The people of Shen Su were starving. A famine blighted all the land.
Rice swamps yielded only empty husks. The millet fields were barren. The
_ti tan_ patches, for all their blossoms, produced no earth eggs—no
potatoes. The _chu_ groves gave no tender stalks. . . . And the people
starved.
Every astrologer and wise man in the kingdom was summoned to King Ta
Lang’s palace. “Tell us, wise men, why we starve. Why is food denied
us?” Thus the King questioned the graybeards, and they, the learned,
consulted their charts, and sand trays, and crystal globes. One said:
“The Shen of Falling Water, Yu Shih, is angry. We have burned no incense
to him within a year.” “It is a rat. A rat is eating our food,” said
another. The others, for the most part, echoed approval. “Yes,” said
they, “it is a rat.”
“A rat? Where is the rat?”
“There, the mountain. The mountain we have called Che Chou.”
King Ta Lang gazed in a line with their pointed fingers. At first, he
saw merely a mountain. A longer look disclosed that the mountain was
shaped like a crouching rat. “Trap the rat, and Shen Su will once more
abound with food,” declared the wise men.
“Yes, we must kill the rat,” said King Ta Lang. “Ho, you carpenters,
construct a giant _mu mao_ (wooden cat) in the path of this terrible
rat.”
A huge wooden rat-trap was built at the end of the mountain. Yet, the
famine continued. Food became more and more scarce. The wise men
announced that the trap was not properly built. The rat would not enter.
They advised that a spear be thrust through his heart. Forthwith, King
Ta Lang ordered that a great spear be driven through the heart of the
mountain. A spear would surely kill the rat. But not so. Beneath the
earth of the mountainside was flint-iron hard flint. A thousand soldiers
thrusting could not drive the spear deeper than its point.
While the soldiers struggled vainly to pierce the flinty core, a little
blaze leaped from dry pine needles. Their iron had brought sparks from
the stone. The little blaze leaped from the needles to a bush, and from
the bush to a tree. Then it was a large blaze. Soon a whole acre of
mountainside blazed fiercely. The soldiers ran away. At first, they were
badly frightened, thinking the King would be angry. But the King said:
“That is splendid. Why didn’t my wise men think of it? The rat will be
grandly singed. Ho. Ho. Ho. He will be burned to his death.”
There was good reason for thinking as King Ta Lang thought. The fire
spread up and down till the whole mountain blazed. The mountain was a
solid wall of flame, and above it spread a vast sea of smoke. Only an
extremely hardy rat could live through such intense heat and suffocating
fumes.
Now there is no telling why the heavens opened. Perhaps the heat of
blazing Mount Che Chou burned a hole in the sky. Perhaps the Rain Shen,
Yu Shih, imagined the people had burned incense to his honor. However
that may be, it is certain that the heavens _did_ open. Upon burning
Mount Che Chou, the rain leaped down in cataracts and the lightning
played continuously. Over the plains of Shen Su also the waters fell,
but there the rain was gentle, though persistent.
For seven days the skies dripped. Then, the grass was green as jade. The
cattle filled their so-loose coats. Quick-growing vegetables sprang up
in every garden. There was life. All the people of Shen Su said: “The
rat has been singed by the fire. The rat has been drowned by the waters.
His head has been cleft by the lightnings. Now he is dead and cannot
steal our food.” And that was their belief. “The rat is no
more—therefore, we have food and life.”
[Illustration: At that same hour a basket was found in the garden.]
While the rain still plashed on the roof tiles, new life came to the
palace. A son was born to King Ta Lang. At that same hour a basket was
found in the garden. In the basket was a tiny girl. No one had been seen
to place the basket. Here was mystery. Again King Ta Lang summoned his
soothsayers. He wished to learn what the coming years held in store for
his son. Further, he wished to learn the past as well as the future of
that chubby little girl so mysteriously cradled in his garden.
The wise men consulted book and glass and table. All in good time Ta
Lang learned that his son must be named Tou Meng (Give Thanks) and that
he would remain great so long as he remained thankful. The girl must be
named Chai Mi (Enables Us to Live). Chai Mi was a daughter of the Rain
King, Yu Shih, who had given her to become the wife of Tou Meng.
King Ta Lang was well pleased. Evidently the rain monarch meant to be
friendly. Prince Tou Meng and the wee Princess Chai Mi were betrothed by
royal decree. They played with the same golden calabash. They drank from
the same porcelain bowl. Each cried because of the other’s terrible
misfortunes—toes will get bumped and favorite toys go astray, even in
the royal nursery. Each laughed when the other was gay. In short, they
played and laughed, and bickered and made up, much like brothers and
sisters the wide world over.
Quickly sped the years. The prince added inch after inch to his stature.
The height of the princess increased in proportion. If she was not so
tall, she seemed equally strong and daring. She played ball with the
prince. She climbed trees and rode donkeys. She could place her arrow in
the target’s eye, and she could swim where few would venture. More, the
princess could ’broider, and sew, and dance most gracefully—not in the
depraved and shameless manner of today; she danced the olden dances. And
Chai Mi was a discreet maiden. She took good care not to excel Prince
Tou Meng. If the prince’s arrow struck the second ring, then her arrow
came no inch closer to the mark. When swimming, the prince always won
his races by the slightest margin. They were often in the water, those
two. The river Lan cut its swift way through the palace grounds. Each
summer day it felt the strokes of Chai Mi and Tou Meng.
