve, the head that formed was not a dragon’s. The carved eyes gazed at him with such a reproachful stare that the stonecutter set down his tools.
His young son, who often helped him with his work, stood next to the stonecutter in silence.
“Baba,” the stonecutter’s son said finally, “that stone does not want to be a dragon. It wants to be a fish.”
The stonecutter nodded, but his head hung with heaviness. He could not carve a dragon from this stone. But Magistrate Tiger…
“Glub, glub,” the stone said, and when the stonecutter raised his head to look at the stone, he saw the beseeching eyes of a trapped creature.
“Poor fish!” the son said. “Baba, it wants to be free!”
The stonecutter knew he could not ignore the stone’s plea. He sighed and began to carve.
Ninety-nine days later, the magistrate came to collect his dragon and, instead, found a stone fish. The fish glistened as if it had just jumped out of the water, its every scale carved with such delicacy they seemed transparent. It was a masterpiece.
Of course, that did not matter to the magistrate. He was furious to be presented with a fish when he had commanded a dragon. He ordered the stonecutter to be taken away and executed.
That night, the magistrate could not sleep. “Bubble, bubble, bubble,” something kept whispering to him. “Glub, glub.”
The fish! the magistrate thought. In the morning, he ordered that the fish carving be brought to him.
The stonecutter’s son brought it. Knowing he was carrying his father’s last masterpiece, the stonecutter’s son could not help but begin to weep. But just as his salty tears touched the stone, the fish began to wriggle and twist.
“Glub, glub!” said the fish. It was alive!
“Quickly!” Magistrate Tiger roared. “Water!”
Immediately, the servants brought a wood tub filled with water from the kitchen. The stonecutter’s son released the fish, and it began to swim.
How amazing it was! Its every curve was an iridescent medley of color. Its every movement was a joyful dance. It flipped and splashed with such delight that even the selfish magistrate smiled. All who saw the fish could not help but feel happy, if only for that brief moment.
The magistrate was extremely proud. His magical stone fish was talked and whispered about everywhere. His people tried to catch glimpses of it. His flattering assistants fawned over it. His noble friends admired it. There was even talk that the emperor himself was interested in seeing it. “The happy fish,” they murmured. “Have you seen it? Magistrate Tiger has a marvel!”
“It is too bad the fish swims in such a humble home,” one of the magistrate’s assistants said. “A wooden kitchen tub does not seem fitting for a creature.”
“Yes,” Magistrate Tiger said, struck by the thought. “You are right. Have the finest gang brought here. The fish shall have a new home.”
Soon, a decorated gang was brought to the magistrate’s chamber and filled with water. But as the servant lifted the fish, it writhed and twisted, jumping out of the servant’s hands.
Crack! The fish lay lifeless on the floor—now broken pieces of stone.
The magistrate held the stone parts in his hands and tried to fit them together. “My fish!” he cried. “My fish! Get the stonecutter to come fix it!”
The others stared and gulped. “We cannot,” one said finally. “You had the stonecutter put to death. And there is no one else skilled enough to mend it.”
The magistrate was silent for a moment, realizing the truth of his assistant’s words. He gave a roar of rage, perhaps cursing himself for his own lack of vision.
“Ah! But the stonecutter did not die!” the prisoner said. “His son did not know it at the time, but he was able to get away, and later they both fled the magistrate’s land together!”
“Did they?” Amah said.
“Yes, yes,” the prisoner said with pride. “I know this because that stonecutter was my ancestor! He passed his skill down from generation to generation to…” The man broke off and looked closely at Amah. His face broke out in a wide smile.
“I know who you are!” he said, almost with glee. “There is only one person other than my own grandmother who would know that story and could have told it the way you did. You must be the Storyteller!”
“I have been called that,” Amah admitted.
“Ah! I truly am a lucky one after all,” the stonecutter said. “For to be in prison with the Storyteller is to not be in a prison at all.”
CHAPTER
15
“I feel I shouldn’t let you leave,” Suya said, shaking her head. The cold morning light cascaded through the window. Pinmei and Yishan were packed to go. They had planned to leave before breakfast so as not to add to Suya’s food worries, but she pushed two bowls of hot porridge into their hands. “Children, walking alone to the City of Bright Moonlight! In winter? You’re meeting someone there?”
Yishan nodded. “Well, I’m sure we will meet someone,” he hissed at Pinmei when he caught her guilty expression. Pinmei could easily imagine Suya’s horror if she knew the truth.
“Sifen, Old Sai!” Suya said, shaking her head again. “Tell them to stay!”
“I wish I could go with you,” Sifen said from his bed, the longing obvious in his voice.
Old Sai brought them two rolls. “A leather ground cover and two fur blankets,” he said with satisfaction. His eyes twinkled at them. “From the hidden hole under my bed!”
“We’ll bring them back,” Pinmei said, realizing their value.
“Just bring back a good tale, Storyteller’s granddaughter,” Old Sai said kindly.
“Yes,” Sifen called, “I’ll be expecting a good one!”
