Starry River of the Sky (7 page)

With those words Madame Chang finished the story and looked at Rendi. His mouth had curved, and a noise snorted out of his nose. It was only when the sound joined everyone else’s that he realized he was laughing.

After lunch, Rendi went to collect water from the Half-Moon Well. Ever since he had arrived at the Village of Clear Sky, all his time from lunch until dinner was spent doing this. Rendi walked back and forth on the twisting street between the inn and the well, until the sun sat right on the horizon like a balancing egg yolk.

The Half-Moon Well was divided by a crumbling stone wall. It had been the wall of a courtyard, protecting a wealthy home when the Village of Clear Sky was rich and prospering. At that time, the owner must have been
generous, for he had dug half the well beyond the wall so that poor peasants could use it too. To them, the split well had looked like the half circle of the midmonth moon, so they called it the Half-Moon Well. However, now, with the wall in ruins, the well looked more like a full moon with a scar down its center. Rendi cursed it daily.

The Half-Moon Well was an awkward shape to haul water from, the dividing wall making the openings too small for buckets. Rendi was forced to use a small hollow gourd to draw up the water, which he emptied into the large buckets he carried to and from the inn. Every day, Rendi had to gather enough water for the garden and the inn, and he often felt as if he were trying to fill a lake using a spoon.

Today, however, Rendi did not curse the well. He did not think of the wails in the sky that gave him no peace at night. He did not even plot or plan how he could leave the village. Instead, he was busy trying to think of a story to tell at dinner. He tried to remember old fairy tales told to him or to make one up, but his mind remained empty. “Why did I agree to tell a story?” he groaned to himself. “Why does she want me to tell a story, anyway?”

So while his head was empty, the rest of him was full of anxiety. Even as he filled the oversize buckets with the gourd, his thoughts were turning and twisting like dough deep-frying in oil.

Perhaps that was why, when Rendi had finished the tiring process of filling the buckets, he paid less attention to his feet than he should have. He had just balanced the carrying stick on his shoulders, still thinking furiously, and was stepping over the well, when his back foot caught on the partition wall. In that instant, Rendi tripped—his buckets swung madly like crazed pendulums, splashing water in large waves, until everything, including Rendi, crashed to the ground.

“
Owww!
” Rendi cried.

He lay facedown on the hard, dusty earth. Pain flashed through him, and a bump was already forming on the back of his head where one of the buckets had struck him. But it was anger that was burning through Rendi like a hot fire. Already, the spilled water—the water that took him so long to collect—was drying in the sun.

“
Stupid, stupid wall!
” Rendi roared, jumping up and kicking the partition with his foot, resulting in new stabs
of pain. With a yelp of anger, he began attacking the wall with all his strength.

Boiling rage seemed to have bubbled and burst inside him. His every muscle throbbed with red fury. The air seemed to shriek in his ears, and the fierceness of his anger felt like explosions inside his head. His pole cracked and the buckets bounced from the wall, but Rendi still felt as if he were ablaze with a thousand bee stings. He fell to his knees and grabbed a rock with each hand and raised them to strike.

But suddenly, his hands froze in the air and the rocks dropped to the ground.

For, unexpectedly, he saw his reflection in the well. The water on both sides of the well mirrored him, showing him in a way he had never seen before—roaring with anger and filled with rage.

“I look like… I look like…” Rendi gasped, “my father!” He felt as if a searing knife had been stabbed into him, the reflections in the water revealing a likeness he almost could not bear. For a moment, he was blinded by a mix of memories, pain, and regret.

When his vision cleared, Rendi was staring again at
two images of himself. The faces that looked back at him were troubled and uneasy. He felt tired, as if he had been running for days. Tears stung his eyes. But the water and the stones of the wall were as still and unmoved as if they were the empty sky above.

During dinner, Rendi could sense everyone waiting for him. He had been late, for not only had he had to refill his buckets, they had also sprung leaks from his abuse, and he had to carry them by hand, as he had broken his pole. So when he finally entered the inn, the expectant eyes weighed upon him even more than the thick, sticky summer air.

Mr. Shan and the toad both croaked eagerly, and Master Chao was unusually attentive while Rendi picked at the
rice in his bowl. The thick dark bowl, the color of burned wood, weighed heavily in Rendi’s hands as he tried to avoid looking at Madame Chang.

She said nothing, letting him push the grains of rice with his chopsticks and chew air long after everyone else had finished their meal. The sky darkened and grew heavier and heavier. Rendi cringed inside. The night would soon begin its crying, which would not help him with his storytelling. Perhaps he could make an excuse or pretend… Peiyi gave an impatient sigh.

“Come on, Rendi!” Peiyi said. “Stop trying to think of a trick to get out of telling a story.”

“I’m sure Rendi is still just thinking of what he wants to tell,” Madame Chang said. “Whenever you are ready, Rendi.”

Rendi flushed at the truth of Peiyi’s words. Madame Chang’s kindness made him feel ashamed, but, suddenly, as if by magic, “I have a story to tell,” Rendi said.

“Really?” Peiyi said in disbelief.

“Yes,” Rendi said, and began.

