A Chinese Legend: The Tears of Laughter

A Western take on Chinese mythology, this story blends aspects of myths and fairy tales, carrying Western philosophical undertones while remaining faithful to Chinese cultural values and beliefs.

―― Xiàwu hǎo, xiǎo Liu. Come. Join me for a walk in the gardens. ――

 

            The dreamy-eyed girl looked up from her drawing and stared at her grandfather adoringly.

 

―― I would love to, yéyé!  ――

 

            The little girl ran to the door and wrapped her tiny arms around her grandfather’s legs. He grabbed her firmly and lifted her from the ground, bringing her close to his heart.

 

―― Come, little one. I shall tell you story while nature itself speaks to us. ――

 

―― Oh, I love stories, yéyé, ―― Liu said with excitement. ―― What sort of story will it be? ――

 

―― One I think you will enjoy. It is a story full of both sadness and joy, tears and laughter, and even spirits and monsters. ――

 

            As the grandfather spoke, the two of them left the house and followed a narrow stone path, guarded on both sides by rows of plum trees and peach trees in full bloom. The path emerged into a small garden: immediately ahead of them there was a pond, rather irregular in shape, surrounded by a variety of trees and flowers. A narrow, covered bridge stretched across the pond at its narrowest point. The path split in two and the two branches followed the edge of the pond and where joined by the bridge. Various flowers filled the periphery of the garden.

 

            Liu and her grandfather sat on a large, smooth rock overlooking the pond. The two of them sat in silence for several minutes, contemplating the ripples on the surface of the pond and the clouds sailing across the sky. A shy wind whispered through the trees, and the birds responded in kind with whistles and songs. The soft words of the grandfather broke the silence.

 

―― I promised you a story, xiǎo Liu, and a story you shall hear. This story tells of events that happened many years ago, before the time of your great grandfather’s grandfather. Let’s see, where should we begin our tale? Ah… yes… our story should begin with Laughter…

 

 

            Indeed, for Xiào Sheng is the name of our protagonist; the girl had been born to one of the most powerful and influential families of the time, the Zhāng family. She wore her name well, for she had the most beautiful and joyful laugh in the country. Many high-ranking officials from all over the empire would come to hear her sing, and her laugh could bring joy to even the most stubborn and sorrowful souls. It is said that even the emperor came to hear the laugh of Xiào Sheng once a year, and it was so full of life that some of its power remained with him, such that he lived a very long and fruitful life.

 

            When Zhāng Xiào Sheng reached the proper age for marriage, her parents were dismayed by the lack of suitors, for although every man who heard Xiào Sheng became instantly entranced by her voice, none would approach her parents to ask for her hand in marriage. Unbeknownst to both the parents and their daughter, Xiào Sheng had attracted the attention of Juéwàng, also known as Biànxíng Qì, the One of Many Bodies; he had fallen in love with her and his jealousy was so great that he had vowed that none but him could have her. He thus set a curse on her so powerful that drove all but the strongest of heart and mind away from her; the few that were not affected by the curse and dared approach the parents with the intention of marrying Xiào Sheng he viciously killed.

 

            Many full moons came and went, and the parents grew ever more worried that their daughter would grow old and remain unmarried. Xiào Sheeng entertained the same fears as her parents, but she kept silent about them, putting on a facade of hope and patience for their sake. On the eve of the twenty-ninth full moon since her sixteenth birthday, a young man rode into the village, his head held high despite his weary appearance, and led his horse to the Zhāng residence.

 

            After exchanging a few words with the doorman, a servant allowed the man through the outer gate and guided the stranger to the house. The servant entered the vestibule and signaled the stranger to wait there while he proceeded into the room to his left. He returned after several moments followed by Xiào Sheng’s parents.

 

―― This is the master of the house and his wife, mister and miss Zhāng, ―― the servant said.

 

            The stranger bowed.

 

―― Zhù nǐ hé jiā píng’ān. I am Lǐ Dōnghǎi. I seek hospitality for the night. ――

 

―― Huānyíng, Lǐ xiānsheng. We welcome you into our home with joy. Please, come into the main hall and let us talk. ――

 

―― I thank you for your generosity, ―― Dōnghǎi said as he bowed again. He followed the couple into the hall, and, following the example of his hosts, sat on the ground on the end of the table opposite his hosts.