And with that, they left. The door of the stone house closed and the silence of winter mocked them. Suddenly, Pinmei yearned for the sound of Amah’s voice, and, inside, she felt as if the ever-present hollow ache would swallow her. She blinked her eyes at the glittering ice-covered stones and took a deep breath. It was time to leave the mountain.
Yishan lead Pinmei to the main road as she nestled into her multicolored coat, its warmth like Amah’s arms.
The snow began to fall—gently at first, but then heavier and heavier, flakes dropping and fluttering all around. They’re like white butterflies, Pinmei thought, hundreds and hundreds of white butterflies—and one red one? A wavering, brilliant red color flittered in front of her. A red butterfly! Impossible! Pinmei shook her head, and when she looked again, there was only the white falling snow. She must be seeing things.
After a good distance, the grumbling in Yishan’s stomach became so loud he had to admit he was hungry. As they unrolled the leather ground cover to sit at the side of the road, they found a package with a generous supply of rice balls, most likely smuggled in by Sifen or Old Sai. With cries of delight, they fell upon them as if they were candied berries.
“I hope they don’t get in trouble with Suya for giving us these,” said Pinmei with appreciation. Yishan grunted in agreement, his mouth too full to reply, and for a moment all was quiet except for their satisfied munching.
But only for a moment. For just as Pinmei swallowed her second rice ball, there was a faint rumble in the distance. She recognized that sound. Horses! Pinmei looked at Yishan in alarm.
He had cocked his head, listening intently. “Just one horse,” he said, “and coming fast. He probably won’t even notice us.”
Pinmei listened again. She could hear the galloping hooves on the stone now. They waited, not even attempting to swallow their food. Faster and closer, faster and closer, faster and closer, and at last, like a cresting wave, the rider burst out of the silver mist.
As the
rider passed, Pinmei gaped at him. He was riding a milk-white horse, so white the animal blended into the snow. The rider, a flash of gleaming blue silk, looked like he was flying. They passed only for a moment, but the horse’s thundering hooves belied its grace, for it seemed to glide more than run.
As the horse and rider began to fade into the distance, Pinmei kept staring, unable to look away. So she saw it clearly when the horse screamed with a panicked shriek and reared, and the blue smear of the thrown rider collapsed to the ground.
CHAPTER
16
Both Pinmei and Yishan ran to the rider. The horse had melted into the white landscape, but the mound of luxurious gray-and-blue silk on the ground reassured them that it had not been a dream. Yishan gently turned the rider over, and they both gasped. The rider was a woman!
And she was a stunningly beautiful woman. Only moments before, Pinmei had decided the horse was the pinnacle of beauty, but now she found herself reconsidering. The opulent fur-trimmed silk and gold ornaments told of the woman’s wealth and nobility, but those were mere faded trappings compared with her loveliness. Her face, so pure and clear, could have been formed of water jade and her shining hair, loosened from its ornate pins, pooled around her like smooth black water on the white snow. Even Yishan looked amazed.
The woman opened her eyes.
“Children?” she murmured. “Why are there children here? What has happened?”
“Your horse threw you,” Yishan said. “We wanted to make sure you were all right.”
The woman sat up. She looked at them and at the countryside around her. Pinmei noticed that her eyes looked as if happiness had not shone in them for a long time.
“I remember now,” the woman said, her voice like a bamboo water chime. “BaiMa reared suddenly. It’s not like him at all. Something unexpected must have surprised him.”
Pinmei remembered the red butterfly she thought she had seen in the snow. Could that have surprised the horse?
“Do I still have…” The woman pushed aside her folds of silk and held a small bag up to her chest. She breathed a sigh of relief. “Here it is. I hope it was not hurt.”
The woman opened the bag and pulled out a lavishly embroidered fabric. As she held it open, Pinmei found herself gawking. It was an embroidered picture. There was a grand mansion surrounded by a beautiful garden with flowered fishponds and red-pillared pavilions. A sparkling river flowed before a stone wall, and mountains disappeared into a sea of clouds. The finest details were included, from the butterfly-shaped windows to the swimming ducks. Pinmei knew Amah was known for her embroidery skills, but this was extraordinary. Every thread vibrated with color.
“How beautiful,” Pinmei breathed, her awe overcoming her shyness. “It’s just like the widow’s embroidery in Amah’s story.”
“Story?” the woman inquired.
“Oh, everything reminds her of a story,” Yishan said mockingly, but also with a touch of pride. “Pinmei is a storyteller.”
I am? Pinmei thought with surprise. She had thought herself many things before—a scared mouse, a quiet girl, a coward—but never a storyteller. But before she could think further, the woman gave her a smile.
“Well, I’m not sure if I am ready to get up yet,” the woman said. “So perhaps a story would be good medicine.”
Pinmei began to shake her head in protest, but the woman’s eyes were weighted with so much worry that Pinmei found her own heart pale. The green of the jade bracelet shimmered at her, like a thread in one Amah’s embroidery silks. Again Pinmei felt the familiar longing pierce her. Amah would never refuse to tell a story—how could she? So, with her voice slightly trembling, Pinmei began.