T
HE
S
TORY OF THE
D
ANCING
F
ISH

O
nce there was a powerful magistrate. Even though his son and daughter were not supposed to have heard, they knew that everyone called their father Magistrate Tiger. It was a fitting name, for the magistrate always seemed to be roaring—at his servants, his wife, and even his children. And whenever he roared, all jumped to do his bidding.

“The blood of the greatest ruler and hero pumps in us!” Magistrate Tiger would thunder to his young children, the green silk of his sleeves flapping. “We must make the world bow to us again!”

Of course, Magistrate Tiger’s children did not know what their father meant, and they were, in fact, too frightened to ask. But they knew that their father was always working to become more powerful and that he even hoped the emperor himself would acknowledge him. Often, Magistrate Tiger made trips out of his
district, trying to get closer and closer to being accepted by the imperial family. His children never knew if he was successful, but they did enjoy his frequent absences—the sight of a waiting carriage made his son feel like a bird about to take flight.

The only people Magistrate Tiger did not roar at were his superiors. To kings and dukes and princes, his voice was silky and smooth. But perhaps they still would have called him Magistrate Tiger—to them, he purred like a cat.

And he did more than purr, his son found out. One day, Magistrate Tiger arrived home with an expensive qin. Magistrate Tiger had never shown interest in music before, so the entire household was surprised to see the stringed instrument in his hands—and they were even more shocked when Magistrate Tiger began to teach himself how to play.

After mastering a few simple songs, Magistrate Tiger called his children to him. Wearing a robe of brilliant green, he gave each of them a bowl of rice and, carrying the qin, had them follow him into the garden.

They stopped in front of the pond, where dozens of
bright orange carp waved in the water. Magistrate Tiger stationed his children on either side of him and, as he began to play the qin, instructed them to throw rice out into the water. The fish, seeing the food, began to jump up to eat the rice.

Every day they did this. As Magistrate Tiger played the qin, the children threw rice and the fish rushed for the food. Magistrate Tiger urged the children to throw the rice higher and higher, and the fish began to leap from the water to catch the grains. The children laughed and it was, the son thought, the most enjoyable time he had ever spent with his father.

But one day, when the son was playing up in a tree next to the pavilion of the fishpond, he saw his father, wearing his customary green silk robe, walking with his qin and a strange man. The man walked as if his neck could not bend toward the earth, and, judging from the fineness of his clothes, he could only be a grand official or some sort of royalty. The son, who was not supposed to climb trees in the garden, quickly found a branch that hid him from view.

“Ah, Duke Zhe,” Magistrate Tiger was saying in his
smoothest voice, “I am so honored that you have finally accepted my invitation to visit.”

“When I heard you are a connoisseur of music, I felt obliged to come,” the duke said.

“Did you?” Magistrate Tiger said in surprise.

“Yes,” Duke Zhe said. “Music reveals much about a person’s character, does it not? Emotions and thoughts are communicated by it.”

“Oh, yes,” Magistrate Tiger said, nodding. “I’ve heard you follow the ancient philosophy of music.”

“I suppose I do.” Duke Zhe smiled. “And not just music but sound itself. If a listener truly understands, he can hear what others cannot. Sentiment and sound cannot be separated.”

“I’ve often thought the same,” Magistrate Tiger said, and stood by the fishpond as if in deep thought.

“Ah, but I’m not here to spout philosophy,” Duke Zhe said. “I’m here to hear you play! The finer the music, the more noble the person—is that not true?”

“My playing is elementary,” Magistrate Tiger said humbly. “But I do try to convey my most noble thoughts with it.”

And without any further words, Magistrate Tiger began to strum the qin. As his familiar chords rang through the air, the fish began to jump out of the water, expecting the rice that had always been there before. They leaped again and again, as if dancing to the music. They shimmered in the sunlight, soaring and diving like cascades of orange and gold rainbows. It was beautiful.

Slowly, Magistrate Tiger stopped playing. The carp slowly stopped jumping. As the qin rested silently, the pond was calm. Duke Zhe looked amazed and, without a word, bowed to Magistrate Tiger.

“I have never experienced such a wondrous sight,” Duke Zhe said. “To my ears, your playing was simple, but it must have conveyed such harmonious thoughts that only the fish could hear and rejoice at. You must be a very virtuous and wise man, Magistrate.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” Magistrate Tiger purred. “I simply try my best.”

“Your name has come up once or twice at some of the imperial functions,” Duke Zhe continued. “I will make sure that you begin to receive the attention you deserve.”

“Thank you, Lord Duke,” Magistrate Tiger said. “You are most gracious.”

The duke turned around and began to walk back to the house. Magistrate Tiger moved to follow him, but before he turned, a look of triumphant conceit flashed on his face. The boy felt a shock run through him. It had been a trick!

His father had planned the whole thing, the son realized. The practicing at the pond, the throwing of the rice every day—they had been training the fish to jump to Magistrate Tiger’s music. And all of it had been done just to influence Duke Zhe.

As Magistrate Tiger and Duke Zhe disappeared into the house, the boy dropped from the tree and stared blankly into the fishpond. It was clever of his father to trick the duke, was it not? But as he remembered Duke Zhe’s serious, sincere face filled with awe, the boy saw his own face in the still water before him. And his own face looked guilty.