 

―― Tell us, Lǐ, what brings you to this part of the country? It seems you have been on the road for many days. ――

 

―― I am the son of an important counselor to the emperor. I am an ambassador by trade and a wanderer by fate, unfortunately. An accident took my father from me scarcely a year ago, and since then, every ship I have sailed on has met a disastrous end. With her last breath, my mother sent me forth in search of a new fortune. ――

 

―― I offer you my condolences on behalf of my family, ―― replied the father. ―― I wish you luck on your quest for better fortune. It seems fate has stricken my own family with bad fortune. ――

 

―― It would do me honor to listen to your woes, ―― Dōnghǎi said politely. ―― Perhaps I may be of assistance. ――

 

―― I would be loath to burden you with further misfortune… ――

 

            Xiào Sheng walked into the room at that moment, her eyes betraying curiosity. Dōnghǎi was struck by her beauty: the simple perfection of her straight raven hair, the way her eyes revealed her thoughts and feelings, yet the feature that kept drawing his attention was her smile, so genuine, so full of life and hope.

 

―― I heard that we have a guest, ―― Xiào Sheng said expectantly, her eyes resting on Dōnghǎi.

 

―― Daughter, you couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. This is Lǐ Dōnghǎi. He will be our guest tonight. Come, sit with us, and we shall share a meal with Lǐ. ――

 

            Xiào Sheng sat at the end of the table to Dōnghǎi’s right. The servant brought the meal to the table, which consisted of simple yet succulent dishes. Dōnghǎi and the Zhāng family engaged in some small talk throughout dinner, but for the most part they ate in silence. When the meal was finished, Xiào Sheng stood up at a wordless sign from her father and proceeded to the center of the room. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and begun to sing.

 

            Xiào Sheng’s voice washed over Dōnghǎi with the strength of an enchantment, and he entered a state of unconsciousness, as if entranced. The whole world melted away, and all that existed was Xiào Sheng’s face, her eyes, her smile… her voice. As the song progressed, Dōnghǎi’s worries and troubles were swept away, his heart became temporarily freed from the oppression it had been carrying.

 

            The song seemed to stretch on timelessly, yet it ended as suddenly as it had begun. Dōnghǎi’s first thought was his realization that he had fallen in love with Xiào Sheng; somehow, every event and decision in his life had been meant to happen so that he could be at this place, so that he could meet her. He then made the decision to ask her parent’s permission to marry her, yet all he said was:

 

―― I have never heard such a wonderful voice, nor a song sung by such a beautiful being. No words could do justice to the beauty I have witnessed. ――

 

            Xiào Sheng smiled at the compliment, and then began laughing -- it was not a mocking laugh, but a laugh of joy, sincere and pure. In her laugh was contained every beautiful sound Dōnghǎi had ever heard: the joyful rush of streams through the rocks, the lethargic kisses of the rain upon the ground, the careless chirping of birds across the skies, the soothing whispers of trees in the night, the gentle caresses of the waves upon the sand. Dōnghǎi’s decision to marry Xiào Sheng became conviction. Yet, his passion was tempered by the realization that he could offer nothing in return for Xiào Sheng’s hand in marriage.

 

            The parents stood and wished Dōnghǎi a peaceful rest and called the servant to lead him to his room. The servant led him through the large house to a room in the far side of the building which faced the extensive garden belonging to the Zhāngs. The servant closed the door and left Dōnghǎi to dwell upon the events of the last few hours in the solitude of the night. He sat on the bed for many hours, attempting to discover a solution to his plight, for Xiào Sheng’s parents would never consent to their marriage lest he could give proof of his devotion and desire bring her happiness.

 

            At an early hour in the morning, Dōnghǎi still remained awake, his desperation having grown to such an extent that he feared life had brought him only more misfortune, for there could be no greater source of sorrow than the knowledge that joy and beauty were within his grasp yet remaining unable to attain them. At that moment he was overcome by an innate desire to step outside, as if the answer he sought was just beyond the door which led to the gardens. He did not resist the desire; he stood and stepped outside. The dawn was quickly approaching, yet the sun showed no signs of its coming and the full moon remained high in the sky, illuminating the garden with ethereal light.