In the river, Princess Chai Mi found a roll of parchment, written upon
with characters she did not know. She took it to the King. Then there
was excitement intense, with soldiers gathering from all directions. For
the letter that the river had given to Chai Mi was a secret letter
written by an enemy. It disclosed that the enemy was marching on Shen
Su. “Here,” said the wise men, “is fresh proof that the king of rains is
our friend. He has disclosed our terrible enemy’s perfidy.”
[Illustration: So Chai Mi sat beside the river and sewed and wept.]
The drums sounded a continuous call as King Ta Lang mustered his army.
Prince Meng buckled on a sword that dragged the earth. But Chai
Mi—sewed. “You cannot go, Thousand Pieces of Gold,” they told her. “You
have done more than well in discovering the danger, but you cannot
fight.” So Chai Mi sat beside the river and sewed and wept, while the
sound of drums grew fainter and fainter.
Then there was silence. Shen Su City was peopled only by women. Not only
the women wept, but the skies. For three days it rained without ceasing
and the river Lan became fat with much water; too large for its bed. It
rose above its banks and there was no crossing. Its voice was loud,
threatening—the voice of Yu Shih, master of waters, shouting defiance.
Down to the river by cover of night hurried a silent army. At the
water’s edge it halted. No mortal man could dare that snarling current
and live. No soldier with spear and shield could hope to swim such a
maddened torrent. And boats, there were none—Yu Shih had torn them from
their ropes, had carried them down to the sea. The army must wait. Let
it rest in the mud and await Yu Shih’s permission to cross.
When day came, the women of Shen Su City beheld an immense army on the
river’s far side. It was the hostile army that King Ta Lang had marched
to intercept. Beyond a doubt, the King had taken a wrong road. The enemy
had eluded him, slipped past him unseen. Only Lan River in flood
prevented the hostiles from entering Shen Su. And the river could sink
as suddenly as it rose.
Now when King Ta Lang marched away, he went in haste and lightly
burdened. All heavy armor was left behind, all heavy spears and shields.
This was known to the Princess Chai Mi. She thought of the empty armor,
thought of the long-shafted spears. With men to hold them, those spears
could save the city. But—there were no men—only a few who were unable
to march.
However, there were women, many of them badly frightened, some who were
calm and unafraid. Chai Mi quickly made known her plan. Then Shen Su
City awoke from its silence. Hammers clashed on armor, making the rivets
secure.
In the enemy camp appeared a man who knew no fear of the river. He swam
the raging Ho Lan and drew himself up on the other shore. Girdling his
waist was a rope. The rope was soon tied to a willow stump. After that
the passage was much easier. One at a time, bearing only their bows, the
enemy crossed. Their chieftain, to set an example, was among the first.
Thus, by aid of the rope, a number of the enemy swarmed over. They felt
perfectly safe from attack. Their information was that Ta Lang had taken
all his soldiers with him. Shen Su would be an easy prey. Five hundred
men should be sufficient. And that many had crossed the river.
[Illustration: Of course, they wore hideous false faces.]
From Shen Su City marched a thousand braves, clad in glistening armor,
bearing those tremendously long spears called _chang chiang_. Of course,
they wore hideous false faces. That was the custom of all eastern
soldiers. Behind the spear bearers marched a thousand archers. The wall
of Shen Su suddenly bristled with spears, a thousand more. The enemy
could not retreat. There was the river to hinder. To advance seemed
utter folly. What effect could little arrows have on weighty armor? And
how could five hundred prevail against six times and more their number?
To surrender seemed the only course, and that is what they did. But it
was grievous hard. Their leader was of royal blood. No worse disgrace
could have been his lot.
Those on the shore beyond were made to cast their weapons in the river.
With their royal leader a prisoner, they dared not disobey, for fear he
would be slain. Their captors looked quite capable of such action. The
crestfallen enemy had no faintest dream that those captors were . . .
girls . . . led by Chai Mi. How could they know? The deceit was well
concealed. An ancient little tailor did the talking, and he, proud of
his chance to swagger, talked with a terrible voice—violently
threatening. But Chai Mi, resplendent in the King’s golden armor, told
him what to say. And the other maids clashed their spears upon the river
stones, as if angry at being deprived of living targets.
King Ta Lang in his swan-shaped sampan was crossing Lan River when he
heard of Chai Mi’s stirring deed. He could scarce believe his ears. The
couriers vowed that they spoke no exaggeration. Convinced at last, the
King said: “Then Chai Mi has done us a great service. She shall receive
honors without stint.” But the King’s chief general was more than
jealous because Chai Mi had succeeded where he had failed. This general
said, “Has Your Majesty forgotten the law?”
“What law?” asked King Ta Lang.
“The law made by your illustrious ancestor, Liu Ti. The law of Liu Ti
says that no woman may put on the habiliments of a King. Death is the
penalty for so doing. The maiden put on Your Majesty’s armor.”
The King heard with grief. He said: “That is truth. There is such a law,
and laws, good or bad, must be enforced. By the law of my noble
ancestor, the maiden Chai Mi must lose her head by the sword.”
And the jealous general said, “Here is a death warrant for your
signature.”
Now whether the King would really have beheaded Chai Mi, no man can say.
His boat suddenly disappeared beneath the waters and was seen no more.
The wise men said that he had excited the wrath of Yu Shih, Master of
Waters, and father of the maiden. That may, or may not, be true. Again,
no man can say.
But this can be said, without fear of dispute. King Meng and his Queen
ruled over Shen Su for many a year, and there was neither flood nor
famine—only a great tranquillity.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]