There was once a widow who was extremely skilled at embroidery. When she embroidered a flower, bees would try to nestle in it. When she embroidered a tree, birds would try to land on it. She was known far and wide and supported herself and her young son with the embroidered pieces she sold.
One day, when she was at the market, she saw an old man selling a painting of a palatial estate. There was an elegant villa with lakes dotted with orange fish and moon gates that led to courtyards lined with trees. She stared at the painting, and a yearning she had never felt before filled her. Without thinking, she spent all the money meant for rice and bought the painting.
When she returned home, she showed the painting to her son.
“If only we could live in this painting,” she said to him with tears in her eyes. “I feel as if my heart will break if I do not live in this place.”
“Well, Mother,” the son said, trying to comfort her, “your embroidery is so lifelike perhaps you should embroider this picture. Then you will feel the same as if you were living in it.”
The widow’s face lit up and she nodded. “Yes, of course,” she said, and immediately went to work.
And she did not stop working. Hour after hour her needle moved, and at night she lit a lantern to continue. She carried on like this for days, and the days turned into months. Her son, without complaint, began to cut wood to support them.
The months turned into years. The widow’s hair turned white, and when strands fell from her head, she embroidered them into clouds. Her needle pricked her fingers, and when her blood dripped, she stitched it into the red peonies. They could no longer afford lantern oil, so she burned branches, and when her eyes watered from the smoke, she sewed her tears into the lotus ponds.
Finally, after eight years, the old widow put down her needle. She was finished. Her son, who was now a young man, stood in awe as he looked at the completed piece. It was magnificent. The widow sighed a soft sound of contentment.
The door banged open, and a wild wind burst into the room. The embroidery flew into the air and out the door. The widow and her son rushed after it, but only saw it fluttering in the distance. The widow collapsed to the ground.
When the widow finally opened her eyes, she begged her son to find her embroidery. “I shall die without it,” she said.
So the son left his mother in the care of his neighbors and went in search of the embroidery. After many days of traveling, he found himself by the sea. The moon was rising and its reflection on the water made a long silver-white path that connected seamlessly with the ground. As the young man followed the moon path with his eyes, he was startled to see a small figure lying on the shore. It was a boy.
“Hello!” the boy said as he fixed his red cap. “What are you doing here?”
The widow’s son then saw this was not an ordinary young boy. He must be an immortal of some sort, the son thought. So he told the boy his story.
“Oh, that embroidery,” the boy said. “The Sea King’s daughter sent a servant for it. She and all her ladies in waiting are copying it for their own pieces.”
“I must get it back,” the son said. “My mother will die without it.”
“You’d have to go to the Sea King’s palace, and that’s a hard journey,” the boy said. “First you must swim the sea until you reach frozen water and dive into it without a shiver or moan. If you make one sound of discontent, you will turn into ice and shatter into ten thousand pieces. Do you still want to go?”
The son nodded and started immediately to walk to the ocean. The boy grabbed his arm.
“Wait!” the boy said. “I’ll get you a ride.”
The boy put two fingers in his mouth and made a shrill whistle. The waves of the sea roared, and as the water rolled off the shore, a huge white stone appeared. The boy went over to the stone and knocked on it.
“Come out!” he said. “This fellow needs a ride!”
Did the stone quiver? The widow’s son rubbed his eyes.
“Hurry up!” the boy said. “She’ll never even notice you’re gone. She’s busy sewing. Come on!”
The waves smashed into the stone and made a crackling noise like a porcelain plate breaking. When the water withdrew, a white horse stood among some broken pieces of matching white stone.
/> “Good,” the boy said. “He’s in a hurry.”
The boy made a motion with his hand, and the horse walked up to the son.
“Now you’ll make it,” the boy said with a grin.
The widow’s son, after closing his gaping mouth, nodded his thanks, climbed on the horse’s back, and galloped into the water.
The horse and the young man swam through the piercing cold water. The dark waves flung shards of ice at him, and the blood from his cuts steamed and froze. When the water no longer churned and all was silent, the horse plunged into the bitter water and all was black.
When the son opened his eyes, he was warm and dry and still on the horse. The sun was overhead, and a majestic palace of crystal was before him. Without his urging, the horse entered the palace and brought him to a grand hall, where his mother’s embroidery hung in a place of honor. Dozens of beautiful women were sitting around it, each sewing a copy.
“I’m here for my mother’s embroidery,” he announced.
The women looked at him and whispered to one another until one, dressed in blue and the loveliest of them all, rose. It was only then that he saw she had a fish tail instead of legs. “Let us keep it for the rest of today so we can finish our copies,” she said. “You may take it tomorrow.”
The widow’s son was awestruck by her beauty. Even with her fish tail, she was the most stunning creature he had ever encountered, and he, who had not been turned by pain or possible death, found he could not refuse her. So he let himself be led to a golden bed at the back of the hall, where he soon fell asleep.
In the meantime, the women rushed to finish their pieces. They called their servants to bring more threads and silks, and the woman in blue requested a new needle. “Fetch the finest one we have from my father’s treasury,” she ordered her servant.