 

            The path brought Dōnghǎi to the ancestral temple of the Zhāngs; he walked up the steps and knelt at the entrance of the temple.

 

―― The road that brought me here is long, ―― Dōnghǎi began in a whisper, directing his words to the portraits and statues facing him. ―― I have come in search of a new life, of happiness. I humbly ask… beg… for your assistance, for your guidance. ――

 

            A cool breeze swept through the garden; moonlight shone through small openings in the roof of the temple. The light inside the temple began growing in intensity, and soon the brightness caused Dōnghǎi to avert his eyes. When he looked up, a cloaked figure stood in the center of the temple. Her robes -- for she was a woman -- were glistening white, soft moonlight irradiated from her entire body, and her skin was pale yet surprisingly warm, like milk rather than snow.

 

―― I am Cháng’é, the spirit of the moon, ―― the figure spoke with a gentle yet alien voice, and every word seemed to carry immense power. ―― Know this, Lǐ Dōnghǎi, that your prayer and your plight have not gone unnoticed. I have come to provide the aid you seek. ――

 

            Dōnghǎi brought his head close to the ground in reverence.

 

―― I am honored to be in your presence, oh great Cháng’é. All I seek is for fitting proof of my love for Xiào Sheng so that I may marry her, yet I am but an outcast and a wanderer, and thus can offer nothing. ――

 

―― You shall have what you seek; all you must do is follow my instructions. ――

 

―― I shall do as you say, ―― he replied.

 

―― Then take this vessel and gather the morning dew, ―― she said as she handed him a wooden bowl, ―― and bring it back to me once it is full. ――

 

            Dōnghǎi took the vessel and approached a group of flowers to his right. He tilted each flower to force the drops of dew to fall into the bowl; the labor was arduous, yet he made quick progress. As a streak of pink light began to appear in the horizon, Dōnghǎi finished gathering the last drops of dew. The dew had not joined together to form a single mass, but had remained separate, such that the bowl seemingly contained hundreds of small, fine pearls. He came back to the temple with focused care that no dew drops were spilled and placed the vessel in the hands of Cháng’é. She held the bowl in her left hand and rested her right hand a few inches above the dew. She began moving her hand back and forth, pushing and pulling an invisible force, and the drops began to float and rearrange themselves in the air. When Cháng’é was finished, she held the empty bowl in one hand and a diadem in the other; the diadem was exquisitely ornate and beautiful, and the work of the greatest jewelers and metalworkers paled in comparison to the crown fashioned by the moon goddess.

 

―― Behold, Lǐ Dōnghǎi, this is the gift I present to you, that you may present to the Zhāng family in turn. This diadem shall bring luck and good fortune to her family as long as she wears it. ―― Dōnghǎi took the diadem in awe and gratefulness. ―― The sun shall soon rise, and I shall be forced to leave, so I leave you with this warning. You face a dangerous foe, for Xiào Sheng has drawn the attention of Juéwàng, a cruel and jealous spirit capable of changing his form. He has set a curse over Xiào Sheng that shall only be broken once she has married. Marry her within three days, for as long as the moon remains whole, I shall have the strength to assist you. Nevertheless, after tonight my power shall begin to wane, and in three days I will no longer help you. And finally, I leave you with a final gift. I offer you Yǐnxíng, an enchanted bow crafted by my husband; it never misses its target. Make no mistake, Juéwàng shall not remain in the shadows much longer. ――

 

The sun’s first rays began to brighten the world from beyond the edge of the world. Cháng’é disappeared into the starlit sky, leaving Dōnghǎi with those two precious gifts. He returned to the house and found his way to the main hall and sat down at the table, placing the bow and the diadem upon it, to await the arrival of Xiào Sheng and her parents, who would soon wake.

 

            One hour after sunrise, Xiào Sheng’s parents came into the hall and were surprised to find Dōnghǎi already awake. As soon as his hosts walked in, he stood and bowed to them.

 

―― Zǎoshang hǎo, ―― he greeted his hosts.

 

―― Zǎo ān, Lǐ. We hope you rested well. ――

 

―― I did not sleep, yet my mind is at ease for the first time in many months. Let us sit, there is a matter I would like to discuss with you. ―― When Dōnghǎi and the Zhāngs had seated, he proceeded. ―― It would bring me joy to become a part of this family and be able to call you father and mother. Thus, I ask for your permission to marry Xiào Sheng. ――

 

―― I would be honored to accept you into my family and would willingly give you my blessing to marry my daughter. Alas! I fear that a curse prevents Xiào Sheng from entering into marriage. The few who have tried have all met tragic deaths. ――

 

―― Do not fear, for I have spoken with the Moon and she has revealed to me what I must do. ―― Dōnghǎi lifted the diadem from the table. ―― This is the gift I bring as a sing of my love and devotion to Xiào Sheng and to you. ――

 

―― Your gift pleases me, Lǐ. I shall call my daughter. Hopefully she is of the same mind as me and we shall soon experience great joy in our family. ――

 

            Zhāng sent the servant to summon Xiào Sheng, and the two came after a few minutes. She walked into the room and bowed first to her parents and then to Dōnghǎi.

 

―― Why have you awoken me at such an early hour, fùqīn?  ――

 

―― Lǐ has asked for my permission to marry you, which I willingly give him, but first I wish to know your thoughts. Would this marriage bring you happiness, my daughter? ――

 

Xiào Sheng smiled and looked at Dōnghǎi with eyes full of admiration and affection.

 

―― Yes, it would. ――

 

―― Your answer brings happiness to my heart, ―― Dōnghǎi exclaimed. He stepped closer to her and presented her the diadem. ―― May I? ―― he asked. She nodded and allowed him to place the crown on her head.

 

―― This is a beautiful crown! ――

 

            Juéwàng had witnessed the scene from far away, seething with anger and jealousy. Upon seeing Dōnghǎi place the diadem Cháng’é had made on Xiào Sheng’s head, he let out a bloodcurdling shriek and began to change his shape. At the end of the transformation, Juéwàng had unmistakeably become a Fènghuáng, yet he was unlike any phoenix that had been seen before; his feathers did not shine like gold but were dark and toneless, like tarnished copper. Similarly, the flames that streaked behind him blazed not like vibrant crimson, but flared with insecurity, black like the soot of a dying fire.

 

            The phoenix dived into the hall through one of the windows and flew towards Xiào Sheng’s head. Dōnghǎi had not forgotten the Moon’s warning and already had the bow in hand. He quickly notched an arrow and fired upon the phoenix. The arrow traversed Juéwàng’s wing, yet the wound was not mortal and Juéwàng escaped through the window. Nevertheless, Juéwàng had succeeded in his purpose -- the heat of his flames had melted the dew drops that formed the diadem.

 

―― It seems fate continues to work against us, ―― Zhāng said dejectedly.

 

―― Perhaps, yet I beg you to hold onto hope for one more day. Cháng’é shall aid me two more times; she will remain strong two more nights. ――

 

            Dōnghǎi spent the rest of the day in expectation for night’s arrival. He joined the Zhāng family for lunch and dinner, and after each meal he was once again witness to Xiào Sheng’s heavenly voice, yet for the most part he walked about the gardens in silence, sometimes alone, other times joined by Xiào Sheng. As he walked, he pondered on whether he could keep Juéwàng away. When the sun finally set, Dōnghǎi already waited in the temple to call upon Cháng’é. Nevertheless, she did not appear immediately, though the moon already hung low in the sky. As he waited, a stupor fell upon him and he fell asleep upon the granite floor.

 

            Dōnghǎi woke up once the moon was at its zenith. When he opened his eyes, Cháng’é waited for him a few steps down the path.

 

―― Come, Lǐ. Juéwàng has survived the wound you inflicted upon him and shall return again tomorrow. I shall provide you with another gift for Xiào Sheng, do not despair. ――

 

            She became silent and proceeded further down the path.

 

―― Come here. We are yet to accomplish our work for tonight. When the night is clear, as it is tonight, moonbeams often come to rest upon the webs of the hardworking spiders. This is what you must do: take my comb, and with it gather as many moonbeams as you can find. ――

 

            Dōnghǎi followed the directions Cháng’é had given him, gathering the delicate moonbeams into a pouch attached to his waist. As he collected them, more came to rest on the now unoccupied webs. It was not long before he had gathered many moonbeams, such that the pouch was overflowing. He brought them to Cháng’é, who seemed very pleased with his efforts.

 

            She then began to sing, though her voice was unlike that of Xiào Sheng. Though the words were foreign to Dōnghǎi, there was power in her voice, as if the very essence of the moon were flowing through her. The moonbeams began weaving themselves together, yet Dōnghǎi could not yet determine what the final product would be. Slowly, Cháng’é’s creation began to take shape; Dōnghǎi recognized from the body and the strings that it was an instrument. Cháng’é finally finished her song, revealing the Guzheng she had woven with her voice.

 

―― See now, Lǐ Dōnghǎi, the fruit of your love and my strength. This is the second gift I present to you that you may find happiness. Xiào Sheng alone has the ability to play it, for no mortal fingers can draw music from it, yet when she sings it will awaken and shall play itself. I must once again leave you with a warning: Juéwàng will not cease in his efforts until he succeeds or his power over Xiào Sheng is destroyed. He will attack again today, and he may attempt to take your life, for you have proven to be a threat to him. If he succeeds in destroying this second gift, you must return to me tomorrow night, but this time you shall bring Xiào Sheng and her parents along, and I shall bestow upon you the greatest gift my power allows. ――

 

―― I thank you again, oh great and kind Cháng’é. I shall do as you have said, and I pray that I may indeed find happiness today. ――

 

            Cháng’é smiled and disappeared in a mist of blinding light. Dōnghǎi found himself alone in the garden, yet he was again full of hope. He returned to his room and, since there remained a few hours before the sun would rise, he rested. When he opened his eyes, the sun had already traveled one hour of its daily journey. He quickly made himself presentable, armed himself with the bow, and prepared the Gyzheng which he was to present to Xiào Sheng, and left for the main hall.

 

            When he entered, the Zhāng family already waited for him in their customary places. Dōnghǎi bowed to each of them.

 

―― The moon goddess showed me her favor again last night, and I present myself to you this morning with this Guzheng that Cháng’é herself fashioned by singing over the moon’s gentle beams. It is my gift to you, Xiào Sheng, as a sign that the spirits that defend life and beauty wish us happiness. You must but sing, and it shall accompany you with its own beautiful sound. ――

 

―― This gift brings gladness to my heart, and it fills me with hope that we have Cháng’é as our defender. ――

 

―― Daughter, it would please us to hear your voice and the beauty of this gift. ――

 

            Xiào Sheng nodded and held the Guzheng as if to play, yet her fingers did not touch the strings. She began to sing, a joyful and melodious song, and to her voice another joined, deeper and more melancholy in sound, yet equally beautiful. As the song continued, Xiào Sheng’s voice and the Guzheng’s sound melded into one, and the resulting melody was as such as had never been heard on earth since its creation.

 

            The song drew the ire of Juéwàng, who laid in wait for a chance to strike. Upon seeing Dōnghǎi completely beguiled by Xiào Sheng, he attacked. He transformed into a Dāngkāng, a terrible boar-like monster of indomitable strength and infinite hunger. He roared and charged against the house with the strength of a thousand bulls, breaking through several inches of stone and wood. The beast lunged against Dōnghǎi and one of its tusks pierced his abdomen, yet it missed all his vital organs. The beast reared and turned to face Xiào Sheng, believing Dōnghǎi to be dead. Juéwàng had no intention of harming her, yet he felt an extreme loathing for the Guzheng Cháng’é had created. He approached her slowly and deliberately, bearing his fangs and snarling. Xiào Sheng dropped the instrument in fear; the beast did not hesitate to swallow it.

 

            He continued approaching with the intention of kidnapping her, so as to have her once and for all. Dōnghǎi laid on the floor in pain, but upon seeing the beast so close to Xiào Sheng, he was filled with new strength. He notched an arrow and pulled the string back as far as it would go, and, without taking his eyes off his target, he released the arrow. Juéwàng let go a terrible howl of pain as he felt the arrow cross his body, passing dangerously close to his heart. He knew the wound to be severe, perhaps even lethal; he felt as his life began to flow out of the gash.

 

            Filled with fear and pain, Juéwàng rushed out of the house through the hole he had created, but Dōnghǎi was quick and fired another arrow upon him as he escaped, causing another laceration on his hind leg. Before Dōnghǎi could fire another arrow, however, Juéwàng had disappeared into the distance. Dōnghǎi was filled with relief that no one had perished, and he was the only one injured. He felt sure that he had mortally wounded Juéwàng and did not expect him to return.

 

            A semblance of calmness returned to the house. The parents had sat down and were drinking tea while their daughter consoled them. Meanwhile, Dōnghǎi allowed the servant to tend to his wound, which he cleansed and bandaged with care and skill.

 

―― Will our misfortune not abate? ―― the father cried out. ―― If that beast attacks again, I fear that you shall receive more than a wound. ――

 

―― But surely, the beast could not have survived, ―― Dōnghǎi said incredulously.

 

――Juéwàng is an ancient spirit and is not as easily killed as mortal man. ――

 

―― If that is so, then let us pray that he does not return before the sun rises. Cháng’é shall remain strong for yet another night, and she has requested that you, your wife, and your daughter accompany me into the garden. ――

 

―― Then we shall hold hope for another night, ―― Zhāng said.

 

            The rest of the day passed by in watchful silence. Dōnghǎi stood near Xiào Sheng and her parents and watched over them as they sat together and spoke only in whispers. The day did not pass fast enough for them, and Dōnghǎi was glad when finally he saw the sun sink into the horizon. Soon, the world was flooded by the light of the moon, which cast its ethereal blue light across the garden.

 

            Dōnghǎi took Xiào Sheng’s hand and led her and her parents out into the garden. They walked away from the house, following the path until they were near the large pond. They stopped at a signal from Dōnghǎi, and suddenly the glowing form of Cháng’é floated down from the moon and hovered in front of them. The Zhāngs and Dōnghǎi bowed respectfully.

 

―― I am happy to see that you have survived Juéwàng’s jealousy and anger, though I am saddened that he succeeded in destroying the two gifts which took much of my power to create. Yet, despair not, for I am now going to bestow upon you the greatest gift which the heavens can bestow upon mortals. For behold, I myself shall join the two of you in matrimony, and the union between you will be such that the thorns of envy and jealousy and despair shall fail to corrupt it. See now, for the entire array of heaven shall be your witness, and blessings shall rain upon you from all the stars. ――

 

            As Cháng’é spoke, the light of the moon falling upon the garden began to concentrate in slender pillars. Then, before their eyes, the pillars of light began to bend and form into intricate arches and vaults over their heads, until the entire garden seemed to be enclosed in a giant cathedral of light. Next, the stars began descending into the garden and settling on the flowers and trees, and soon the entire garden was illuminated by many pinpoints of light, and it seemed to Dōnghǎi and the Zhāngs that they stood above the galaxy. Then, the moon itself came down into the garden into the garden and came to rest on a small island at the center of the pond. The moon filled the lake with white light, which shone like a polished mirror made of silver.

 

―― Mister and miss Zhāng, please remain here at the shore and observe. Dōnghǎi and Xiào Sheng shall follow me to the island, where they shall be married and be made immortal. The moon shall then be their home, and the stars their path across the skies. ――

 

            Cháng’é then went to the edge of the water and summoned many stars which she joined together into a small boat made of light. Dōnghǎi and Xiào Sheng stepped into the boat and embraced each other; tears of joy filled their eyes as they realized that they would soon be married and freed from the malignant curse of Juéwàng. Cháng’é glided across the water to the island and the star-boat followed close behind. The boat came to a gentle stop on the sand. Dōnghǎi aided Xiào Sheng as she stepped out of the boat. Dōnghǎi followed her, stepping over the side of the boat and placing his foot firmly in the sand. Just as he was lifting his other leg, a sharp and blinding pain shot through his body, and he collapsed upon the sand.

 

            Although Dōnghǎi’s arrow had mortally wounded Juéwàng, death was slow in coming and the monster was determined in fulfilling the curse he had set upon Xiào Sheng and Dōnghǎi. Gathering his remaining strength, he had transformed into a Gōushé, a snake monster whose bite was lethal and for whose venom no antidote existed. He had slithered into the garden unnoticed and had followed Dōnghǎi and Xiào Sheng across the lake. As soon as Dōnghǎi had set foot upon the beach, he had struck at his ankle. His venom worked quickly, and Dōnghǎi would be dead within a few seconds. Juéwàng then prepared to strike Xiào Sheng, for if he was not to have her, no one else would.

 

            As he lunged forward to deliver the deadly blow, Dōnghǎi used what life remained in him to stab the snake through the head with an arrow. With a final breath, he fell backwards into the water.; blood oozed from both his wounds, tainting the surface of the pond, like ink spreading through paper.

 

            Xiào Sheng fell to her knees over Dōnghǎi’s body, and for the first time in her life, she cried. Tears of anger, frustration, and even joy are hot and taste of salt, yet bitter and cold are the tears of despair. The joyful life that Xiào Sheng had so often given to others had left her; it laid dead next to Dōnghǎi’s body.

 

            Cháng’é had remained motionless as Dōnghǎi was felled by Juéwàng, unable to intervene. She did not have the power to save Dōnghǎi’s life, nor the power to restore life to Xiào Sheng’s heart. Nevertheless, she decided to use the last of her power to undo some of the evil Juéwàng had inflicted. She gathered the light around her and allowed it to flow into Dōnghǎi and Xiào Sheng. As Xiào Sheng cried and Dōnghǎi died, a strange transformation began to take place. Dōnghǎi’s body began to glow and change shape, though Xiào Sheng was blinded by her tears and did not notice the strange event that was taking place. For, in the place of Dōnghǎi, there was now a large fish. Its scales were a deep azure, like the ocean or the place where the day and the night become one; a blood-red heart could be seen just behind the dorsal fin.

 

            Xiào Sheng herself also began to experience a transformation. As she cried, her tears began to glow, and as they fell, they stretched and grew; the tears were becoming long, thin branches. The transformation ended, and where Xiào Sheng had been kneeling there now stood a tree; many branches stemmed from its body, arching down and bending towards the water, such that the tree appeared to have many cascades of leaves that streamed into the pond.

 

            Thus is the story of the first willow and the first koi, who were separated by jealousy, despair, and death, but hope allows them to be together still, for it is said that on the nights of full moon, the father of all koi makes its way to the pond where the first willow still stands, and the two are allowed to be together for as long as the night remains.

 

 

            The grandfather and Liu had moved around the garden as the story was told, and they now sat underneath a willow which grew at the edge of the pond. Liu had grabbed one of the branches and was caressing it as a mother does with her sick child.

 

―― That was a sad story, yéyé, ―― she cried with tears in her eyes.

 

―― Yes, quite sad, but quite beautiful as well, ―― the grandfather said thoughtfully, as he remembered the time when he too still had the woman he loved.

 

            Liu leaned against her grandfather, who put his arm around her and held her close. The two watched the sun as it set beyond the garden wall, while its warm, fiery rays fell across the pond and between the willow’s branches. A single koi circled around the pond, its scales reflecting the sun’s dying light. The grandfather sighed and brought Liu closer to his heart.

Author's Note

Changes and revisions made to the story:

1. In the original version of the story, Lǐ Dōnghǎi tells the Zhāngs that he was a sailor before he became a wanderer. In order to adhere to Chinese cultural and social class values, I decided to make him the son of a high ranking official (a counselor) and Dōnghǎi himself an ambassador, since merchants and sailors were considered the lowest social classes in the time period of the story. It was important to me to maintain Dōnghǎi’s connection to the sea, however.

2. Another revision was the fact of Dōnghǎi’s mother dying. In the original version, Dōnghǎi simply leaves his mother in search of a better fortune, but I later realized that this would be a very grave and disrespectful decision in Chinese culture, so rather I changed it so that the mother herself sent Dōnghǎi to wander the land. By thus changing Dōnghǎi’s social status, it further fixes various conflicts in the story. For example, the title of xiānshēng is usually used when referring to a person older than yourself, or when referring to a person of equal or higher social status, and thus Zhāng is claiming Dōnghǎi as his equal by using this title.

3. Another revision was changing the word ‘bà’ to ‘fùqīn.’ Although a little girl might call her father bà (daddy), in a professional context, especially when there are guests present, a daughter would respectfully call her father fùqīn (father).

4. Additionally, there were various non-consequential revisions made to the story, including fixing grammar and spelling mistakes, changing word choice in various places, and omitting certain words and phrases.